Enchanted Guardian

by Sharon Ashwood

  “To kill us,” said Arthur. “At least the beasts were trying very, very hard.”

  “One creature woke early and went to the other side of the park,” said Gawain. “That suggests the plan was to separate the knights.”

  He cast Nim and Lancelot a speculative look, his gaze lingering on her. The last time they’d met, they’d been in a battle with Mordred.

  “I thought it might have been a distraction,” Arthur replied, “but I didn’t expect so many of its friends or I wouldn’t have waited alone.”

  Then Lancelot spoke, his voice still rough with emotion. “The fact one beast lured us while so many remained near you suggests you were the target.”

  Nim wondered if her arrival had triggered the creatures to emerge. She was, after all, another celebrity near the top of Morgan’s hit list. “But why would she take such a chance now?”

  Arthur’s response was weary. “She wants Excalibur. It is the one thing that makes her hesitate to launch an all-out attack, and I suspect her armies grow restless.”

  “But why stop because of one sword? Even an enchanted one?”

  “I only have speculation to offer,” said the king. “However, I’ve known Morgan for a very long time. She is invincible in every other way, so I believe her fear of Excalibur has grown out of proportion. She won’t rest until she has it under her control, or at least makes a very good try for it.”

  Nim understood the rest. “And because of the enchantments I put on Excalibur, the sword won’t allow itself to be stolen. You have to give the sword to Morgan or you have to be dead before she can so much as touch the hilt.”

  “She knows I won’t give it to her, so she’s opting for my death.” They stared at each other across a dozen feet of dusty yard. Arthur’s beard looked singed. “What happened to your power?” he asked. “Why didn’t you use it?”

  The trembling in Nim’s knees got worse. She couldn’t tell him the whole truth. She’d promised to keep Merlin’s existence a secret. “LaFaye can track me through my magic, so I bound it.”

  “What did you do?” Lancelot exclaimed, his dark eyes hot with worry. “You came to fight without your magic?”

  “And did a fine job of it, Dulac,” said Arthur with a trace of amusement. “Don’t scold her for coming to my aid. I wouldn’t have wanted to face two of those beasts at once. She might well have saved my life.”

  “Very well done,” said Gawain.

  Lancelot squeezed her hand. Nim felt her face heat and turned away, pleased but uncomfortable with the attention.

  “I can plainly see that you are not like the other fae, and yet I know you once worked for the queen,” said Arthur. “Was it binding your magic that gave you back your emotions?”

  The question caught Nim completely off guard. She released Lancelot’s hand, needing to think without his distracting warmth. She ran through dates and events, considering what spells she’d cast and how long she’d been in hiding. The return of her emotions had begun with Mordred’s death, but after that it had been a slow journey. She’d been running, using a spell here and there. But they had come back in a rush when Lancelot returned—which coincided with her visit to see Merlin. The two had to be related.

  Nim gave up being brave and sank to the ground. When she went to speak, only a hoarse whisper came out. “Maybe. It would make sense.” What if the binding had come undone? Did I nearly destroy my soul again?

  “Are you sure?” asked Lancelot.

  “The timing is right.” She looked up into his dark eyes. Concern filled them, as well they might. He knew what her power meant to her, and thus how much she’d given up.

  The king walked slowly toward Nim, his chin sunk to his chest as if he were deep in thought. “I owe you an apology for my rough reception of you this morning, but you of anyone know the peril that surrounds us.”

  “There is no need to explain.”

  “But I’m a poor leader if I cannot say I’m sorry when it is honestly meant and plainly deserved.” Once again, the king’s pale blue eyes pinned her. “Rest assured you have Camelot’s protection. It seems that destiny binds our fates together, and I would rather that it be for mutual support.”

  Nim was aware of her heart beating fast. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “My lady.” Arthur held out one scratched hand to help her up. “You saved my life. In such circumstances, it is customary that I grant you a boon. If there is any favor I can grant, you have but to ask.”

  Nim took the hand and got to her feet. Her legs still felt unsteady. “I just have one simple request.”

  “What would that be?”

  She cast a sidelong glance at Lancelot. “I would rather that no one ever sends me roses.”

  The rest of the morning was easier. No sooner were LaFaye’s beasts destroyed than the park returned to normal. The cell phones worked again, the gates were opened, and word came that all the knights were safe and sound. The story of the savage dog on the loose was only bolstered by the fact that the horses had panicked and needed to be rounded up from the amphitheater.

  “Come to the fair with me,” said Lancelot once the horses were safely caught. “We never had breakfast.”

  Nim hesitated. “I’m covered in gasoline. I should go home and change.”

  She’d washed herself off, but there was no way to clean up her clothes. Her nerves were rattled after the fight and she didn’t like the idea of going anywhere alone, but the smell was making her queasy.

  “I have a better idea,” he said, and took her hand in his.

  They walked through the performers’ area, which was crowded with knights. Nim balked, wanting to avoid the stares of the men she’d known so long ago. Some had once been friends, but now that they were at war with the fae, would they see her as an enemy?

  However, all she got was a welcome, from Palomedes’s brilliant smile and Percival’s jokes to Owen’s gentle greeting as he calmed a frightened horse. Their warmth was like finding a piece of forgotten treasure, and her whole body seemed to expand as she realized the joy of it.

  She entered Medievaland with a lighter heart. The booths were open now, the merchants garbed in costumes and spreading their wares on tables bright with gaudy cloths. Heralds rode up and down the pathways on patient horses, grandly announcing entertainments and eateries. Children ran underfoot with foam swords, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Nim pointed with amusement at a little girl in butterfly wings. “Look, she’s dressed up as one of the lesser fae. That’s adorable.”

  “From what I understand, they can be vicious,” said Lancelot.

  “Children or pixies?” Nim asked innocently.

  He gave her a dry look. “Pixies can be charmed if you leave out a bowl of milk.”

  She put a finger under his chin, wondering what a young Lancelot would have looked like. Those big brown eyes would have melted every female within miles. “I could be charmed with a mocha latte.”

  They got coffees from a stall run by pretend monks in brown robes, and then Lancelot had to stop and sign autographs for a couple of fans. He did it with deep courtesy as befit one of Arthur’s knights. Nim was rapidly discovering Camelot had a following in the modern sports world. Some of the knights found it bewildering while others, like Beaumains, lapped it up with good humor.

  After that they wandered, for once not rushing to answer an emergency. There was still the possibility of another fae attack, but Arthur had set guards patrolling the grounds. Vigilance 24/7—in addition to their regular patrols—would be grueling with so few warriors, but there wasn’t much else they could do. No doubt LaFaye had counted on her monsters to succeed and would need time to regroup, and for now Nim and Lancelot could catch their breaths. By mutual agreement, they avoided any discussion about what had just passed, but eventually Nim could stand it no longer.

  “The queen took a risk,” she said. “She swore an oath of good conduct to you.”

  “She gave us the flowers before she took the oath. That would be a l
oophole, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe. But it’s more than that. Although her attack began at dawn, it endangered the security guard. She exposed the shadow world to ordinary humans. That’s pushing the boundaries of lore and magic.”

  “I doubt she cares,” Lancelot replied, tilting his head back to catch the sun.

  They’d drifted to a picnic bench and were sitting and watching the passing crowds. A Celtic band had started playing on the lawn and the same little girl with butterfly wings she’d seen earlier was bouncing in time to the tune, her mother clapping her hands and laughing. So few fae children had been born since the demon wars, the sight of any child seemed rare and precious. For a blinding instant, Nim wanted to be that mother and that girl to be hers and Lancelot’s. But that day wouldn’t come as long as LaFaye wanted them all dead.

  “The queen has to care,” she said. “There aren’t many rules but those that exist form part of magic itself. If you swear an oath, you must keep it. If you make a summoning, you must bide by its terms. And you don’t give the game away to the ordinary world. But that’s exactly what she’s going to do if she takes it over and lets the soul-hungry fae take their fill.”

  “There’s a price to pay if she does,” Lancelot replied.

  “Of course. It usually means loss of magic or death. She has to believe she’s powerful enough to overcome the consequences.”

  “Or desperate,” he added. “Or insane.”

  Nim thought of her own magic, and how it was linked to her soul. The magical world had structure, a set of principles as predictable as science. Every gain demanded a price; energy out equaled energy in. Was it any surprise that giving up power had allowed Nim to heal? Sacrifice had a corresponding reward.

  “You know,” said Lancelot, tossing his paper cup into the recycle bin. “I don’t want to talk about death, or Morgan, or anything gloomy for at least another hour.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nim said. “I completely agree, but I’m out of practice talking or thinking about anything else.”

  “Then we must have doughnuts,” he said. “Of all the marvels of the new world, coffee and doughnuts are the best.”

  “Are you serious?” She followed him from the bench and back into the crowds. “Science, technology and philosophy have leaped forward and all you care about is caffeine and carbohydrates?”

  He turned, one brow raised. “I’m a simple man, but I’ll expand my list to say I highly approve of the local microbrews.”

  He stopped before a booth that sold women’s clothes in every color of a summer garden. They were gauzy confections of soft cotton decorated with beads and sequins. “I promised you fresh clothes.”

  “But this is...” She was about to say that it wasn’t her style. Her clothes were crisply tailored, dark and free of fanciful detail. But was that really her? “This is fun.”

  That clearly pleased him. “Try something on,” he said, pointing out an off-the-shoulder top so sheer she could read through it.

  “Maybe.” Nim approached the racks, her hands folded because she wanted to finger them all. It had been so long since she’d chosen something simply because it was pretty. The quality of these clothes was doubtful, but they filled her with the need to touch and admire. They promised if she wore them, she’d be touched and admired, too. She picked out a blouse and skirt and slipped into the curtained change area to put them on.

  The blouse was sleeveless, a soft gold that set off her skin, and the skirt was a deep forest green. The skirt fell in deep flounces, each layer decorated with green crystal beads that clicked as she moved. The sound made her want to dance.

  “We’ll take them,” said Dulac, putting cash on the counter, where a young salesgirl sat in frank admiration of Medievaland’s jousting star. “On the condition the old clothes go in the trash.”

  “Sure,” said the girl, flushing pink. “Whatever you like, Lancelot.”

  Nim bit back a smile at the flustered girl. She didn’t object about leaving her old clothes—the gasoline had ruined them—and it was nice to be treated even though she had money enough of her own. No one had given her anything for a very long time. She wrapped her arms around Lancelot’s, leaning into his side. “Can I buy you breakfast now?”

  “Very well, my lady,” he said, giving her a smile.

  The smile was everything she could have asked. Perhaps it was, as Arthur had said, destiny that had led her back to Camelot. Something monumental made her heart explode every time Lancelot gave her that look.

  He touched her cheek, and memories brushed her like moth’s wings. He’d done that once when they stood in the meadow above the lake, the very first time he’d said he loved her. She rose on her toes to kiss him, earning a giggle from the salesgirl.

  “Lead the way to breakfast, sir knight,” Nim said. “Let there be simple pleasures for a blessedly simple hour.”

  Chapter 20

  Later, Nim was resting in the clubhouse when Lancelot found her. Adrenaline, fresh air and sugar had combined to exhaust her and she was lying down on the battered couch of the upstairs infirmary, one arm flung over her face to shade her eyes against the summer brightness. She startled when the cushions sagged beneath Lancelot’s weight. For a large man, Lancelot could move like a cat. He’d been helping to repair the stables and must have showered in the locker room. He smelled of soap and was wearing a fresh T-shirt with Medievaland’s logo.

  “What are you still doing here?” he asked gently.

  “I was about to go and then one thing led to another and I stayed. I ended up helping Arthur set up some account books. He’s pretty good with a computer, considering.”

  He put his hand on her calf, squeezing it gently beneath the green flounces of her skirt. His gaze swept over her, pausing where bruises had come up from the morning’s fight. “Arthur said he would have died without you.” His voice was gently possessive, alarmed but also proud. “But it takes enormous trust before he lets you near the treasury.”

  There wasn’t much of a treasury by Nim’s standards, but Arthur was clever. He’d taken over the entertainments at Medievaland and had doubled attendance at the park. It would be more accurate to say it wasn’t much of a treasury yet.

  “Maybe I helped Arthur, but I would have died without him,” she said. “It was a bonding experience. Kind of like extreme gardening.”

  “You took a risk,” Lancelot said uneasily. “He might have turned you over to LaFaye.”

  “Arthur’s better than that. At least that’s what I told myself while we had a very uncomfortable conversation the moment I jumped over the fence this morning.”

  “I would have liked to have seen that,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips, then her nose. “You always were good at the element of surprise when you really, really wanted to be.”

  “Have I surprised you?” she asked. She hooked a finger in the neck of his shirt, using it to pull him closer so that she could kiss him back. He tasted minty, as if he’d brushed his teeth.

  Conversation dwindled for a moment, lost in the process of exploration and rejoicing. But somewhere in the midst of it, Nim felt the mood shift.

  The corners of Lancelot’s lips turned down. “What do you think about his theory that binding your magic cured you?”

  “It makes sense,” she said. “It’s the only explanation that does.” And she’d nearly unbound it without knowing the consequences. The thought left her shaken.

  She could see Lancelot turning the problem over in his thoughts. “What are you going to do?”

  “Do?”

  “If you find a way to unbind your magic, then what happens?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know.” She said it as bravely as she could, but her voice trembled.

  Without a word, Lancelot gathered her in his arms, sitting her up so he could hold her close. His easy strength and the heat of him beneath his soft cotton shirt was a healing balm. She drank it in along with the golden sun and the hypnotic shush-shush o
f the sprinkler outside the window and was inexpressibly glad to be alive.

  “Your magic is important to you,” he said, “but it doesn’t need to define you. You’re a fighter with or without it.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I always counted on it to protect myself if I had to. Then it didn’t work.”

  “I know,” he said. The simple answer was more powerful than sympathy.

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t say more. She faced a choice between two impossible alternatives. “I don’t know what a future without my power looks like.”

  He took her shoulders and pushed her away just enough so that the tips of their noses touched. “Like this. Like me. With or without it, I’m here.”

  But she wouldn’t be able to want him if she had her magic back. Would she give him up, even to protect herself from the queen? “You don’t mind if I’m as weak and vulnerable as a mortal?”

  “Speaking as a vulnerable mortal, not in the least.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling in a way that was uniquely Lancelot, but she saw the mix of hope and doubt in his gaze. “The choice is yours, but you don’t need magic to hold my interest.”

  He wanted it to be her choice, but she could see how much he wanted to be hers.

  Nim melted. How could she not choose him? Losing her power made her afraid, but with him to hold her the loss was almost a blessing. Her shy pride had never let her lean on anyone else, but now she could finally relax.

  A part of her let go. She couldn’t name what that part was—only that in all her long life, she’d never released it. The sensation came with a tiny thrill of panic, as if she were an animal that had finally shown its belly. She was exposed and willing for new intimacy.

  She kissed him then, the smell of soap and laundry mixing with male and the freshly watered lawn outside. Aching heat coursed through her, but it was more than simple desire. She yearned for this moment to last and last with no more complications between them.