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It was comfort, if cold comfort.

She turned on her side and stared at the wall, sternly telling her eyes that they must dry. Or rather, she stared at where the wall should have been.

For at that moment, she felt that dizziness come upon her once again, and where the wall was, there was dim light instead, light that grew, and warmed, until she found herself staring into a fire-lit room, and at the backs of two women.

One had white-blonde hair that streamed down her back to her ankles. The other had raven locks that pooled on the floor. Both were wearing nothing more than their hair.

They bent over what at first she took for a table; then she realized that it was an altar, not a table. What there was upon it, she never got a chance to see, for the blonde suddenly raised her head.

“Morgana,” said Gwenhwyfach, in a voice so like her own that Gwenhwyfar felt her breath catch. “we are overlooked.”

The second also raised her head and turned slightly, staring straight into Gwen’s eyes. And now Gwen felt her breath freezing in her throat.

“Well,” Morgana said, her tone even and measured. “Blood will tell. Even untrained and on the Path of Iron, look who has found her way to our working.”

Now Little Gwen turned. Her naked body was astonishingly beautiful, even overwritten as it was with runes painted in blood. And her face was Gwen’s own, but contorted with a sneer.

“Spying, sister?” The sneer turned into a snarl. “Well, that will never happen again. And you will forget what you have seen,”

And something hot and red flashed between them, struck Gwen like a thunderbolt, and sent her tumbling down into darkness, her memories slipping between her fingers and running away like water.

Despite a near-crippling headache the next day, Gwen went grimly to work on her plans. Bronwyn found women as she had promised, and they were a varied lot. One had been a Saxon thrall and had lost her family to them and wanted nothing more than revenge. Two were very poor indeed and honest about their wish to be amply rewarded. “As well be swived by a mort’o lads an’ come to a saft bed after as be swived by one an’ come to a mud hut,” was the calm and logical response of one. One was sent by the Ladies and remained silent about her reasons; since Cataruna vouched for her, Gwen accepted her without comment. What all of them had in common was that they were attractive, under no illusions as to what would happen to them as camp followers, and were as fierce in their desire that March and the Saxons be beaten as any of Arthur’s Companions.

They did not need to remain in the camps long, much to Gwen’s relief. She felt enough guilt about sending them in there in the first place.

“And you have no guilt about sending your scouts out to spy?” was Bronwyn’s dry question, when she fretted aloud one day.

“Of course I do!” Gwen snapped. “But . . . this is different!”

Bronwyn raised an eyebrow. “So you see them as women and not as warriors.”

Gwen opened her mouth to protest and shut it again. Because, yes, she did. And she felt great irritation that she did so. And yet—they were women. They were not warriors. They had not been trained as warriors.

But she was glad enough when they got what she needed and made their way back to her—the sure information that March had allied with the Saxons, rather than buying his way across their lands, and the combined forces intended to attack Arthur together.

Now she could concentrate on her real duties with a whole heart—or so she thought.

Gwen had not chopped wood like this since she had been a mere squire, but she needed to take out her temper on something, and splitting wood was less damaging than hurling pots against a wall and more satisfying than perforating a target with arrows. She swung the ax against her hapless targets with accuracy and fury. Every blow split a log. At this rate, the squires would not need to chop wood for a week.

The squires who had been assigned to this task had all taken one look at her face and fled. Everyone