“I suggest we use only the Round Table knights to guard this room,” Lance said. “I trust us, but I’m not so sure about random barracks rats who might have a yen to assassinate King Arthur.”
“Good point.” Kay looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll head down to the village, hit the pubs myself. Start a conversation or two with my boys before I roust them out to work.” As seneschal of Camelot, he oversaw the fortress guards.
Lancelot’s lips took on a cynical quirk. “While you’re at it, make sure you squash any nasty rumors before they can take root.”
“I’ll do that.” The big man left, silent as a ghost.
Lancelot turned to Gwen and bowed. “With your permission, we will go work out our watch schedule.”
Gwen gestured. “Tend to it, then, Sir Knight.”
He left, the rest of the Round Table filing out after him, probably off to work out the rest of the watch schedule. Nimue waited until the rumble of masculine voices had retreated down the hall. “I do have a more immediate topic we must discuss.”
“Then let’s not do it standing.” Guinevere led the way to the pair of chairs before the cold hearth. As Nimue took the one opposite her, Gwen looked up to see Morgana through the chamber’s open door, walking along the balustrade, her shoulders hunched wearily.
Deciding she could use some reinforcements for this conversation, Gwen called, “Morgana? Come in here, please. And close the door behind you.” Her friend nodded and stepped inside. “Come sit down by me, darling. You look like you could use a goblet of wine.”
“After what my son did?” Morgana grimaced. “It’s going to take at least an entire bottle. Maybe two.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure you get it.” Nimue gestured, conjuring a third chair as the shutters swung closed, leaving the three women in blessed dimness.
Morgana started as candles placed around the room burst into flame. After a moment, she sat down. Normally Gwen, too, would have flinched at this flamboyant display of magic, but after the kind of day she’d had, igniting a few candle flames didn’t even rate a second glance. Not in the face of her singing relief.
Against all odds, she still had her husband. She’d find a way to deal with the rest of it. For the first time all day, her muscles began to relax.
“First you need to be aware that the sun disrupts magic, so Arthur will have to avoid direct sunlight,” Nimue began. “Now that he’s become a being of magic, he’ll be more prone toward severe burns and sunstroke. What’s more, he’ll be unable to remain awake while the sun is up.”
Gwen frowned, wondering why they were only hearing about this now. “That’s a pretty serious weakness.”
“True, but you—or in any case, the twelve Majae—won’t have the same vulnerability. They’ll be able to protect the men against daylight threats.”
“But if there are only twelve of these Majae, that’s not much of a force, even with the twelve Magi,” Morgana pointed out. “How are we to protect ourselves with so few?”
“Eventually, there’ll be more of you. Your children will inherit the potential to gain these powers as well. And since the Magekind will be immortal, your numbers will increase rapidly.”
Gwen wanted to quiz the witch about just how the children would gain those powers, but her attention fell on her husband’s sweating face. There would be plenty of time for questions later. Right now, her immediate concern was Arthur. “You said earlier you had something to tell me about the king.”
Nimue gestured, conjuring a bottle and a trio of goblets. She filled the cups and handed two of them to Gwen and Morgana. “When he wakes, he will want blood—and sex. And he may be more forceful about getting them than he has been. Or will be afterward.”
Was the woman trying to frighten her? “Come now, Nimue. I can’t believe Arthur would ever hurt me, no matter how he’s changed.”
“He won’t hurt you.” She grinned, dark and knowing. “But he will be fairly demanding.”
Gwen snorted. “He’s demanding now.”
“Not compared to this. When he first wakes, he won’t recognize you—won’t even be capable of real thought until you let him drink from you. And he’ll be very, very aroused. Don’t try to resist him, no matter how aggressive he is.”
Gwen stared at Nimue, her mouth going dry as her imagination fired. Arthur, holding her down, taking her, drinking from her . . . She hoped the witch couldn’t sense her growing arousal. “Just how much blood will he need?”
“Not enough to kill you, though I don’t doubt it would be a serious problem if we weren’t here. Have them send for me once he feeds. I’ll heal you.”
“How will he obtain this blood?”
“His teeth will be sharper. He will bite your throat and drink.”
Morgana stared at the witch, her eyes wide. “Oh, my.”
Nimue laughed. “Don’t look so terrified, child. It’s actually quite erotic.”
The healer blinked. “You think being bitten is erotic?”
“Well, yes. Of course, it helps that I have a Truebond with Merlin.”
“A what?” Gwen frowned. Sometimes talking to Merlin and Nimue could be incredibly frustrating. She found herself parroting half the things they said in sheer confusion.
“A Truebond. It’s a kind of magical mental link. It allows me to feel what Merlin feels, share his thoughts, his needs. When we make love . . .” She smiled, the expression deeply sensual.
To actually feel how Arthur experienced passion—to feel what it would be like to have a cock . . . Jesu, I’m growing wet. “It sounds . . . intriguing.”
“Oh, it is. But it’s not for everyone, and it does have a darker side. For example, if one of us dies, the shock of the severed bond would kill the other. But it grants so many advantages, it’s worth the risk.”
“But how do you accomplish such a thing?” Morgana asked.
“Magic, of course. But the male must allow it. You can’t force a Truebond on someone else; they must love and trust you enough to allow it. Otherwise they’ll quickly learn to block you out. The consequences of forcing another person’s mind can be ugly. Still, it’s something you may want to remember, should you pass your own test.”
“Frankly, I doubt Arthur would even permit it.” Gwen sat back with a huff. “He’s so protective, there are times I can’t even get him to talk about whatever’s bothering him. He certainly wouldn’t allow me to read his mind.”
“He may surprise you.” Nimue studied Arthur as he twisted restlessly, muttering something about troop movements. “In the meantime, you may safely leave him sleeping, if with a contingent of guards. I would suggest seeing to whatever preparations you want to make for your own test.”
“Who would I be fighting?”
“Why, me, of course.”
Lovely. Gwen eyed her warily. “As much as it pains me to admit it, I know nothing of swords and combat.”
“You’ll learn,” Nimue said a trifle grimly. “But in any case, you’ll have no need of such knowledge for my challenge, for this won’t be a physical contest. You need only will and intelligence.”
“Those I have.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“So when shall we do this?”
“Later.” She gestured at Arthur as he lay sleeping. “There isn’t time to test you and, should you succeed, accomplish your transformation before your husband wakes.”
• • •
Gwen slept poorly that night beside her comatose husband, dreams spinning through her brain in a frantic tumble of the day’s events.
Mordred threatening her, the face of the boy she’d raised and loved now unrecognizable in its malicious hatred.
Arthur’s pain. That icy moment when he’d raised his sword over his son’s head.
Morgana, gripping Gwen’s hand so hard, she’d thought the bones would break.
The dream warped, and it was Arthur helpless on the ground, Mordred standing over him, Mordred bringing his sword down in a bright, vi
cious arc . . .
Gwen screamed, jerking awake to find her husband lying next to her, still deep in the Grail sleep. She sat up and touched his chest, needing to feel his heart beating, make sure Merlin hadn’t turned him into a monster . . .
Especially after the way Lancelot and the other knights had argued against her sleeping with Arthur, fearing his mental state when he woke. Gwen had overruled them, flatly refusing to believe her husband would ever hurt her, Grail or no Grail. Yet now, with her heart pounding in her ears, she found herself eyeing him anxiously.
But no, it was still Arthur, his face dear and familiar in a shaft of moonlight.
Wait. Gwen frowned. He did look a little different. She rose and found flint and steel, then fumbled with them until she got the hanging oil lamp lit. The wick hissed and spat as she turned to study her husband in the golden light it cast.
The gray was gone from his hair. His face looked younger, too; some of the familiar lines carved by more than two decades as king had vanished. Gwen glanced away, then looked back again.
But no, she wasn’t imagining things. He did look younger, less than thirty. A warrior at the height of his strength.
Sweet Mother, he’s beautiful. Her gaze traced the strong, narrow line of his nose, the width of his jaw, and the sensual curve of his wide mouth framed by his short, dark beard.
It reminded her of the first time she’d seen him. Barely nineteen, he’d already been king for four years, having only been fifteen at the time of his father’s murder.
On hearing the story of Arthur’s vengeance for Uther’s death, Gwen’s father had snorted. “After which the boy no doubt went right on with his dinner,” Leodegraunce said. “Uther was a thoroughgoing bastard. Which is doubtless how the child learned to kill assassins over the fish course. The only surprise is that Uther didn’t gut his own murderer himself.”
At nineteen, Arthur hadn’t looked like a killer, at least to Gwen’s infatuated sixteen-year-old eyes. He’d been a head taller than she was even then, and brawnier than any other boy she knew, as one might expect of a man who’d spent the past four years fighting to survive. Somehow he’d managed not only to keep his father’s kingdom, but also to expand it through conquest. Even as young as he’d been, bards were already singing of his exploits.
She’d taken one look into those velvety dark eyes and fallen deep into girlish love. But then, Arthur had been driving young girls into swoons for years.
The surprise was he’d fallen just as hard for her. Leodegraunce, cunning old fox that he’d been, had recognized the blooming attraction and wasted no time encouraging it. By the time Arthur left the family’s holdings a week later, Gwen rode at his side, a new bride. A new queen.
He’d never appeared to regret his hasty choice, whether born of infatuation or true love. Yet however it had begun, the emotion between them had only deepened, growing richer and more powerful over the years, through battles, bitter arguments, and Mordred’s stormy childhood. Even three heartbreaking miscarriages had only served to strengthen it.
It would survive Merlin and his Grail, too.
• • •
Realizing she’d lose her mind if she did nothing but watch Arthur sleep, Gwen dressed for the day, left his knights standing watch, and went about her duties.
Today that included watching Merlin test the male candidates he’d chosen, including Tristan, Gawain, and Galahad. To Gwen’s pleasure, the three Round Table knights won, even after Merlin had each of them fight four and five opponents at once. But then, Arthur had chosen his elite with care, taking into account not only combat skills but also bravery, wit, and sense of honor. She suspected the remaining Table knights would pass Merlin’s test as handily as the first three.
During the midday meal, the queen noticed something that worried her. Several of the lords who’d been present at Arthur’s duel were missing. Gwen sent servants to check their lodgings in the surrounding town, only to learn all four had packed up their households and decamped the night before. Yet she knew Arthur had not given them permission to leave Camelot.
When she conferred with Lord Kay, the seneschal frowned deeply. “I didn’t even notice they were gone,” he admitted. “Too preoccupied with this bloody contest of Merlin’s. Do you want me to send couriers after them, order them to turn around?”
Gwen didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Arthur will want to deal with them when he wakes.”
“Which should be sometime tonight, assuming Merlin’s correct.”
She glanced at the lowering sun. “I have much to see to before then. I’d best get to it.”
Kay studied her with obvious concern. “If you need me . . .”
“I will definitely send for you.”
“Good luck.”
She gave him a carefully confident smile. “I won’t need it.” Or at least, I certainly hope not.
Kay didn’t look as if he was fooled.
FIVE
Gwen hurried along the balustrade in the light of her oil lamp to find Lancelot and Bors standing guard outside her and Arthur’s chambers. Both men looked tense and grim-faced.
“He’s awake,” Lance told her.
“And growling,” Bors added. “Literally. He sounds rather like a bear.”
“We left the room when it became apparent our presence was agitating him.”
Bors grimaced. “Agitate, hell. He was stalking us.”
Gwen hesitated, considering the implications. “Then I’d better go in alone. We don’t want him stirred up any more than he already is.”
The two knights exchanged a concerned glance. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lance told her. “Bors and I will . . .”
“I appreciate your concern, but Arthur won’t hurt me.”
“Arthur wouldn’t,” Bors agreed. “But I’m not convinced that what’s in there is Arthur.”
Gwen frowned. “Nimue would have warned me if there was a possibility he’d be a real danger to me.”
“Perhaps,” Lancelot said darkly. “Unless they intended to turn the High King into a beast and trick us into feeding him the High Queen.”
“Lord Lancelot, I think you’ve been standing guard too long with nothing to distract your bard’s imagination,” Gwen told him tartly. “Didn’t your son just drink from the Grail?”
“Yes, my queen, but we’re short-handed, what with three of the Table knights in this Grail sleep. I felt my place was guarding you and the king. Particularly since I can do Galahad no good anyway.”
“Galahad will be fine. And so will I. Stand aside, my lords.”
“At least consult Lord Kay . . .”
A growl sounded from the other side of the door, low and savage and distinctly feral.
Bors was right. He did sound like a bear.
The two men looked at her with identical expressions of deep doubt. Gwen’s heart bounded into her throat, but she gave the pair her best regal stare. “My king needs me. Stand aside, gentlemen.”
“My queen, the king wouldn’t want you to . . .” Lance began.
“Stand. Aside,” Gwen gritted.
Bors wavered in the face of her obvious anger, but Lance, stubborn as always, refused to back down. “What if he kills you?”
“Do you need a week in gaol to remind you to obey your queen’s orders?”
For a moment she thought she was going to have to call the rest of the Round Table to physically remove them. That could easily have backfired, especially since the champion was right: Arthur wouldn’t have wanted her to take the risk.
She watched them weigh their conflicting duties—obedience to the queen against protecting her, even from the king. Patience flying, Gwen lifted her voice in a roar she’d learned from Arthur. “Move!”
They stepped apart out of sheer reflex. Gwen sailed between them, jerked open the door, then slammed it behind her before they had time to recover.
• • •
Concealed behind a cloak of magic, Nimue turned to Merlin. “I told you she would
make them obey.”
Merlin grunted. “Let us see if her courage holds against Arthur.”
Nimue only smiled. “She’ll handle him. That one is steel to the marrow.”
• • •
Despite the lamp she held, the room was dark as a crypt after the torchlit balustrade. Gwen fumbled to attach the lamp to the chain that hung from the ceiling.
When she turned around, Mordred loomed over her like a wall of muscle. Gwen froze in stark terror, unable to breathe, much less scream for help.
Until she realized his eyes were dark, not Mordred’s icy green.
Arthur, she realized, and felt her heart lurch back into rhythm. It’s Arthur! He didn’t look quite as young as his son, though he could easily have been an older brother. “Christ’s wounds, husband, you frightened me witless!”
He stepped against her, forcing her to retreat until her back hit the wall. Leaning down, he sucked in a deep huffing breath, as if scenting her.
“You’re scaring me.” Gwen struggled to regain control of her rising voice. “Give me a little room, please.”
He didn’t react, still breathing deeply bare inches from her throat. She planted both palms against his chest and shoved. “Step back, Arthur!”
He caught her wrists and lifted them over her head. Pinning her hands in one of his against the cool plaster, he leaned against her.
Gwen once had a horse she was grooming pin her by shifting his weight, trapping her between his shoulder and the stable wall. The animal hadn’t applied any real pressure, but she’d found she couldn’t move him no matter how she pushed and struggled. Point made, the gelding finally stepped aside and let her go.
Arthur’s hold felt exactly like that. Not tight enough to hurt, but completely inescapable. He watched her, his expression patient, while she strained against his warm, immoveable strength. “Arthur, dammit, let me . . .”
“My queen?” Lancelot called through the door. “Do you need help?”
Arthur tensed and lifted his head, glaring toward the door. His lips peeled off his teeth.
Two of them were fangs.
“My queen? Are you all right?”
Wicked Games Page 7