Enchanted Guardian

by Sharon Ashwood

  “No!” Dulac snarled. He could hear the pulse roar in his ears and realized he was halfway to seizing LaFaye, parley be damned. His fingers curled into fists.

  “No,” Arthur said, holding up his hand for silence. “I will not permit it. The Lady has done nothing to harm me or my people.”

  “That is a foolish move,” LaFaye said, her tone sharpening. “First you refuse the return of my jewel, then you murder my subjects, and now you harbor a traitor who betrayed the Crown of Faery. I demand compensation.”

  “Finally we get to the point of this meeting. What do you want?” Arthur asked in a flat tone.

  “Excalibur,” she replied.

  “We could deliver it directly to your heart.” The words were out of Dulac’s mouth before he could bite down on them.

  Arthur’s look was acid. “You may not have my sword.”

  The queen rose in a liquid movement. “Then bring me Nimueh. I would like her alive, but I will accept her head. If you do not, I will unleash my armies on Carlyle. You are far from finding all your men, Arthur. You know as well as I do that in a war with the fae, your knights—your friends and only companions on this earth—are too few to do anything but die with courage.”

  Sweat was starting to bead on Arthur’s temples. “And if I agree to this you will simply attack anyway.”

  “True.” Her smile was poison. “But I will give you a year of peace. Think of what you could accomplish in that time. You could find the rest of your men. You could find magic to undermine my schemes. You could finish cementing an alliance with the witches. In other words, you could scrape together a chance of survival.”

  LaFaye’s voice wove around them, every word nudging and molding the truth until what she said seemed entirely reasonable. Dulac had fallen under its spell before, when the queen—then plain Morgan LaFaye—had put him in Guinevere’s path, moving him into place like a pawn on a chessboard.

  She made a sweeping gesture around the room. “What kind of a king would throw away all the mortal realms to save one soulless fae?”

  “What kind of a king betrays an ally?” Dulac shot back.

  Arthur touched his arm again, demanding silence. Then he drew a breath and addressed LaFaye. “I must think on what you have said. Give me until the dark of the moon to decide what course I must take.”

  The queen inclined her head. “The new moon is two days from now. Why should I give you that time?”

  “Because if you do, I will give you an answer that is to the point. If you rush me, I will tell you whatever it takes to put you off.” The king folded his arms as if making himself comfortable. “Let’s not play games, Morgan. Neither of us has time to waste.”

  She clearly hadn’t been expecting this tone. Anger flared across her features. “Very well. But be prepared to make your answer, King of Camelot, when the hour comes. And if you answer the wrong way, be sure there will be consequences.”

  With that, she left in a swirl of skirts.

  They remained utterly silent until her footfalls had descended the stairs and the screen door had slammed shut. Then both knights rounded on their king.

  “We cannot do this,” Dulac protested.

  “This isn’t our way,” Gawain said to Arthur. “You know Nimueh saved Tamsin and me from Mordred. We would never have found your tomb without her aid.”

  Arthur bowed his head. “The Lady of the Lake is a fae. Once she was a friend to Camelot, but she has been changed by Merlin’s spell. And there is truth in Morgan’s words. We are not strong enough to face the fae armies yet.”

  “We have Excalibur,” said Dulac.

  “We have one weapon Morgan fears. That is our only advantage.”

  “We have to find another answer,” Dulac insisted.

  “That’s why I asked for time.” Arthur frowned. “Do we know where Nimueh is?”

  “No,” said Gawain. “She disappeared after Mordred’s death. Obviously, she’s hiding from her queen.”

  “Then we must find her.”

  “Why?” Dulac asked suspiciously.

  Arthur massaged his forehead, as if a headache was brewing. Tension and fatigue dragged on his features. “Regardless of how I answer that, the first step is to determine where she is. You knew her best, Dulac.”

  “I will not hand Nimueh over to LaFaye.”

  Arthur’s pale blue glare could have cut glass. “Your task is to set aside your personal history and do your sworn duty.” The king’s demand was a physical thing, pushing against Dulac’s anger like a closed fist. They had clashed like this before, but there had never been so much at stake.

  “I will fight for you,” said Dulac. “I will shed my blood to guard the mortal realms, down to the final drop. But I will not help you destroy an innocent.”

  “The lady hardly qualifies as an innocent.”

  “That does not make her fair prey.”

  Arthur raised his eyebrows, comprehension dawning in his face. “You already know where she is.”

  Chapter 13

  “I left then,” Dulac said, leaning against the door of his home with a mix of relief and foreboding. “The only surprise was that Arthur let me walk away.”

  The words hung in the darkening room. His place was a small two-story town house not far from Medievaland. He’d only been in it a few weeks, and it was far from luxurious or even properly furnished—but it was private. He wanted that seclusion now, with his lady.

  Perhaps he had even chosen it with her in his thoughts. The glass patio doors of the living room looked onto a wild garden with a rocky slope beyond. The interior was wood and stone, with a fireplace and a thick white rug before the hearth.

  “Arthur guessed that you know where I am?” Nimueh said with narrowed eyes. She stood in the living room, backlit by the one table lamp in the corner. The summer evening was finally growing dark.

  “I didn’t tell him.” He heard the defensiveness in his voice.

  “No, but you were never a great liar. It’s one of your best qualities.”

  She ducked her head, the bobbed black hair swinging forward to hide her face. He hated the false color. He hated the contact lenses more. Nimueh should never have to hide.

  “You say the queen wanted her jewel?” she asked.

  “Tramar Lightborn lost it when I killed him. I saw you pick it up.”

  She seemed surprised that he had noticed that detail. For an instant, he thought she would deny taking the jewel, but she shrugged. “I did.”

  “Perhaps if you turn it over?” he began, but she shook her head.

  “I don’t have it any longer. I traded it away that night.”

  “What for?”

  Nimueh hesitated. “A way to hide from LaFaye’s assassins. The fact that I’m still alive to tell you is proof that the bargain wasn’t wasted.”

  That raised a thousand more questions, but he stayed focused on what mattered most. “We have two days before the queen wants an answer. How do I put you beyond her reach?”

  The words had an effect he didn’t expect. Nimueh swayed on her feet, then seemed to crumple onto the battered brown couch. She covered her face with her hands. “I thought I could run and hide. Now—I don’t know. If I vanish, what becomes of Camelot? If I don’t vanish...” She trailed off with a helpless gesture.

  “I don’t know,” Dulac replied, suddenly awkward. He’d never seen her so lost. He eased onto the couch beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. “The only certainty is that I won’t let her have you.”

  With a sigh, Nimueh pulled away. “That’s selfish.”

  “No, it’s practical. Even if Camelot hands you over to buy a year of peace, will that prevent our destruction? Or are we stronger with you at our side? If we start sacrificing each other, LaFaye’s brand of cruelty has won. That’s hardly a victory.”

  She looked at him sharply. “What are you proposing?”

  “You stay here with me. We hide or we fight, but we don’t surrender.�
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  She stared at him, her brows drawn together. “Do you seriously mean that?”

  It was a ridiculous question, but she clearly spoke from the heart.

  “Of course,” he answered, because she obviously needed to hear it. “I’m at your side, Nimueh. No exceptions.”

  The corners of her mouth jerked downward and for a moment he thought his supposedly soulless fae was about to cry. His heart seized and he reached out, but she raised her hands. “Wait.”

  Dulac stopped. “What is it?”

  Her breath had gone ragged. She wiped her face with her sleeve and looked up, shaking her hair into place. “I need a drink. Please.”

  The agitation in her voice was oddly beautiful, a sign of the emotions he had longed for. He hid a smile behind an obedient nod. “Right away.”

  Dulac retreated to the kitchen, which was the most neglected room in his new home. Gawain’s witch, Tamsin Greene, had equipped it with the basics. It was a kind act, but he had barely opened the cupboards since. However, a few bottles of wine reclined in a folding wooden rack on the counter. He grabbed one, drew his boot knife and attacked the foil top.

  The business of uncorking the bottle gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. He missed true silence, without the constant hum and rumble of traffic and appliances. He preferred firelight to the harsh glare of electricity. He missed the clean bite of truly fresh air. And yet he was where he had chosen to be, with Nimueh in this new world. It was up to him to adapt. It was up to him to keep her safe and make this reunion work.

  He poured the wine into two glasses, slightly reassured by the heady smell of the red vintage. Wine was at least a little bit the same as he remembered it, but the glasses were impossibly fine, so delicate he feared crushing them every time he picked one up. In his day, goblets were of metal, heavy and durable. Good in a fight, like him.

  But Nimueh was, at the moment, as breakable as the glasses. It was plain she was recovering her emotions—more each time he saw her. The flatness was leaving her expression and her voice. What did that feel like? Chaotic? Painful? Strange? His mind—so attuned to war and conflict—said that they should be making battle plans against LaFaye. His instincts warned him Nimueh needed a moment of tranquillity.

  He picked up the glasses and went into the living room where Nimueh reclined on the couch, her face drawn with exhaustion. Taking the wine, she moved her long legs so he could sit down. “Thank you.”

  He sat, leaning back so he could look at her. She’d obviously retrieved her suitcases from the Audi because she’d changed her clothes. She was wearing leggings and a long blue sweater, her feet bare so that he could see the long delicate bones.

  “Your toenails are painted bright green.” He found the sight amusing and faintly disturbing at the same time. “It reminds me of a mer-creature I once knew. She ate a lot of raw fish.”

  Nimueh tucked her feet out of sight beneath her. “It is the fashion,” she said primly. “Part of hiding as a human is behaving as they do.”

  “And painting your toes is a mark of humanity?”

  She sipped her wine. “It is never one thing you do or don’t do. It is the accumulation of a pattern that people notice. Humans are smarter than one might think.”

  “Surely you jest,” he said drily, taking a swallow of the wine and setting it aside.

  She gave him a look he remembered well, part scolding and part indulgence. She’d left the contact lenses out to reveal the emerald brilliance of her eyes. Up close, he could see the iris held a dozen shades of green rimmed in deepest black. In the darkness, they refracted light like a cat’s. No one would mistake them for human, but he found them unbearably beautiful because they were hers.

  He slid his hand over her ankle, circling it with his broad palm. Her dark olive skin was silky and warm. Her body held such delights, such secrets he’d taken joy in discovering. Then he thought of what Tamsin had said about memory and emotion stored in the flesh. If that worked with negative experience, did it work with pleasure, too?

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, her foot shifting so those bright green toes peeped out again. He was starting to get used to the look.

  “I’m petting you,” he said, sliding his hand over the curve of her calf. Her soft gray leggings molded to her shape, leaving nothing to the imagination. Modern clothes had their advantages.

  “Why?” she demanded, her glass clutched in both hands.

  “To awaken your flesh. It remembers that you want this.” His hand reached her knee, but he went no farther, just started the motion again.

  She stilled, her brilliant eyes growing wide. “How dare you tell me what I want.”

  “I dare because you need me to,” Dulac replied.

  “I’m not like I was,” she said quickly. “I’m a book with half the pages missing.”

  “But I remember the story. I can fill it in.” His hand curved over her knee, cupping it gently before his fingers eased along the slender arch that ran outside her thigh and toward her hip. When he reached the hem of her long sweater, he simply carried on, pushing it up as he went. “Do you like it when I do that?”

  She drank down the wine in one long draw and set the glass beside the couch. “Yes.”

  Nimueh shifted so that she leaned against him, her weight against his chest. Dulac slid his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I’ll take you in pieces if I have to. Whatever you are, I want it.”

  “Why?”

  He thought he saw tears in her eyes and he scrambled for an answer. “I don’t have a single reason. In truth there are too many to count.”

  “Tell me one. I won’t believe you any other way.”

  “You were the first real family I had.”

  She looked up, searching his face. “What do you mean?”

  “You know where I came from,” he said softly.

  His father had been King Ban of Benoic, one of the thirteen kings conquered by Camelot to stop the many small wars tearing the land apart. Endless fighting had left Dulac’s country poor, with barren fields and no one left alive to plant them. Hunger and sickness took the few who were left, including his mother. King Ban, however, would never abandon his pride.

  The only thing a man needs to know is how to use his strength, Ban had told his son. The rest comes naturally once you’ve made it clear who is in charge.

  The soldier—or son—who failed to excel in battle felt Ban’s lash. Dulac learned the arts of war with almost supernatural ease, but that only made his father demand more. Some days the dried blood made it impossible to remove his shirt, much less fight, and the cycle of pain would begin again. It was clear to all that defeat had turned the king’s mind, but none would interfere with the right of a father to raise his heir.

  The torment only ended when his father’s enemies—spurred on by yet another meaningless dispute—burned their home to the ground and his father’s corpse with it. From a hilltop too far away to ride to the rescue, Dulac had watched the flames with a mixture of relief and despair, for he had nothing but the armor he stood in. After the ashes were cold, he had ridden away to seek his fortune. He knew nothing but killing, but he was very, very good at it. Wars needed soldiers, and war was never hard to find.

  How little had he expected to find love and kindness instead.

  “I could barely write my own name when I met you,” Dulac said now, “and yet you never made me feel small.”

  “You were never small. You’ve always been twice my size.”

  With that, she bit her lip. In another, the gesture might have been saucy, but with Nimueh it was an expression of suppressed fire. He picked her up, setting her in his lap. She settled in, bracing her hands on his shoulders as he slid his hands under her sweater to span her waist. He felt her muscles flex as she bent forward to kiss his brow. “I don’t know why you don’t find a good mortal woman. There is a world filled with females who would be eager to please you. I am a bad bargain.”

  “Is that so?”
He ran his thumbs over the curve of her ribs. The touch made her sway forward, arching into it like a cat. He slid one hand higher, finding nothing but Nimueh beneath the sweater. His hand cupped her breast. The soft, generous weight was familiar and filled him with remembered longing. He’d missed her so much.

  “I wish you would smile,” she said.

  “I will when you do.”

  “Then make me.”

  Dulac had the sweater off her before she could protest. Wordlessly, she shook her hair back into place and leaned forward, taking his mouth with hers. Her first kiss was tentative, a brush of heat that left him hungry. The second ripped a growl from his throat as she plundered his mouth, her tongue seeking his. He sank back until his head rested on the cushioned arm of the couch, Nimueh leaning forward so their lips did not part. The taste of her was like wild berries, sweet and tart at once. She nipped his lip, a tease with just enough bite to send a prickle down his neck. There was nothing tame about Nimueh, however carefully she hid her nature in books and formulae.

  “What could another woman give me that you cannot?” he whispered. It was more like a groan.

  She sat back on her heels, looking down at him from under slit lids. The room was dark, the only illumination the single lamp and the stray light creeping in from the kitchen. It made her eyes flash like winking gems, mysterious and strange. “Safety. She would bind your life around with garlands of comfort and surety. She would keep your hearth and home and fill it with kindness. Your future would be known and beloved, a tale well told and filled with love and laughter. I foresaw this future for you in my gazing crystal, long before you went into the stone sleep. I hoped you would have found her before now. Perhaps you still can.”

  “She sounds marvelous. A paragon. Undoubtedly a good wife and mother.”

  “Many long for a crumb of such happiness as she could give.”

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  “I do not know. Magic rarely works in specifics.”