“There’s no way you could have won!” And not winning meant losing in a final, permanent way.
Gawain gave another slight shrug and moved toward the couch and his sleeping brother. “Circumstances are never perfect. We couldn’t wait any longer to get the books.”
“But if Mordred had killed you, who would look for Arthur?” The idea of what he’d meant to do made Tamsin’s scalp prickle with alarm.
Gawain turned back to her, his expression bleak. “My brother is here, and I hoped you would help him as you’ve helped me. I am a knight of the Round Table. We don’t fight evil from an armchair.”
Tamsin let out a long breath, exasperated beyond measure. “But you’ll flinch at a healing potion made by a witch?”
He gave a slow shrug. “Fighting is easier for me. It’s clean and simple.”
“Whatever.” Tamsin made a show of checking Angmar’s wounds, but her pulse pounded with an aftermath of emotions. The day had been too full of unexpected blows, leaving her hurt and furious and oddly lonely.
But maybe not alone. Gawain’s presence in the tiny apartment prickled along her skin. He was doing exactly what Richard had done—seeing the witch and forgetting the woman. Seeing, and flinching away in fear and disgust no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Tears stung Tamsin’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She mixed the second potion for Beaumains and watched while Gawain held his brother’s head so that he could drink. Gawain showed such tenderness, it made her throat ache—in part because it was beautiful, and in part because she was beginning to understand that open love was something he would never show her.
In search of relief, Tamsin retreated to the balcony. The cold air slipped over her like an icy glove, but it barely penetrated her mood. She gripped the iron rail, fingers worrying the rusty patches eating through the cheap white paint. A sudden pain made her snatch her hand away as a sliver of metal drew blood. She sucked at the wound, the fresh hurt only adding more fuel to her foul temper.
Tamsin felt a wall of warmth behind her. She hadn’t heard Gawain’s approach but knew he was there as surely as if he’d touched her. She turned, her finger still in her mouth. Gawain’s face was hidden by shadow. Still, she felt the weight of his gaze.
“You are hurt.” He reached for her, but she stepped back, clenching her injured hand into a fist at her side.
“The paint hid the sharp place.” Tamsin’s breath escaped in sharp puffs of mist. “Is that how you see me, as an everyday face painted over creeping corrosion that eventually wounds whoever is foolish enough to touch it?”
His frown was perplexed. “I have offended you.”
“Have I done anything but help you?” she said, her voice dropping to a low rasp. “I’ve risked my life. I’ve healed your wounded. I’ve faced your enemy for you, and you still treat me like something foul.” And she’d slept with him, but she would choke before she brought that into the argument. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.
“Because you are a witch?” The words were soft, almost apologetic. But not quite.
Tamsin’s temper rose another notch. “Yes. You have a problem with magic, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Gawain made a noise that was almost a laugh and came to stand beside her at the balcony rail. He leaned his arms on it, shaking his head. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“Then I think you owe me an explanation.”
He remained silent for a long moment. “Once upon a time, before she was ever Queen of the Faeries, my aunt, Morgan LaFaye, set a challenge for the Round Table. It was Christmas, and Arthur loved to have games and challenges at his revels. He boasted that, far and wide, his knights were the most chivalrous, honorable and courteous warriors there were. Within the hour, a strange knight showed up to test us. He was, of course, sent by my aunt.”
“Why are you telling me a story?”
“To answer your question.” He kept looking out at the city, not even turning his head. “The strange knight promised to allow one of us to chop his head off if we would allow him to return the favor in a year’s time.”
“And what was your first clue that this was going to end badly?” Tamsin asked, leaning her back against the rail so that she could study Gawain’s face, but he kept it turned away. “And why is this in any way relevant to me?”
“The knight was green, head to toe.” Gawain kept talking, his voice soft. “That should have tipped us off that there was magic involved, for green is the color of enchantment. But we were drunk at the time and more than usually stupid. I volunteered.”
“To cut his head off?”
“He asked for it.”
“But how...” She couldn’t see what this had to do with her being a witch.
“I did the deed as requested, and then he picked up his head and rode away. By the time I sobered up, I was terrified, for I was honor-bound to face him the following Christmas. Face him and die.”
Tamsin caught her breath. “Oh.”
“I went. Honor demanded it. My road led to the Forest Sauvage.”
“That’s where the Green Knight lived?”
“Yes. Sir Bertilak—for that was his name—and his lady were most hospitable once I arrived.”
“Was Lady Bertilak green, too?”
“No, but she always wore green. She was smart and beautiful and gracious. In fact, she was such a good hostess she offered to climb into my bed.”
“She what?” Despite herself, Tamsin was drawn into the tale.
Gawain finally turned to her, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It was all part of Morgan’s test, to see if Arthur’s knights were truly good, or if they would abuse the hospitality of their host. If I’d accepted the good lady’s offer, I would have offended her lord and lost my head, for sure. Because I respected my host’s honor and did not take his wife, he let me go.”
“And this Lady Bertilak still did her best to seduce you, even knowing it might kill you?”
“That was the test. She was most persuasive in those last days before the trial. After all, why not take what I wanted when I was about to perish anyhow?”
Tamsin began to see where this was going. “She used despair as a weapon.”
“And she had magic and considerable beauty on her side. I am ashamed to say that I came close to the edge.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” Gawain straightened, folding his arms. “That’s why I always wear green. It reminds me to remain humble, because even the best knight can stray from his duty. Especially when it comes to lovely witches.”
Tamsin bristled. “That seems a little harsh. You came through it in one piece.”
“I should have known better. I am susceptible where magic is involved.”
“I’d say there was ill will involved.”
Gawain’s face was stony. “Perhaps, but magic always makes things worse. It can turn a game into a trap where the unwary might lose his head.”
She drew herself up, temper rising again. “And it can save a life just as quickly. I won’t entertain the belief magic is bad in and of itself. Not for one second.”
“I believe you,” he said softly, contradicting all her expectations. “But one deed leads to another. No one begins believing they will be evil, but magic allows them to take an easy path. So a gray deed leads to a black one, and soon the one wielding the magic has lost all sense of right and wrong.”
Tamsin was about to deny it, but the words died on her tongue. “I can see why you say that. LaFaye is your aunt, but she didn’t warn you against taking the Green Knight’s challenge.”
That made him laugh, and it was bitter. “Warn me? That would require a capacity for feelings she does not possess.”
“But your mother was her sister. That should have made her spare you.”<
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His expression didn’t change, though the lines beside his mouth deepened. “LaFaye and my mother did not waste time on sentimentality. I watched my mother skin a man alive so that she could dupe his wife by wearing his face.”
“What?” Tamsin’s hand went to her stomach, afraid it would revolt. “Magic that dark has always been forbidden. Did anyone do anything about it?”
“My brother Agravaine. He killed her.”
Sick with dread, Tamsin turned his words over in her mind, but her thoughts shied away from their meaning. The pictures they painted were too awful. “I don’t know what to say. That’s far beyond my experience.”
“I would not wish it any other way.”
Her hands had gone cold, as if her blood had ceased to flow. She’d come out on the balcony because she was angry with Gawain, but now she wanted to comfort him. “You can’t think all witches are like LaFaye or your mother. We just aren’t. Most of us are just ordinary people.”
Tamsin raised her fingers to touch his face. He stiffened but didn’t draw back, allowing her to trace the angles of his jaw. He was warm, his cheek rough with dark stubble. It struck her again how Gawain seemed more alive than any ordinary man. He was so full of passion and regret, it stopped her breath, as if he carried an electrical charge. Too much contact with him might stop her heart.
His hand came up to caress hers. At first, his thumb traced her palm with gentle pressure, his fingers lacing through her own. He pressed her hand to his cheek, turning into her touch so he could leave a kiss on her fingertips. Then he pulled her hand away.
“I believe you mean well.” He took a step back, leaving cold air between them. “I am sorry I wounded your feelings.”
“Okay.”
He hesitated, seeming momentarily uncertain. “Mordred held every advantage tonight, and it was too much like the past. I could not save people I love from harm.”
She wasn’t sure what past he referred to. His childhood? Or the strange game he’d played with the Green Knight? Or some other terrible scene he had lived through? “We got out together. We make a good team.”
He gave her a brief, courtly bow that put even greater distance between them. “I thank you for that. I am in your debt, and will uphold our bargain.”
With that, Gawain retreated inside, leaving Tamsin more confused than before.
Chapter 16
Tamsin got little sleep that night. She propped herself in a chair, refusing to do more than doze until it was time to check on her patients. But if her nursing duties kept her from true rest, so did her confusion over Gawain.
He’d held her when she’d become lost in Mordred’s spell. They’d spent the night in each other’s arms after finding Beaumains. She’d begun to believe Gawain would have a special place in her future—certainly as a lover, and possibly something deeper. How could she have misread the situation so badly?
Because she’d wanted to? Tamsin had to be honest—he’d made no promises. She’d taken him to her bed with her eyes wide open. The fact that he had brought up their bargain put everything back to a simple handshake deal with no strings attached.
A tight knot of bitter unhappiness cramped Tamsin’s core. It wasn’t fair. Being with him was like whisky after a lifetime of weak tea. But she was just a witch with a history degree, not a miracle worker. Whatever Gawain had experienced was more than she could cure with a kiss.
When Tamsin shook herself awake at dawn, her bones ached with weariness. Gawain was sitting by the wall, his sword balanced across his bent knees. He looked up, the early light showing his pallor. He said nothing as she bent over Beaumains, pressing the younger knight’s wrist to check his pulse.
“The fever is down,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Pulse is slow and steady. He should be fine.”
Gawain exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”
“Magic has its uses.” Tamsin resisted the urge to give in to fatigue and frustration and say more. Instead, she crossed to the bed and touched Angmar’s forehead. A sweep of her healer’s magic said he was stable, but there was a long, long way to go. Mordred had done a lot of damage to the fae.
Angmar’s eyes fluttered open. One was swollen and badly bloodshot, but the other was the clear, cool green of forest glades. The fae regarded her with open curiosity. “You saved me, little witch.” His voice was hoarse but stronger than she’d expected.
“Hush,” she replied, checking his bandages. Though the bleeding had stopped, she wanted to change the dressing on the worst of his injuries. “You need to rest.”
But Angmar caught her hand, stopping her before she set to work. “Where is Sir Gawain? I have a tale he needs to hear.”
“I am here.” Gawain held out a glass of water to Tamsin. “I will hold him if you help him drink.”
Gawain held Angmar’s head as Tamsin raised the glass to his lips. The fae drank greedily and then lay back for a long moment, wearied from even that much exertion. But finally he opened his eyes again, lifting his gaze to Gawain. “I know where your king lies.”
Tamsin froze where she was. The only sound was the ticking of her old-fashioned alarm clock. Gawain’s jaw worked until he forced out a single word. “Where?”
Angmar seemed to drift for a moment before going on. “Mordred’s dungeon is full of fae rebels. I recognized many faces, or what was left of them. Mordred hates those he cannot control. He is afraid even of what they might whisper.”
Gawain shifted impatiently. “They whisper of the king?”
“Some of the prisoners have been there since LaFaye first began plotting to seize the throne of Faery. Pain and privation eventually take their toll. Their silence breaks.” Angmar grimaced. “They talk among themselves, a word here, a snippet there. I put together enough of a story from these scraps to understand what has happened.”
“What did you hear?” Gawain demanded, his voice urgent.
“There was a contingency plan, a safety measure to hide Arthur’s tomb—and Excalibur—if need be. A decade ago, that plan was put into action. LaFaye was too close to finding the sword.”
“Who were those conspirators?” Gawain asked.
“The old Queen of the Faeries, Gloriana, kept the circle small. It survives even though Gloriana lost her throne to LaFaye’s treachery.”
Angmar stopped to drink more water, resting again before he went on. “There was one knight of Camelot who did not go into the stone sleep, but watched over the tomb. Gloriana placed him under the protection of her magic, making him all but immortal.”
Tamsin listened, but her first concern was tending to the fae’s wounds. She began unwinding the bandage around Angmar’s injured forearm. The wound wasn’t infected, but she would apply more healing ointment to be certain.
“This knight was a witch but loyal to a fault, for he had raised King Arthur as his own son,” Angmar added, his face turning ashen with pain as she worked.
“Do you mean Sir Hector?” Gawain asked.
Tamsin’s fingers froze in their work. Witchcraft. Medieval magic. A knight named Hector and a plot that had gone into action ten years ago. Shock jolted through Tamsin and she dropped the lid of the jar she was holding. It fell with a clatter, drawing everyone’s attention. “A-are you talking about my father? Hector Greene?”
The moment Tamsin said it, she knew it was crazy. “Never mind. My father was no knight.”
Angmar narrowed his eyes. “You are Hector’s daughter? He was the very best of the Round Table.”
Tamsin ducked her head, embarrassed. “I am Tamsin Greene. My father is dead.”
“Sir Hector did not die,” the fae said gently. “He lived in the mortal realms until it was time to resume his mission to the king.”
Tamsin felt a sudden, hard rush of anger. “He left our family without telling us he was alive?” The
sudden fury faded to the hurt of an abandoned child. She folded her hands to hide their trembling. But he is alive. There is a chance I will see him again. Joy warred with pain, leaving her utterly confused.
“It was a desperate move, if he hid his tracks so completely.” Gawain had gone almost as pale as Angmar. The concern in his eyes said he understood every one of Tamsin’s thoughts. “Do we know where Hector went?”
“The Forest Sauvage,” Angmar replied, his voice low with tension. He turned to Tamsin. “It is a place all but forgotten, a wood beyond the mortal world that was made to beguile and confuse. It looks like our land, with the same towns and castles, but it is only a mirror image filled with hidden dangers.”
“How did my father get there?” Needing something to keep her hands busy, Tamsin wrapped a fresh bandage over Angmar’s wound. The familiar task steadied her. Better yet, it let her hide the depth of her distress.
“A portal, much like the one you used to escape the dungeon. The king’s effigy is hidden in the forest.”
“How is this even possible?” she whispered. Her fingers automatically fastened the bandage, but she had no more strength. She sank to the end of the bed, overwhelmed. “How can my father be a knight of Camelot? He was a witch, and he certainly wasn’t—I mean—I would have noticed, right? He taught me to love history, but I had no idea he’d lived it.”
The thought of her father—so completely loving—having lived all those years brought an ache to her throat. Who had he left behind along the way? Had he been happy in this far-flung future? Had he longed to return to Camelot the whole time?
“Gloriana was fae, but she had the good of all the races in her heart. She wanted to ensure the success of Arthur’s plan to safeguard future peace.” Angmar smiled at Tamsin, though his injuries made it crooked. “For that, she required a knight with impeccable character—and one with magical talents of his own.”
Tamsin heard the words but barely understood their meaning. Angmar’s story changed too much of her world at once. She clung to the one thing she knew. “I have to find my father.”
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