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“Well, you love to fight, too,” I pointed out. “It’s not much different.”

“I love to fight, yes,” he said grumpily. “But I don’t go on and on about how many people I hope to kill each day.”

“Just tell the Ursidaur to tone it down with the battle talk,” Draven suggested. “Or I can, if you’re afraid to talk to them.” He grinned.

“Afraid?” Gawain glared playfully. “Not of that damned bear, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He looked between us thoughtfully. “I suppose you aren’t going to tell me what you were actually talking about.”

I couldn’t help it. I felt my face flushing again.

“Oh, ho!” Gawain tipped his head back and chuckled. “I suppose I don’t need the details after all.” He nodded ahead to where Lancelet and Guinevere rode. “And what about those two?”

“What about them?” I said.

Gawain gave me a shrewd glance. “Very well. Don’t tell me then. But it’s clear to see that something’s changed. I suppose if some people find happiness on this journey, so much the better.”

“I agree,” I said quietly, looking ahead at my friend and the woman I believed was now her lover.

Just at that moment, Lancelet turned in her saddle. “There’s something ahead,” she called back. “An encampment.”

Draven spurred his horse forward with Gawain and I close behind.

Twilight was falling as we entered a makeshift refugee camp nestled within a valley. A sea of tents bordered a green forest. Patched and weathered, they stretched across the plain as people bundled in worn garments walked between them or huddled around small fires.

We rode into the camp slowly, trying not to startle anyone with our arrival. Moving down the main row of tents, we passed families clustered together, their possessions packed into humble carts or tied in rough bundles.

Children played in the small spaces between the tents, their laughter sharply contrasting with the looks of worry and despair in their parents’ eyes.

The scent of simple meals being prepared wafted through the air. Boiled potatoes and rabbits in pots mixed with the fresh scents of pine trees and horses.

My horse shied as someone almost stumbled into us. I looked down to see an elderly woman, stooped with age, her eyes misted to near-blindness. Beside her walked a young girl of perhaps ten or so in ragged clothes. Her arm was linked through the old woman’s as she helped to guide her along the row of tents.

The child looked up at me briefly, as if momentarily curious, then looked away. I glimpsed irises almost white in a pale, thin face.

“Hey, now!” A man was pushing through the people walking ahead of our horses. Grey-haired and dark-skinned, he had the look of more than a simple farmer and reminded me immediately of Sir Ector.

Nevertheless, I glanced at Draven in concern. Was this man about to make trouble for us?

“Watch out,” the man shouted again. His eyes were not on Draven or me, I realized. “There. Your companion. Catch her.”

I turned to my right to see in horror the man was correct.

But before I could move to do anything, Guinevere slipped from her horse and fell to the ground, her eyes closed.

CHAPTER 22 - MEDRA

The horse was screaming.

The tree was on fire, and my horse was screaming.

From a long way away, I could hear someone shouting.

The horse reared, tossing me from its back. I fell to the ground, wincing in pain, my eyes never once leaving the tree.

The fire was spreading from one tree to another. A heavy rain fell. But it was not enough to put the fire out.

Branches crackled overhead, tongues of orange and red consuming them alive. I leaned back and watched them die, fascinated.

Around me, the grove was thick with smoke and the scent of burning wood. Fiery tendrils were spreading through the canopy, reaching skyward, a vivid blaze of red against the stormy night sky.