Enchanted Guardian Page 22

  Chapter 26

  Nim left Lancelot in the care of Beaumains, who would help him arm and ready his mount. She had a little time before the battle commenced. As she walked up the hillside to a small stand of windswept oak trees, she replayed her conversation with Lancelot. She had set out to warn him to be careful of Morgan, but had ended up saying far, far more. A lot more than he needed to deal with right before battling Morgan’s minions. But with their emotions intact fae were messy creatures, full of overpowering feelings. After centuries of experiencing nothing, she’d reverted to life as an emotional volcano.

  But at least Lancelot knew she loved him. At least they’d had a chance to mend their past wounds.

  She reached the tiny grove and knelt in the shadow of the largest oak. Her green skirts blended with the color of the grass. The choice of gown had been deliberate, giving her some camouflage for what she meant to do. Holding her breath, she pulled off the largest of the rings and set it on the root of the oak. The place had deep powers as old as time, and the trees a lineage that went back to the first seedlings of the Forest Sauvage. She had no access to her magical powers, but before she’d left the forest long ago, she’d stored a few spells in their roots for safekeeping. The ring was the trigger. Nim hoped with a drowning, desperate urgency that her emergency cache hadn’t gone stale.

  She spoke a secret phrase. A moment passed, and then another. A bee hovered close, then zipped away. Just when she thought all was lost, a smell like burning amber filled the breeze. She closed her eyes, and Merlin’s face filled her inner vision.

  He looked sorely annoyed. “Bypassing call display with magic isn’t just rude, it’s harassment.”

  She wasn’t in the mood for Merlin’s foul humor or his self-pity. “LaFaye is cheating. We’re down to two able knights.”

  That got his attention. “What?”

  She told him everything. “If there was ever a time for you to come out of retirement, this is it.”

  “Curse Morgan LaFaye.” He turned pale, then red with anger, but then gathered himself back in, only the dangerous glint in his strange amber eyes indicating that he felt anything at all. He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you begging for my help?”

  She heaved a deep sigh. “Yes.”

  “Fine.” He rubbed his jaw, the heavy stubble rasping under his fingers. “I’ve been thinking about your problem. The binding spell I used was originally designed for a witch. Fae have slight physiological differences, and I failed to make all the proper adjustments.”

  Nim took in Merlin’s face, desperate to fathom his expression. “Are you telling me the truth? This is no trick? No ploy for extra payments?”

  “Not after what you just told me,” he said, with a smile that looked more like a baring of teeth. “I don’t joke when it comes to life and death. That’s what it will be, Nimueh, if what you say is true about the link between your magic and your emotions. Unbinding your power means the death of who you are. There’s no coming back once you initiate the spell.”

  She didn’t want to hear that. Regaining her magic meant losing Lancelot and everything she felt for him. On the other hand, it might mean saving his life. The right spell at the right moment might preserve Camelot and the mortal realms and destroy Morgan LaFaye. And then there were her people, the fae, to think of. If the queen was gone, they might have a chance to be something more than the horrors LaFaye had made them.

  The odds that Nim could accomplish all this, or any of it, were small. She’d never done anything so brave when she’d had her magic before—but now she had chosen to fight. She at least needed access to her only real weapon.

  “I won’t use the reversal spell unless it’s absolutely necessary,” she said to Merlin, her voice shaking a little. “But I need to have it just in case.”

  “Don’t make a mistake.”

  Nim bowed her head. “Thank you for the advice.”

  “I give you the advice as a friend,” Merlin said, back to his sardonic self. “There will be a price for the magic.”

  She waved a tired hand. “There always is.”

  “A future favor.”

  “Make sure we have a future, and we’ll talk.”

  Merlin laughed, a dry sound that said he didn’t get much practice. “Then stand by for delivery.”

  His mind touched hers, the realm-to-realm connection delicate despite his obvious power. A faint pressure formed in her mind. It wasn’t precisely a physical thing, nor was it purely thought. It felt like a foreign object in her mind, and she rolled it around in her thoughts. It seemed smooth and opalescent like a bead.

  “I coated it so the spell wouldn’t leak out,” he said. “If you need your power, break it open and the knowledge you need will be there.”

  “But I have no power to break it with,” she protested.

  “You’ll have enough for this,” he said. “Once in a while, I know what I’m doing.”

  She tucked the bead of magic away in her mind, promising herself she wouldn’t fiddle with it. “Thank you, Merlin. You might have just saved all our lives.”

  He gave a half smile. “It’s all part of the job as Camelot’s enchanter. From which I was fired.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, just remember my old boss actually wants to kill me.”

  That made him laugh for real. “By the way, a little bird told me the woman you and Sir Heartthrob rescued from the Price House has been released from the hospital.”

  The news, so out of context, threw her for a moment. “How did you know about Susan?”

  His fingers wiggled in the air in a manner he probably meant to be spooky but which only succeeded in being silly. “I am the great Merlin. Tremble and be impressed.”

  He disconnected. The magic of the ring fizzled out, sending up a spiral of blue smoke. Nim bowed her head, rubbing her temples to ease what promised to be a dragon-sized headache. After a minute, she picked up the ring and walked back down to the corner where Beaumains stood with Lancelot, buckling the last straps of his helm.

  She yearned to pull Lancelot aside and tell him something, anything that would ease her yearning for his safety, but there was nothing new to say. Besides, like many fighters, he preferred silence before battle. However polite he would be, he would not welcome her anxious prattling. She took up a position by the rope fence.

  Arthur had arrived and he looked deeply annoyed. “The police won’t release our men, not even on bail. They have inadequate identification and have been deemed flight risks. I attempted to explain things, but the authorities would not listen.”

  Nim hoped he’d kept kings and crowns out of his explanation. “At least you know where they are.”

  He gave her a dark look. “You have no idea how frustrating it is to have so little authority in the modern world.”

  “I might,” she said, thinking of her lost power. “At least, I do a bit. Look, I think LaFaye’s champion is here.”

  The king narrowed his eyes. The horse was coal black and so was the champion’s armor. “I do not know the device on his shield.”

  Nim shaded her eyes. Fae sight was better than a human’s, and she could make out something white painted against the plain black. “It’s not a conventional device. It appears to be an open book.”

  “A black-and-white open book?” scoffed Arthur. “Is there a pun at work?”

  She had no idea. She had met a number of Black Knights over the years, but none with a pronounced reading habit.

  Tenebrius gave the signal for the contestants to advance. Lancelot mounted Bucephalus, using one of the fallen stones in Taliesin’s Circle as a mounting block. He paused before Nim and the king, nodding in respect. The blue plumes of his helmet danced in the breeze, but his features were invisible beneath the metal visor. Once more Nim scrambled for something to say, but nothing came. Then Bucephalus moved away and the moment was lost.

  She should have just said that she loved him. A hollow feeling filled her chest, and she recognized it as foreboding.<
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  The demon gave more instructions, but Nim paid little attention. Lancelot and the Black Knight were taking up their positions at opposite ends of the field, and she could not think of anything but danger. This was not like Medievaland, with fences and safety rails and armor customized for jousting. This was not sport—it was two men who intended to fight to the death with whatever weapons came to hand.

  Beaumains handed up the lance. It was stouter and shorter than the weapons at Medievaland, and the tip was wickedly sharp. The former squire paused a moment, one hand on the horse’s neck and his gaze lifted to the knight in a silent gesture of support. Then he left the field, and Lancelot was alone.

  The signal came and the horses sprang forward. The ground shook with their pounding hoofbeats until Nim felt the vibrations in her stomach. She balled her hands in the fabric of her gown, crushing it because the Queen of Faery’s slender neck was out of reach. Arthur shifted nervously beside her, his muscles twitching as if he worked a lance in his imagination. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered.

  The two opponents met with a mighty crack of wood. A corner flew off Lancelot’s shield, and the Black Knight’s weapon splintered, but Lancelot’s point stuck fast, the sharpened tip driving straight into the shield. Lancelot shoved hard, hoping to unseat his opponent, but the Black Knight retreated. A moment later, he slid his arm out of the straps and the useless shield dropped. Lancelot released his weapon, and both men drew their swords.

  An exchange of blows followed, all the more deadly because the Black Knight had no shield. It was as much a show of horsemanship, for the destriers were trained for combat. With uncanny timing, they knew when to lunge or wheel and when to strike with a deadly hoof. Nim stood frozen with an equal measure of horror and admiration, praying that neither man nor beast was struck—and yet praying it would soon be over. Both prayers couldn’t come true.

  An unlucky blow sent the Black Knight from his saddle, but he used the opportunity to swipe at Bucephalus’s belly. The horse screamed in pain, rearing up to trample the knight. Lancelot kept his seat, but when the knight lunged again, Lancelot launched himself from the saddle. A flurry of blows followed as Lancelot hammered the villain who had dared to wound his horse.

  Dodging the fight, Beaumains darted forward to catch Bucephalus and led him from the field. The horse was bleeding and Beaumains didn’t pause on his way straight through the portal to home. One of the fae had already retrieved the Black Knight’s mount, and so the fight continued on foot.

  At this point, it became hard to see and Nim inched forward until Arthur took her shoulder and firmly guided her back. He was silent and grim, his blue eyes stone cold as he watched the battle. He’d started it with a careless word, but there was nothing but grim purpose in his expression now.

  The hammering assault took its toll. Already weakened, Lancelot’s shield shattered, showering splinters in an arc through the air. He struck out with the broken rim, then came in low with the sword, buying himself time to shed the shield’s remains. Lancelot took his sword in both hands now, the ruby-studded hilt flashing like drops of blood, but the power of two such men dealing mighty blows came with a price. Nim heard a strange, singing crash as Lancelot’s sword broke in two, leaving a useless stub in his hand.

  This time he faltered, and the Black Knight wasted no time seizing the advantage. Suddenly Lancelot was in retreat, ducking and spinning in a macabre dance to avoid the knight’s singing blade. Whoever the Black Knight was, he moved like water, flowing from stroke to stroke in one continuous wave of steel. Nim had rarely seen such sword work. Her breaths came shorter and shorter, her heart racing with fear as she could see Lancelot tiring. He threw the hilt in his attacker’s face and tried to roll out of the way, but for once he was a beat too late. The sword streaked down, aiming for his face. Lancelot raised his shield arm, catching the blow on his vambrace. Even at that distance, Nim thought she heard the snap of breaking bone.

  Lancelot roared in pain, surging up with renewed fury. The Black Knight retreated a step, but only enough to deliver an armored fist to the side of Lancelot’s helmet. Metal rang, and Lancelot dropped like a stone.

  Without a word, Nim sprinted forward, thinking only to put herself between death and the man she loved. The king caught her from behind, lifting her from the ground as easily as if she were a child.

  “Stop,” he said. “Stop or you’ll disqualify our side.”

  “Lancelot!” she cried.

  “Hush,” said Arthur. “He made his choice.”

  Technically, the king was right, but he was rarely so harsh. She stopped struggling, suddenly unnerved. The king laughed, and it was a terrible, hollow sound.

  At that moment, Lancelot rose up, pulling his battle ax from his belt. He staggered, one arm dangling awkwardly. In that instant, the Black Knight might have swung his sword in a killing blow, but instead he wavered, seeming suddenly unsure. It was all the time Lancelot needed to bring the ax down on the knight’s ebony helm. It was the Black Knight’s turn to kiss the dirt.

  “Stars!” Arthur muttered.

  It was a fae curse. She sprang free of the king’s grasp and wheeled on him. “You’re not Arthur!”

  Eyes widening with surprise, he immediately danced backward like someone preparing to bolt. Furious, she slammed the heel of her hand into the false Arthur’s nose. She felt cartilage crunch and he staggered, hunching over to cup his face. Nim followed up with a double-fisted blow to the back of his head.

  She had no more time for him. Once more, she sprinted across the field, using all her fae speed to fly over the mud churned by horses and men. She didn’t care if interference was against the rules because, if her guess was right, far greater treachery had taken place.

  “Wait!” she cried. “Wait, stop!”

  Lancelot’s ax raised for a second blow. The Black Knight wasn’t moving.

  “Hold!” she screamed. She could see the fae running toward her from the other end of the field, fury in their eyes. Why were they furious, if it was their champion Nim had just saved?

  She skidded to a stop before Lancelot, her soft slippers no match for the damp earth. She could see LaFaye approaching. Nim didn’t have much time.

  “You can’t kill him,” she said. “Not before you see his face.”

  The slits in Lancelot’s visor were inscrutable. She wasn’t sure he’d even heard her until he drew his belt knife, working awkwardly with his one good hand, and slit the straps that held the Black Knight’s helmet in place. The ebony helmet was made in an old style, with a narrow eye-slit but no visor to lift.

  He got no further before LaFaye was there, breathing hard after the run. “What is this new treachery?” she snarled, reaching with one hand for Nim as if she meant to scruff her like a kitten.

  Nim backed away, a flutter of fear in her stomach.

  “I’m assuming it has to do with this.” Tenebrius appeared from nowhere and dropped a bundle at LaFaye’s feet. He blinked his yellow goat’s eyes. “I think this belongs to you. I warned you, Queen of Faery.”

  The bundle squirmed and resolved itself into a bloody-nosed fae wearing Arthur’s clothes. The white-haired male bore no resemblance to the king, but the glamour had been perfect.

  “Fool me once, I let you live,” said the demon. “Fool me twice, and I am guaranteed to give in to temptation.”

  LaFaye said nothing, her jaw set in stubborn anger. The fae scrambled to his feet and hid behind her.

  “So where is the king?” asked the demon. Then his gaze settled on the Black Knight, and he obviously came to the same conclusion Nim had. “Ah. The answer is so obvious the open book should have been the first clue.”

  While they’d been speaking, Lancelot had removed his own helmet. His face was pale, his hair dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His eyes flickered in surprise at the demon’s sudden appearance, but he said nothing as Tenebrius bent and helped him reveal the Black Knight’s face. As they’d suspected, it was Arth
ur. He was alive but unconscious, his face running with blood. Lancelot bowed his head in silent grief at what he’d done.

  Nim bent to examine Arthur. His breathing wasn’t good. She attacked the fastenings of the armor, removing what she could to make him more comfortable. “We need a healer,” she said.

  “Why?” The queen shot back. “He’s about to die anyhow.”

  “Explain yourself, LaFaye,” said the demon coldly.

  “I took Arthur in the mortal realm,” she said with a defiant smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “He was outside your protection there, so no rules were broken. I enchanted him and put him into the contest as an ordinary knight with an ordinary sword. No magical weapons and no hint to anyone—even himself—of who he is, so no rules regarding identity were contravened. Lancelot du Lac is the only knight with skill enough to beat him, so it was an even match. I know of no other rules regarding the selection of the fighters, so surely you can have no objections.”

  “Twist my words, will you?” The demon’s voice dropped to a mere hiss. The color drained from the queen’s cheeks, but she stood her ground. “I do not care who wins, but neither do I tolerate those who think themselves cleverer than me.”

  “And yet I color within the lines,” she replied. There was a tremor in her words, but her gaze was steady. “That is the way of the fae. Rules are obstacles, but we dance around them like maypoles. Don’t tell me demons do anything less.”

  Tenebrius didn’t so much as blink. “This is not a game in which a gullible judge is a pawn upon the board.”

  Anger made Nim’s head feel hollow, as if it needed room to contain all the rage flaming inside. “What could possibly excuse this deception?”

  “Victory,” said the queen in clear, clipped tones. “Revenge.”

  “For the fae?” Nim protested. “Do you really believe our people would have wanted this dishonorable trick?”

  “For me.” Morgan’s head lifted in defiance. “Arthur usurped everything—my place in the line of inheritance, the love of our family, the respect of the people, the influence that should have been mine. By the rules of lore and magic, I demand his death.”