Though she awoke from time to time, Tristan and Ellessah said nothing to each other for the next few hours. As they were reaching the point where he was expecting to find the edge of the lake, he noticed that she was visibly struggling to be alert. Her eyes were dark and their focus torpid. He checked her pulse by gently pressing his hand to her left ribs. It was slow, but present. Her head drooped.
"Your Majesty, how do you feel?" He shook her gently.
Ellessah drew in a thick, weak breath, her eyes closed. He had to bend down to make out her words. "I feel cold."
It was hardly cold, Tristan thought worriedly. "Hold on," he urged, "hold on until we get to the lake's edge. We can rest there and water the horse and lay in the grass like before." Instinctively, he pressed her to him as he sat up in the stirrups, trying to get a glimpse of the water as they crested a hill. He thought they would have arrived some time ago, by his estimations. He doubted he was so far off as to be still unable to see signs of water from the tops of the hills. All the while, the sky had been growing more shrouded with clouds, the air thick as if they were standing in a room full of hot baths.
Without meaning to urge the horse, they hurried along until they were at a weak gallop. Tristan found himself clutching Ellessah's body as she went limp and unconscious against him. He could hear his own voice as he recited the words, "Hold on. Just a little further." Over and over he said them, feeling dizzy as senses of dread and anxiety washed over him with the horse's every stride. He felt as if they were going nowhere, the minutes passing and the rolling hills feeling as if they were churning below them like an ocean. They were floating instead of galloping. After a long time had passed, the horse was foaming wildly and trembling beneath their weight. He was losing his grip on Ellessah, his legs aching as he struggled to lift her body to keep her in the saddle. The lake was nowhere to be found.
The road they were traveling was a simple, gently curving highway that only the traders coming from the west used to get to Camelot. Because of its lack of connection to nearby villages, it was meant to be a road carts and men on horseback would rush down without restraint, not a sightseeing road for personal travelers. They could not possibly have taken a wrong turn or gotten lost.
The horse and riders lumbered on, more frantic than ever. Beyond the obvious absence of the lake, something in the air felt off—beyond humid—it felt oppressive and foggy, though Tristan's sight wasn't actually obstructed. Even more oddly, it looked as if the sun had remained at high noon for the past few hours – though the growing cloud cover left plenty of room for doubt. He reckoned, despite his growing certainty that an entire lake was missing, that he was beyond calm, rational reasoning and finally admitted defeat. With a whistle, the horse slowed and came to a halt. Within seconds the panic left him. He couldn't remember what had come over him; only that hurrying had been their only option.
It was unlikely the miles of bouncing and jostling had done the King's body any good. Tristan dismounted and placed her in the grass, laying in his own exhaustion next to her while he checked her pulse and respiration. To his immense relief, both were weak, yet steady. He cupped a hand around her chin and studied the color in her cheeks. She had visually declined, her pallid face dripping with a feverish sweat. He realized with some relief that she was dreaming and not entirely unconscious, her expression shifting from pain to fear and back again. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and dabbed her forehead. It was past time to check her bandages.
"Forgive my intrusion," he said as he untied the belt of cloth from around the coat he had lent her. He gently lifted it away, supporting each arm as they slipped from the sleeves. What he saw beneath disturbed him.
The wounds had recently bled through the bandages. The gallop had been the culprit, he regretted to himself. The worst changes, however, were dark streaks that had begun to creep from the wounds towards her head. It was like no infection he had ever seen, to the extent that he could not be certain that it even was an infection. He looked around quickly, as if hoping to see Merlin riding up with his typical indulgent smile.
His limited medical skills were the best they had now. Tristan set to work cleaning the wounds. They leaked blood easily and he cursed himself again. What a strange thing to have come over him. He was good at making controlled decisions. It was unlike him to rush about or to be careless. The nagging feeling of oppressive air hit him strongly. He choked, coughing in an attempt to clear away the feeling.
As he cleaned her, he made attempts to see if any pus or seepage could be milked from the wounds. The blood was clean and bright. It seemed the right thing to do to drain the infection, but with the wounds as fresh and deep as they were, it seemed like it should be unnecessary to open them further. He sat for a minute in uncertainty before whipping a knife from a leg holster and setting it decidedly to her shoulder. He prodded the black, vein-looking tracks for a moment and came to disturbing knowledge. The black marks were only skin deep. There was no infection. He hissed in frustration as he applied fresh salve to the new cut and pressed a cloth over to slow the bleeding.
"I'll be damned if you aren't enchanted, Your Highness. That's for sure."
He finished rebinding her wounds by placing clean squares of bandage next to the skin and wrapping over them with the old ones. Hopefully Merlin and Galahad would bring ample fresh cloth. He double checked his work and found himself momentarily distracted by the sight of her bandage-wrapped, nearly naked form.
It surprised him to register attraction at the sight of her, a feeling he quickly pushed away. Even stronger, what came next was the undeniable urge to protect her. He felt a profound sense of concern that she was presently in danger. It was as if an enemy was charging. The feeling was shocking. Tristan stood and grasped his head in both hands. The sensation was unreal, as if he wasn't touching his head at all. He felt a deepening sense of being adrift.
A sound like a battle cry shattered his concentration. He gasped, his heart and head pounding. There was nothing around them, nothing to make that sound. A throbbing fear gripped him. Abruptly, as if shoved from behind, he was stumbling forward and crudely redressing her in the coat before scooping her up. He could hear himself yelling to take Ellessah's body and his horse and to flee into the woods.
"What woods?" Tristan shouted back to himself.
He was yelling again, telling himself to go across the road and not to stop until they had reached the river. He flung the girl-king over his shoulder and his steps echoed in his ears as he covered the wide dirt road in a few strides. Though unable to remember when it had happened, the reigns of his horse were in his hand as they crossed into the grass.
Time slowed. The ground under his feet thickened until he felt like he was running through a marsh instead of a field. His feet were damp and cold. He and his horse struggled along beside one another for a time. Tristan's self-awareness was fleeting. He felt blind, though he could see the field and rolling hills before him. Slowly, the grass began to churn like water as it had before. He might as well have been running on his head, his sense of time and distance was vague. Then, it was as if a bright light was held in front of his eyes. He kept running. The blindness felt no different though he could no longer see anything at all. Twice he stumbled. His steady grip on the reigns saved them from tumbling all the way. His chest heaved with the exertion. The light in his eyes turned to shadows, though they still felt bright and hot.
Like a light, the shadows went out.
Tristan stopped running. The feeling of danger slipped out of him like water. The only sound and feeling was that of his labored breathing and that of his horse's. Ahead, he saw a river.
He looked back, startled to see a tall, dark, marsh-like woods looming like a sleeping giant. It was night and the moon was hidden behind clouds. Instinctively, Tristan checked Ellessah for pulse and breath. Both were satisfactory, perhaps better even than they had been back on the road. He lifted her over the saddle and draped her there on her stomach then looked around, his eyes and senses still adjusting to the land.
"How has it been so long?" he asked aloud, in bewilderment.
"I apologize," a soft voice interrupted from behind, "that I could not retrieve you sooner."
Tristan spun on his heel, drawing an arrow into his bow. The face was unfamiliar, a set of sullen gray eyes framed below a patch of shockingly white hair. He was quite young, the green and purple garb he wore giving him away as a member of Horta Promessa. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I assure you, I intend you no harm," the man said as he slowly raised his open hands and offered their emptiness to Tristan. "There is little time to explain for I must get away before we are discovered together. My name is Ibis, though that is unimportant. What matters is that I owe your King a generous life debt, which I am fulfilling by rescuing you both."
Tristan raised his aim to the height of Ibis's head. "Why would a member of Horta Promessa concern himself with paying back such a thing?"
At this, Ibis looked uncomfortable and vaguely uncertain. "That matters not. This was my choice." He stepped to the side and gestured to the woods. "You were being hunted by my kith and kin. They had attached an illusion spell to the poison planted in the King by the Scotsman. You never reached the road you meant to be on, as it was all a deception. You have traveled southwest instead of east. They wished to draw you close to the border of Wales. Why I shall not say. When you stopped last to treat her wounds, you were attacked by a band of our skeleton soldiers. I prevented them from killing you in your dream state and sent you in a direction that would confuse and dispel the illusion."
"I still don't understand why you would risk your reputation with your league to save us. If their magic has grown so powerful, who is to say you are not already discovered?"
"The magic was not of Horta Promessa. It was gifted to us. I am unaware of where from exactly. It had only one use and purpose. They will know it has been disrupted. They will not be able to determine how or why." Ibis regarded Tristan's guarded stance and the limp body of the girl-king with a pitying eye. His stiff posture suggested he wanted to say more. He turned his back to them and pointed up the river. "Cross the river at the forge and follow it until you find the first town. You will desire to stay there when the storm is at your back, but I will suggest strongly that you go to the hills and find a cave to shelter in until morning. You will know how to get home from there."
"Why should I take your advice?"
Ibis half turned back, his sharp glare revealing the potent ire his generally cool demeanor kept masked.
Tristan could not help but think the young man reminded him of Galahad, but with a foreigner's dark skin.
"She would gladly take it were the roles reversed," Ibis mocked loudly. "Thus far, I can see that you have been too late, too blind, and too unwilling to save her. You would scorn Tiberius's desire for the sword, and yet you returned to retrieve it, giving us time to track you."
Tristan lowered his bow. "And this was truly the first opportunity you had to help us?"
Ibis waved away the question with a dismissive gesture. He lowered his face and stared dispassionately at Ellessah. It was an uncomfortable silence that passed, though brief. Ibis appeared regretful and sullen. "I saved you only because I already failed her."
Uncertain of how to reply, Tristan remained silent.
"Loyalties run deep, do they not?" Ibis offered slowly. "Deep enough to kill?"
"What does that-"
"Take care that you do not trust your eyes from here on. I am out of time. I pray her comrades find you quickly when they realize you are not on that road. Farewell." With that, Ibis turned and dashed into the marsh, vanishing as if vapor on the wind.
Tristan relaxed his already drooping bow to his side. He sheathed the unused arrow to his quiver and shouldered his bow.
The interaction had kept his adrenaline going, but now the exhaustion set into his limbs. They had been riding all day without proper relief. He and his horse were exhausted, the King's health in decline. They were miles off course at a time when they might otherwise be seeing help closing the distance. For all the assistance Ibis had claimed he was providing, the situation felt bleak. Tristan looked to the dark sky, the assassin's words stirring him. "Perhaps, I am a hypocrite after all." He loosed a bitter, nervous chuckle. "Too late, too blind, and too unwilling, eh?" He scratched his beard before dropping his hand to his side with a sigh.
