Wicked Games

by Angela Knight

  “I see . . .” Merlin blinked and shook his head. “Not enough. Only that the paths to extinction become fewer if you drink. You, and the men and women I will choose from among your people.”

  “Men and women?” His brows lifted.

  Merlin gestured at their listeners. “By drinking from my Grail, the men will become Magi, gaining physical speed and strength far beyond mortal abilities, while the women will become Majae, with magical skills like those Nimue and I have.”

  With a frown, Arthur studied the wizard. “I assume you don’t intend my ladies to fight to the death? It would be no even contest, even assuming any knight of mine would fight a woman who has never held a blade.”

  “Obviously, I don’t intend the men and women to fight, especially not to the death. The combat is only a way for me to judge which of your people is most worthy.”

  Nimue spoke up. “As to the women, the contest they face will not be fought with steel. Your queen and the others . . .”

  “Wait . . . my queen?” Arthur glowered at Merlin’s lover. “Queen Guinevere will not fight.”

  Guinevere turned from her husband to look at the young witch, who stared back at him with ruthless eyes. “Then are you willing to watch her die of old age or mortal disease, while you live on, looking a decade younger than you do now? For if you drink from the Grail and she does not, that is precisely what will happen.” For all her blond delicacy, there was steel in the young witch, tempered and cold as a blade in a snowbank.

  The kind of cold that burns, Gwen thought. Before her courage could fail her, she said the only thing she could. “I’ll take your test.”

  Arthur caught her hand, worry in his eyes. “Gwen . . .”

  “I will do whatever I must to keep you. I’ll fight however they choose. And I’ll not lose.” She locked eyes with him. Gwen hadn’t been married to Arthur Pendragon all these years without learning how to stare him down.

  His gaze finally softened. “As you wish, my lady.” He turned a level stare on Merlin. “I’ll drink from your Grail—after my queen passes your test.”

  Merlin didn’t even blink. “No.”

  Arthur had a way of seeming to grow larger and more dangerous when crossed. He used that trick now. “Then I’ll not drink.”

  Merlin’s voice dropped. “As you will. But be warned: if you decline my cup, others will not. It may be you will have cause to regret it.”

  A chill slid over him. “Are you threatening to offer it to Mordred?”

  Merlin’s head rocked back as he gave Arthur an impatient look. “Of course not, but someone will accept it, regardless of the cost. Especially if it means tasting their heart’s dearest dreams.”

  Dearest dreams? Like an heir? Arthur thought, suddenly seeing a personal benefit to something that had begun to sound a lot like martyrdom without even the promise of heaven as a reward. Could Nimue heal whatever it was had caused his and Gwen’s childlessness as easily as she had his hip?

  Gwen’s gaze met his, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. “If we drink from your Grail, would a child be possible?” he demanded. “Could we become parents?”

  Merlin turned to the fire as if seeking an answer in its flames. After a long pause he said, “When you decide you want another son, there will be no difficulty.”

  “A child. Our child,” Gwen whispered. She caught his hand. “Ours. I’d fight any battle to hold your son in my arms.”

  Arthur turned to Merlin. “I’ll drink your potion.”

  “There is one more thing to consider, sire.” Nimue frowned, looking from his face to Gwen’s. “If she loses . . .”

  “I will not lose.” Gwen said stonily. She’d fight to her last breath for her chance at that cup, no matter what it cost her.

  The witch gazed at her without blinking, without even appearing to breathe. Finally she looked at Merlin and tilted her chin ever so slightly.

  As if she’d given him permission, Merlin turned to Arthur. “There is one thing more. The women who drink from the Grail will gain the power to work magic almost as great as Nimue’s. The men, however, will become like the males of my race.” He swept his black gaze around the room. “Those who whisper I don’t eat are correct. I must drink the blood of my mate instead. It’s her magic which sustains my life.”

  As everyone in the room gasped, cursed, or crossed themselves, one of the knights said exactly what Gwen was thinking. “You want our king to become a blood-drinker?”

  “Oh, not damned likely,” Lancelot snapped, before he turned to Arthur. Normally he deferred to the High King, but sometimes he acted like the childhood friend he was. “You can’t mean to do this, sire. Not even to gain an heir.”

  “It could cost your soul,” Kay agreed. “Not to mention your throne. You’d be handing your enemies a cause they could use to trigger a revolt.”

  Gwen’s heart sank, knowing the two men had a point.

  Arthur paused a moment before he said, “My knights are correct. I want a son or daughter, but not at the cost of plunging my kingdom into a civil war that could cost the lives of all I love—not to mention those of uncounted innocents.”

  “Rejecting my offer will not prevent such a war, my king,” Merlin retorted. “Even now, the Saxons flood into your kingdom, hungry for land and conquest. Keeping them out would take more manpower than you can muster. It doesn’t take a wizard’s Sight to know they’ll eventually march against you. Perhaps not this year, perhaps not even the next, but you will inevitably face them. When that day comes, you and your elite knights will be older, slower, and weaker, against a force that greatly outnumbers yours. They’ll wipe you out, Arthur. Not just you personally, but your entire culture. All you’ve accomplished, all you’ve fought and bled for, will be lost to darkness.”

  “If you’re correct,” Arthur retorted, “we’re going to have to deal with the Saxons regardless of whether we drink from your cup or not.”

  “True enough, but your ladies will have magical abilities almost the equal to mine, while no mere human will be able to best you and your knights in battle—you’ll be too fast, with too much raw strength. You’d be more than a match for the Saxons.”

  Gwen frowned. “But did I understand that Arthur would have to drink your mate’s blood?”

  A blend of incredulity, anger, and pure male possessiveness flashed across Merlin’s face. “Hardly. He’ll have to get his own witch.”

  “It’s not exactly a hardship to feed a Magus,” Nimue put in. “It does me no harm. Indeed, if the day came when Merlin could not drink of me, my health truly would suffer, for the blood he takes keeps my body in balance.”

  One of Gwen’s ladies burst out, “But . . . doesn’t that hurt?”

  The witch’s lips curled into a smile more earthy than ethereal. “Only enough to be interesting.” She and Merlin exchanged a wicked glance.

  “How old are you?” Arthur demanded, wearing a tight expression of profound discomfort.

  Merlin glanced at him, plainly puzzled. A moment later understanding filled his eyes. “Older than we look. Much older.”

  Arthur studied him, frowning. “This potion will not turn us into children?”

  “You will appear younger, but not that much younger. The potion will adjust your age until you are at your physical prime.” Merlin ran a hand through his hair, his expression growing harried. “Nimue and I miscalculated when we chose these forms. The first people we saw were a goose girl and a stripling shepherd. We didn’t know how you judge age. If I had it to do over, I’d take the form of an old man with a gray beard halfway to my belt.”

  Take the form? Gwen wondered. What in the name of all the saints are they?

  “But we have veered from the subject at hand—the choice you face.” The cool glint in Merlin’s gaze said he would not entertain questions. “If you drink from the Grail, you will become immortal, able to heal virtually any injury save decapitation. You will be many times stronger than you are now, with the speed to match . . .�
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  “Which would be damned handy on the battlefield,” Arthur murmured.

  “Yes, I rather think it would be. Like you, the eleven men who win their respective contests will have the opportunity to become something more than human. So will the twelve women who will likewise gain immortality, with the ability to work great feats of magic besides.”

  Arthur frowned. “What price will we pay for all this? It’s been my experience that any boon exacts some equal cost.”

  Merlin glanced soberly at Guinevere. “As I said, you will have to drink blood as I do. Small amounts, true, no more than a goblet’s worth, not enough to endanger those you drink from. The Majae, however, will need to give blood as badly as the Magi will need to receive it, for otherwise they’ll risk illness, even death. If your wife fails her test, you will have to drink from a Maja—one of the new witches—or risk killing the queen. And for us, drinking from a woman is intensely sexual.”

  Arthur swallowed, aware that Gwen had frozen beside him, her eyes wide. “That . . . is a very high price, Merlin.”

  “Aye. You see why I said you must consider the choice carefully.”

  His immediate instinct was to refuse out of hand, but he could feel his wife’s gaze on his face.

  God help him, but he’d never found it easy to deny Gwen anything. Could he really refuse her the chance at the child she wanted so desperately?

  Could he really turn away from the chance at a son who might become the king Britain so desperately needed, especially since he’d banished Mordred . . . ?

  FOUR

  Arthur knew there’d be political ramifications to becoming one of these Magi of Merlin’s. In recent years, the church had taken to persecuting Druids with determined hostility. He wasn’t looking forward to discovering the Pope’s reaction to a blood-drinking king.

  Which was why he needed to know all the implications, so he asked the next question that came to mind. “We’ll be able to work magic, as you do?”

  “The women will, but the males’ magic will be limited to shape-shifting—the ability to take the form of wolves—and self-healing.”

  “Why? You don’t have such a limit.”

  Merlin’s expression darkened. “My people have found males with the full spectrum of power sometimes use it to abuse their females. It’s best to ensure women have the advantage in order to protect themselves.”

  Arthur longed to protest that Gwen had nothing to fear from him, but he held his tongue. There was no guarantee the same would be true of everyone else who passed Merlin’s test. Many men did subject their wives, lovers, and children to abuse, though Arthur dealt harshly with anyone he caught at it. If a man with the power Merlin had described turned on his wife, she’d be hard-pressed to survive, even with magical talents of her own.

  Merlin gestured, and the Grail appeared in his hand once more. Mist bubbled from its contents, a glowing blue smoke that painted the wizard’s young face with cerulean highlights and cobalt shadows. “You now know as much as you may about the task before you, the abilities this cup will bring, and the price it may exact. Make your choice, Arthur.”

  “If you will allow me to confer with my wife and my knights . . .”

  Merlin nodded. “Of course.” He and Nimue rose and walked from the room.

  “You must do this, Arthur,” Gwen told him after the door closed behind the pair. “If Mordred or the rebels come at you again, such abilities would save us.”

  “But, Gwen—what if you don’t pass this test of Merlin’s? I don’t want to watch you grow old and die.”

  “And I don’t want to watch some young fool run you through because age has stripped you of your abilities,” Gwen shot back. “You defeated Mordred today through superior strategy and a quick blade hand. But I’ll say one thing for that boy: he learns from his mistakes. When he breaks his oath—and he will—he won’t rely on simply outmuscling you. He’ll strike at you where you’re most vulnerable: your sense of honor, and the father’s love you try so hard to ignore.”

  Arthur snorted. “Then he’s going to be sadly disappointed, because he killed that when he threatened you.”

  “He’s alive now, isn’t he?”

  The king waved that point aside, though it was a damned good one. “Be that as it may, I’m more concerned with whether I should allow you to take Merlin’s test.”

  Gwen’s blond brows lifted. “Allow?”

  “You’re assuming Queen Guinevere will fail her challenge,” Lancelot pointed out. When they both looked at him, the knight lifted his chin. “Forgive me, sire, but you’re underestimating her. She is as strong a woman as you are a man.”

  “He’s right,” Kay agreed. “The queen may look the fragile female, but there’s a core of steel running just beneath all that silk.” A tall man, Arthur’s foster brother had a broad, handsome face, a thick blond beard, and a gleaming mane of hair he refused to cut, though he had to braid it and coil it tightly under his helm when he fought. Combat disadvantage or not, women loved the hair, and Kay loved women. “But there is another concern.”

  “There always is,” the king growled. “What’s yours?”

  “Your enemies will say you have been seduced by the powers of darkness.” When Arthur snorted, the big man spread his hands. “Some will tell any lie that gains them a political advantage.”

  “And the gullible will believe their slander.” The king grimaced, knowing he was right. “But if I don’t drink from Merlin’s Grail, my enemies will be just as quick to take it for themselves, should they get the chance at it. And even if they don’t, Merlin’s right about the Saxons. We don’t have the manpower to keep them out as it is now.”

  “Nay, sire,” Kay agreed. “We can’t patrol every inch of coastline without leaving gaps they can slip through.”

  Arthur turned to Gwen. Whenever he faced a decision with as many cons as pros, he’d learned to listen to her opinion. Seventeen years of marriage had taught him his queen was more often right than wrong. Yet if she couldn’t be by his side, what was the point? As if reading his mind, she spoke now. “Arthur,” Gwen said softly. “You have always been willing to gamble on your own strength and wits, no matter how grim the odds. Be as willing to take a chance on me. I swear I will not fail you.”

  Arthur stilled, gazing into those clear, determined eyes. “You’re right. You’ve never failed me, not in all our years of marriage. All right, I’ll drink from the Grail.”

  “But what of the wagging tongues?” Kay asked.

  The king bared his teeth. “We’ll cut them out as needed.” He turned to Galahad, the youngest of his knights. “Call them back in, if you please.”

  They waited until Nimue and Merlin were seated again. When the wizard’s gaze met his in expectation, Arthur gave the man a decisive nod. “I’ll drink from your cup.”

  Merlin looked pleased. “Ah, good.” As if to forestall any second thoughts, he extended the Grail, his expression expectant.

  Arthur took it. Ignoring the blue mist boiling from its surface, he tossed back its contents in one long swallow, then handed the cup back.

  An instant later, fire raced across his skin and sizzled through his blood with pain so savage, it was all he could do not to howl at the agony. He shot to his feet, unable to remain sitting with such agony slicing through him, only to stagger as his knees buckled.

  “Arthur!” Gwen gasped as Lancelot caught the king.

  “’M fine,” Arthur slurred, lifting his lolling head with an obvious effort. Beads of sweat broke out on his face as his skin took on a gray cast that sent terror shooting through Gwen’s blood like pellets of sleet. “Jus’ tired . . . Need to sleep.” His head fell forward as Lancelot helped him back into his chair.

  Steel slithered from eleven scabbards in a metallic chorus. Merlin lifted a brow at the ring of sword points aimed at him by grim-faced Knights of the Round Table. “Arthur will be fine.” He sounded amused, despite the murderous intent in the warriors’ eyes. “But he’ll be uncons
cious for a day at least while his body completes its transformation. The spell in the potion is complex, and it takes time to do its work.”

  “Then let’s get him into bed,” Gwen told the knights.

  “Shouldn’t someone watch these two?” Kay asked, gesturing at Merlin and Nimue, his gaze hard.

  She flicked a glance back at Merlin and Nimue, neither of whom looked at all intimidated. “Given their magic, what’s the point? Besides, they have the king’s confidence. Unless any of you doubt Arthur’s judgment, we have more important things to focus on—like getting him to our chambers.”

  Kay inclined his head, conceding the point. She rose as Lancelot and Kay helped the barely conscious king to his feet.

  As Gwen led the way from the room, she frowned in worry. What was the Grail doing to Arthur?

  • • •

  By the time they helped the king out of his dusty, bloody armor, sweat streamed from his skin, and his eyes swept back and forth behind his closed lids as his lips moved with muttered, disjointed orders.

  “He’s feverish.” Gwen turned toward Nimue, who had followed them to Gwen and Arthur’s chambers. “Shouldn’t we do something?”

  “This fever won’t hurt him. His body heats because Merlin’s spell is transforming it.”

  “Is there something I can do to help?” Gwen sat on the mattress beside him and covered his nude body with a linen sheet. He didn’t stir.

  “Just give him your throat once he wakes. When he finishes his change, he’s going to need a lot of blood.”

  Judging from the looks on the knights’ faces, they didn’t much like the idea, but they also knew it was far too late to complain.

  Lance turned to Kay. “The rumor mill is no doubt hard at its grinding. I’ll bet you a week’s pay some barking-mad idiot has already decided Arthur has become a wizard puppet.”

  Kay grunted. “We’d better make sure we’re patrolling the fortress and village in enough numbers to discourage would-be killers. If we roust all the soldiers out of the barracks and taverns, we’ll have the manpower for the job.”