Because it was a realm outside the mortal world, the knights could not reach the Forest Sauvage without magic. The stag’s gemstones would provide safe passage to Taliesin’s Circle.
“How do you fare?” he asked Nimueh as they walked from the park gate toward the quiet yard behind the stables.
“Well enough,” she replied, her face solemn. “Badly enough. I have not seen a tourney of this kind since I was a child. They are fraught with hazard.”
A small party was going to make the initial arrangements: Gawain, Dulac, Nimueh and of course Arthur. The knights would wear their fighting gear while Nimueh had put on a simple blue gown belted at the waist with a girdle of fine silver links shaped like willow leaves. Her dark hair framed her face in stark lines. It was the one detail that didn’t belong to her—that, and the collar Dulac wished he could rip from her throat. It promised brutal punishment if their side of the tourney stepped out of line, and he wasn’t certain how far that would go.
Dulac trusted Arthur, but Nimueh’s life was sacred to him. He would have willingly taken the danger on himself, but he guessed the reason she’d volunteered. She needed to fight the queen, and taking the hazard of the collar on herself was the one way she could contribute to their success without magic of her own.
Visitors stopped and stared at them as they passed. Nimueh was beyond beautiful, her dark skin lustrous where the sun touched it. She walked with a fae’s grace, her hand resting lightly on his arm. That she was his lady once more was worth a thousand kingdoms, and Dulac thought the people saw something of that written on his face. Their smiles echoed what was in his heart.
“I was thinking about the Forest Sauvage,” Nim said quietly. “You will find it unchanged, I think.”
He could see her fingers tremble, even though she hid them in her skirts. She was talking to cover her nerves, and that showed how hard it would be for her to face LaFaye.
“Good,” said Dulac. “I will treasure the familiar. This mortal world is changed enough.”
She cast him a sidelong look, her bright green gaze barely touching him before it skittered away. “I wonder if there will be a chance to see my old castle. My lake. I hid it with enchantment when I left, and it should still remain untouched.”
He imagined the place and wondered how he would feel about seeing it again. He’d left it feeling so guilty. “I imagine you miss the quiet there.”
“I did. I do. I had my work and a few good companions, and that was enough. For a time, I had you.” She squeezed his arm, letting him know she would not dwell on that point for now. Her fingers were like ice. “But preference becomes a habit and then finally a vice. Eventually solitude made me afraid to mix with company. My few attempts at visiting Camelot did nothing but make me long to run away.”
Small wonder, since she would have run headlong into Morgan and Guinevere. “Camelot was hard to adjust to. Believe me, I know.”
Her fingers rose to touch the collar in what was rapidly becoming a nervous habit. Once again, he longed to tear it off her, but he wasn’t certain what the consequences would be. That kind of magic was risky.
Nimueh continued on, her voice brittle with tension. “Losing the ability to feel that kind of discomfort was almost a relief. I think that’s why I was able to open the bookstore. A little less sensitivity made it easier to deal with the public.”
“You’re clearly good at it. By all accounts, the store’s a success.”
“I’m going to stay in Carlyle.”
He looked up sharply to study her expression. It was the first time she’d said she would stay with him. “In truth?”
“In truth,” she said, smiling slowly. “It seems I didn’t need all twenty-four hours to make up my mind. You’re extremely convincing. I want to be with you.”
The admission rocked him. It was everything he wanted, and yet there was no time to celebrate and enjoy the expanding fire in his heart. He stopped and faced her on the crowded path, letting the visitors eddy around them. This was no place for what he wanted to do, so he contented himself with bringing both her hands to his lips and kissing them reverently. “I adore you more than you will ever know.”
She lowered her eyes, her mouth curving into a shy smile. “I’m glad.”
In another few minutes, they’d reached their destination. It was just before dusk, the sky a blue that had faded from the heat and dust of the day. It was clear, but Dulac smelled rain on the wind—a sure sign the unusual heat was breaking. It would be a relief.
The others were already there, faces serious. The king held one of the gems between thumb and forefinger as if it might detonate at any moment. For all his longing for wonder, Arthur wasn’t comfortable with magic up close. As Dulac and Nimueh stood opposite Gawain, the king set the stone on the ground in the middle of their loose circle. They all stared at it.
“Am I supposed to do something?” Arthur asked.
“Wait,” said Nimueh.
Almost before she’d stopped speaking, cold white light bloomed from the stone. At first it seemed to emanate from within, but then the core of the brilliance floated upward, hovering at the height of Dulac’s chest. Then the rays stretched outward, filling the space where they stood. The air shimmered, like water stirred by a breeze, and a faint hum set his teeth on edge. Nimueh held his hand and some instinct told him to reach out and grasp the king’s shoulder. Arthur gripped Gawain’s arm. An instant later, a blast of cold air swept over them, nearly knocking him from his feet. The sensation of vertigo lasted an instant too long and then everything changed.
They were standing in a green, rolling landscape with no buildings as far as the eye could see. Dulac turned to survey the land in every direction. Where Carlyle had been hot, here the weather was cool and damp, with ropes of mist where the land was lowest. He took a deep breath, the cold, fresh air clearing his head. Clumps of trees and bushes dotted the landscape, but the knights had landed in open ground where a ring of waist-high, standing stones marked a wide circle in the rough grass. This was called Taliesin’s Circle, for it was the place where Arthur’s Chief of Bards had come to compose his songs and teach young students his wisdom. In truth, the place was older by far than any of Arthur’s men. The dark gray stones were crooked, worn smooth by weather and time, and the atmosphere said it stood on a place of great natural magic.
“So where’s the party?” asked Arthur, planting his hands on his hips.
Gawain leaned against one of the stones. “I for one am happy to wait. The longer I go without sight of the queen, the longer I am happy.”
Dulac was inclined to agree, but he could feel Nimueh’s anxiety. He put an arm around her. “They won’t be long. Dusk draws nigh here, as well. This time of year, the sun will set when it nears the top of that stone.”
He pointed to the horizon, where the sun touched the clouds in shades of orange and red. By the time he finished speaking, the Queen of Faery and her retainers had arrived.
“Oh,” Nimueh said softly, gripping his arm.
Morgan LaFaye had spared no effort with her appearance. Her dark hair was elaborately dressed and studded with jewels, and her gown was of rich red velvet faced with cloth of silver. She was flanked by three of the fae, their tall, slender forms still and silent. At their feet knelt the red-haired girl in her collar. Now the girl seemed far less confident, her face tight with apprehension. Dulac guessed she’d come to the same conclusion he had—LaFaye had chosen someone dispensable to forfeit her life for the queen’s good behavior.
Morgan LaFaye stepped forward, her gaze falling almost at once on Excalibur hanging at Arthur’s side. Her eyes widened, fear and greed chasing across her features. Then she saw Nimueh, and saw Dulac’s arm around her. LaFaye’s lips twisted in a sly smile as Nimueh stiffened.
“Congratulations, Arthur,” said the queen. “I see you brought me exactly what I asked you for—sword and traitor both—and you did it all without tarnishing your precious honor. That was clever footwork.”
Arthur stood with one hand on Excalibur’s hilt, his back ramrod straight. The only thing that marked him as royal was the thin circlet of gold about his brow. Even so, he appeared every inch the king. “I did not realize the tourney included an event dedicated to trading insults. A pity, since I doubt I will ever possess the equal of your sharp tongue.”
What civility Morgan had slipped and her eyes flashed with ugly rage. “You’re a fool that does not deserve his crown.”
“Perhaps,” Arthur replied calmly. “I do not know if any man or woman is equal to the responsibility of caring for the mortal realms. However, I will always give whatever I have to the task, and I will do everything in my power to keep your grasping fingers away.”
She laughed, a low sound that was as intimate as it was chilling. “How sententious.”
“And how desperate you must be to gamble the welfare of your people in an arcane trial such as this. I will participate because it is required of me as the monarch of the mortal realms. I will not risk my power and right to wear my crown, however vile your trickery. But be prepared for the consequences of your foolishness, Morgan,” he said in clipped tones. “To borrow the modern phrase, I expect we’ll kick your asses. I’m already picking out my prize.”
“And what will you choose, kinglet?” she mocked.
Arthur’s smile was slightly evil. “You’ll see.”
By the toss of her head, Dulac guessed LaFaye didn’t like that answer one bit. She wasn’t as confident as she let on.
“Very well,” said the queen. “Let us begin.”
“Hold a moment,” said Arthur. “Who will judge this contest? In fairness, the judge can be neither fae nor human.”
“I have considered that,” said LaFaye. “I know the rules of the tourney as well as you do.”
With a sweep of her arm, she indicated the center of the stone circle. The air sparkled, and a white throne appeared from thin air. “I have asked the Forest Sauvage to send someone of its own choosing,” explained LaFaye. “I do not know any more than you who that might be.”
As if waiting for her cue, a figure stepped out of thin air, taking a place beside the white throne. Shock surged through Dulac and he grabbed for his sword, ready to sell his life dearly.
Chapter 23
Dulac drew his sword, stepping in front of Nimueh and the king. Gawain went pale as curdled milk.
Only Nimueh didn’t react. “Greetings, Tenebrius,” she said with a low curtsy.
“So the Lady of the Lake has returned to the Forest Sauvage,” said the demon in a deep voice. “This should be a day of celebration, but I find you mixed up in this sorry squabble.”
He sounded educated, almost scholarly, but Dulac knew well enough that mortal senses only perceived what a demon chose. He appeared tall, bald but for a tightly clipped black beard, and dressed in robes the shade of drying blood. His pale yellow eyes were slit like a goat’s.
“My lady, how do you know this creature?” Dulac asked. He knew demons still roamed the Forest Sauvage, but he’d never considered getting to know them. Then again, Nimueh’s taste for scholarly subjects had forged some odd acquaintances.
She rose from her curtsy, her expression revealing nothing. “At one time, his lands in the forest bordered mine. He was my neighbor.”
“Your neighbor? He tried to eat me the last time I was here!” Gawain said with annoyance.
“I do not wonder,” said Nimueh with a touch of humor. “Demons must be treated with scrupulous respect. My understanding was that you tried to steal his library.”
Gawain frowned. “That’s one way of looking at it. I have quite another version of events.”
“Silence,” ordered the king. “Dulac, stand aside.”
Dulac complied reluctantly.
Tenebrius gave a silky smile, showing pointed teeth. “King Arthur, well met. You led the armies of the fae and mortal realms against my kind. Lucky for me your power does not extend here.”
Then the demon’s gaze turned to LaFaye and his lips thinned to a grin. Dulac turned to see what pleased the creature so very much and felt a mild shock of surprise. The queen’s face was stricken, her eyes like bruises in a visage pale as milk.
“You are the hellspawn who devoured my son,” she said in a voice that was little more than a rasp.
The sharp-toothed smile grew wider. “Indeed I did. For the record, he was dead at the time, but tasty nonetheless.”
For an instant Dulac pitied the queen. Only a mother could have loved the vile Prince Mordred, but loved him she had.
The demon waved a hand as if flicking away any further pleasantries. “You requested a judge for this combat, and here I am. There are no second choices. By the law of the shadow worlds, I must be neutral and believe me, I do not care who wins or dies in this dispute.”
Dulac believed it. Demons served whoever paid them most.
“I understand the prize will be of the winner’s choosing,” the demon said with a grin. “May I know your choices?”
“I will keep my choice to myself for now,” replied Arthur.
The demon gave a slight bow. “It is a dangerous thing to leave such an important detail open-ended, but that is permissible.”
“The prize will be Excalibur,” Morgan snapped. “I shall win, and that is what I shall have.”
Arthur roared an oath, and a moment later the sword appeared in the demon’s hand, complete with sword belt and sheath. “What is the meaning of this?” cried the king.
“This is purely precautionary,” said the demon. “The sword is of no value to me, but I know the lady queen. Until the contest is done, I will keep Excalibur under lock and key to prevent any—what is the word?—shenanigans.”
Despite himself, Dulac had to agree with the precaution. Apparently, so did Arthur, because the king folded his arms and said no more, though his frown spoke volumes.
“These are the rules,” Tenebrius continued. “One, those who wear the collars are protected from harm by the combatants and their leaders. However, if their leader breaks the rules, they will die.”
Dulac stepped close to Nimueh and took her hand in his. Her fingers were like ice.
“Two, all combatants and their assistants are protected from harm unless they are actually in combat. During the melee, a significant injury is cause enough to withdraw from the field. Each side may have a healer present for such emergencies.”
Gawain stirred and Dulac guessed what he was thinking. Tamsin was Camelot’s healer, but Gawain would not be pleased at the thought of her anywhere near Tenebrius or Morgan.
“Three, magic and magical weapons are not permitted in battle. Nor are those identified as leaders.
“Finally, four, single combat is between evenly matched opponents and it shall be to the death, no exceptions.”
A murmur rose up from the crowd. People died in tourneys, but custom allowed a defeated opponent to sue for mercy. Rarely was that refused.
The demon’s eyes flashed. “If a combatant refuses the kill, he automatically loses the entire contest for his side. No mercy. No surrenders. No weaseling out of a nice bloody death. You’re using the forest as your battleground, and for that it demands a payment in blood and fear. As for me, I eat what’s left of the loser as my judge’s fee.”
Tenebrius stopped talking and looked from one face to the other with amusement. Clearly, it entertained him to see both sides struck dumb. “If these contests weren’t horrible, you idiots would be challenging each other every day of the week. I don’t like to waste my time keeping things fair for morons who did their best to cast me out of my nice warm castle and back to the abyss. Don’t look to me for sympathy. You picked this fight.”
He subsided majestically into the white chair. “See you all back here tomorrow. I’ve a fancy to start this display of arms with a melee—who doesn’t like a battle royal with the most noise and gore possible? It will serve to thin the herd a bit and see who is left to slit each other’s throats.”
&n
bsp; He gave a satisfied look around the company. “The fun shall begin at noon tomorrow.”
With that, he vanished—chair and all—in a puff of sulfurous smoke.
“Wonderful,” said Gawain. “We literally have the judge from hell.”
* * *
A melee was a free-for-all. All the contestants fought at once, on foot and with whatever weapons they chose. As a limited number of Arthur’s knights had been awakened from the stone sleep, each side had only six combatants. Lancelot, Gawain, Beaumains, Percival, Palomedes and Owen of the Beasts fought for Camelot. Sir Hector, Tamsin’s father, was left behind to keep an eye on the theme park.
The day of the melee was bright and clear, and the large open field next to Taliesin’s Circle was dry and provided plenty of room for six pairs of fighters to do their worst. The boundary was defined by a rope marked with bright flags pegged into the dirt. Arthur, Tamsin and Nim stood outside the southwest corner, while Morgan and the fae kept vigil at the northeast. Nim was pleased that the distance was great enough that she could not see the queen’s face.
Arthur fidgeted, clearly wishing he was one of the fighters who were arming and taking their places in the improvised ring. “Every spilled drop of blood is on my soul,” he said softly.
“You were tricked,” said Nim. “This is all the queen’s work.”
He looked at her sadly, his pale blue eyes ringed by lack of sleep. “It is Morgan’s work, but I let my guard down so that she could do it. I can’t argue that fact away.”
“What good does blaming yourself do?” Tamsin asked. The young witch was the only one wearing modern clothes, her long fair hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid. She sat on her large medical kit, arms folded. She was watching Gawain finish arming, something close to terror for her lover written on her face. Her father might have been a knight, but because of their unusual history, she had never seen anything like the tourney before.
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