The rocky, sloping ground was no challenge, and he moved noiselessly into position. Climbing the tree was harder. For one thing, it was decorated with tiny, glittering bulbs that illuminated the yard below, and it would be far too easy to draw attention to himself by joggling the lights. For another, he had a sword. The best he could do was sling the scabbard over his back and hope he didn’t hang himself on a branch.
He was halfway up when fae patrols passed beneath him. Neither of the guards spoke, though Gawain felt the brush of a probing spell, as subtle as a bird’s wing across his skin. He froze, suspended between one tree limb and the next, waiting for the tendrils of psychic energy to pass by. Sudden movement would trigger the roving magic and bring the patrols running. He had felt no such power the night they had landed in the dungeon. If Mordred was taking extra precautions, they’d rattled him. Gawain couldn’t help a satisfied smile.
He waited until the coast was clear before making his way to the roof. Remembering the plans he’d seen, he knew the library was on the top floor with a study on one side and a bathroom on the other. The bathroom had a skylight, and someone had left it cranked slightly open. That was all Gawain needed to force his way inside. Once there, the library was only steps away.
The room was just as Tamsin had described, with stained glass and bookshelves to the ceiling. There had to be thousands of volumes, many of them old and all of them radiating the tang of magic. Gawain spun around, wondering where to begin looking. The sheer quantity of pages was overwhelming. In his day, a single shelf of books had been the most even a rich man owned.
Magic fluttered the air behind him, and he wheeled around, sword singing from its scabbard. Then he froze. It was Tamsin, dressed in dark clothing and with her backpack over her shoulder. At first glance, she looked like a burglar.
“You shouldn’t be here!” he growled, but he did it softly. There were footsteps in the hall, and sooner or later someone was going to find the broken skylight. “How did you get in?”
“Angmar gave me instructions to make a simple portal,” she replied.
Gawain’s gaze landed on a shimmer right behind Tamsin, bending the light like ripples in water. It made a faint hum that set his teeth on edge.
“You need an exit plan and you tried to go without me,” she said, her tone accusing. “Not even spectacular sex makes up for that kind of idiocy.”
Gawain knew without asking that Beaumains, in the fine tradition of little brothers, had sold him out. “Go home,” he said. “I’ll follow.”
But Tamsin gave him a very female glare. “Don’t brush me off. I don’t deserve it.”
He knew she was powerful, but the urge to keep her from harm’s way blunted every other argument. “This is too dangerous.”
Tamsin’s cheeks flared a delicate pink. “Do you even know what books you’re looking for?”
“If they are as powerful as you say, I should be able to detect them.”
Tamsin gave him a sharp look full of questions he didn’t want to answer, then began scanning the shelves. “That depends on what else is here. This place reeks of old, powerful grimoires.”
It was clear he wasn’t getting rid of her. Choosing the next best option, Gawain let her search while he drifted closer to the door on silent feet, sword ready. Angmar might have been well enough to give a portal-building lesson, but he obviously wasn’t thinking straight. Mordred would notice a flare of magic inside his own lair. The longer the portal existed, the worse their exposure.
“Not there,” Tamsin muttered, moving to the next bookcase. “In my vision, they were somewhere over this way.”
He glanced over to see her reading the spines of archival slipcases that held the most ancient works. Her fingers walked across the covers, ensuring she didn’t miss a single book. Gawain shifted his weight, frothing with impatience. The footfalls beyond the door had become filled with purpose. Gawain took a better grip on his sword and braced himself. “Hurry up.”
He didn’t need a spell book to see this could go bad in a heartbeat.
Chapter 18
The moment Tamsin’s fingers brushed the fabric shoved to the back of the shelf, she knew she’d found what she sought. The worn cotton bag was her father’s, a loremaster’s sack spelled to keep out water, mold or anything else that could damage the contents. Here was clear evidence she was following her father’s footsteps.
Heart leaping, Tamsin pulled the drawstring open to look inside. The leather-bound books she hunted were all there—each one ancient, neatly stitched and written by hand, only magic preserving them from crumbling to pieces. There were five. The smallest was barely the size of her palm and the largest little bigger than a paperback.
Tamsin set the bag on a long, polished library table and drew out the smallest book, breathing in the scent of old paper. It soothed her nerves, reminding her of winter afternoons curled up before the fireplace, her father reading to her from volumes just like these. Quickly, she riffled through the pages, savoring the feel of them.
“I found them,” she said, tucking the books back inside their protective sack. “Let’s go.”
Three strides, and they would be back to the portal. Another second would take them safely back home.
Except the footsteps in the corridor outside had become a thunder, and the door burst open. A pale, slender man Tamsin had only seen in her vision strode through, followed by a wave of running guards. The leader—that had to be Mordred—held up a hand to stop his men.
“Cousin,” said Mordred to Gawain. “How lovely of you to drop by.”
Gawain stiffened, but then took a single step backward and brought up his sword. The movement was liquid, a dance step promising violence. At a signal from Mordred, he was surrounded by the fae. Then the world dissolved into a clash of steel.
Tamsin had never seen real fighting—not like this. She froze, clutching the books, for the space of a heartbeat. One beat too long.
She felt Nimueh’s presence before she saw her, as cold as a sudden kiss of steel at her back. “What have you there?” the fae asked.
Tamsin wheeled around, meeting the cold appraisal in the fae’s eyes. There was no point in lying. “I’m taking back what belongs to the witches.”
Nimueh’s eyes fell on the bag in Tamsin’s hands. With one swift grab, she wrenched them away and opened the drawstring. She cocked one eyebrow as she peered inside. “I know these works. Merlin’s immortal musings, blast him to the darkest abyss. I had no idea they were here.”
Tamsin’s fists clenched. “They belong to my people. Merlin was one of us, not a fae.”
Nimueh’s face went pale, a sign of emotion she wasn’t supposed to have. “He was the destroyer of my people. Think carefully about calling yourself his kin.”
They were interrupted by the scream of one of the fae as steel met flesh. Nimueh looked toward the sound. Tamsin snatched for the bag, but the fae held it tight.
“I swear I will try to find a cure for what he did to you,” Tamsin whispered.
The fae’s lips drew back in a sneer. “Do you think me naive, little witch? Why would you help us?”
Tamsin took a gamble. “What has Mordred done for you lately?”
“Nothing. What have you done?”
“We saved Angmar. He says he was your friend.”
Nimueh’s lips thinned. “Mordred destroyed his prisoners last night.”
“Because we took Angmar?”
“He conducted his final inquisition about Arthur’s tomb. But yes, you are correct. His cruelty bears witness to the fact that he does not share well.” She gave Tamsin a cool look. “Angmar was my friend, when I could still have such a thing.”
Tamsin caught her breath, wondering if she had scored a point or if it was too late to matter. The tide of battle was shifting against them. Gawain leaped t
o the top of the library table, slashing furiously. He was heavily outnumbered despite the fact two of the guards lay bleeding.
Mordred had yet to draw a weapon. Instead, he almost strolled toward Tamsin. She backed away, but Nimueh grabbed Tamsin’s arm with bone-crushing force. “Running only excites him,” the fae said in a dead voice.
Mordred’s ice-gray eyes were set in a face so pale it reminded her of his giant worm. Lank black hair straggled across his wide forehead. “You, Mistress Greene, have caused no end of trouble.”
Nimueh pushed Tamsin to the ground. “Kneel before my Lord Mordred.”
Tamsin thought she heard apprehension in the fae’s voice. It was no mystery why. As Mordred’s fingers brushed Tamsin’s face, she felt the malevolent power in his touch. It was as cold as his eyes. Still, Tamsin didn’t kneel for anyone and moved to stand. Nimueh jerked her back into place.
“Proud, aren’t you?” Mordred said, amused. He took her hand, drawing her to her feet with courtly grace. “No wonder my cousin wants you for his own. Oh yes, I can see it when he looks your way, like a hound after the last slice of bacon. I wonder how good you really taste.”
He made a gesture in front of her face. Pain such as Tamsin had never known wrenched through her. She gasped, rising to her toes in a vain attempt to escape the razor-sharp agony cutting her to ribbons.
“My lord,” Nimueh said. “There is no need for this.”
But Mordred only laughed, bending closer to inhale near Tamsin’s lips. The sickening wrench grew worse, as if he was drawing her insides through her teeth. Fingers of power wriggled deep inside her, gagging her, seeking out places no physical assault could find. They tore at the private sanctuaries within—the secrets she kept, the faith that burned away night terrors, the words of love she whispered in her dreams. In a horrible flash of understanding, she realized Mordred was taking her soul.
Tears leaked from Tamsin’s eyes as she shuddered, losing control of her limbs. Nimueh caught her from behind before she fell, but did nothing to stop Mordred’s assault. Perhaps the fae couldn’t. Fighting through her shock, Tamsin reached for her magic, but it was stunned and mute, unable to help. She started to scream.
Gawain’s bellow rattled the windows as he sprang from the table, knocking Mordred aside and delivering a vicious kick to his ribs. Mordred crashed into a shelf and collapsed under a rain of books. A guard lunged to protect his lord but fell with Gawain’s sword in his chest. Unarmed, Gawain snatched up a chair and cracked it against the floor, breaking off a leg.
Mordred scrambled to his feet, but he was too late. Gawain bludgeoned him with the chair leg once, twice, and a third time. Then he tossed the leg aside with a gesture of disgust, turning aside to yank his sword from the fallen guard. Of all the warriors, Gawain was the only one still standing, and he turned to finish Mordred with the blade.
“Stop!” cried Nimueh. “Stand aside, Gawain of Lothian! Queen LaFaye bound my oath with magic, and I am sworn to protect the Prince of Faery. No mortal knight is a match for my power, and I will not let you take his life.”
“How did you come to this, my lady?” Gawain asked, his eyes wild with the heat of the fight. “You were once the Lady of the Lake, as powerful a fae as ever walked the Forest Sauvage. You gave Excalibur to Arthur. You gave your name to Lancelot du Lac, the Champion of Camelot. How did you end up guarding that?” Gawain gave his prone cousin a scornful look.
Nimueh shook her head, her long pale hair swinging with the motion. “Mine is a long tale, and there is no time. You always showed me courtesy when I came to Camelot. For that I will spare you if you leave before reinforcements arrive.”
Gawain’s knuckles grew white as he gripped his sword. “Perhaps I should slay you both.”
“You could try,” said Nimueh. “But a battle would serve neither of us. Leave through the portal with your woman and a hope of finding Arthur. You rescued Angmar. I will give you your woman’s life for his.”
“Mordred has been a stone in my shoe for too long.”
“As he has been a thorn in mine,” said the fae. “But I cannot let you have him. In recompense, I will smooth your path to your king. That is the surest path to justice, Sir Gawain.”
“How is walking away justice?”
Nimueh held up her hand, stopping his protest. “You were witch-born, and the one among the stone sleepers destined to wake first. Don’t stray from your path now, Prince of Lothian. Mordred will get his reward, or I am the Lady of the Lake no more.”
As the fae spoke, Tamsin slowly clambered to her feet. Her knees wobbled, but the pain had stopped. “Gawain?”
He turned, eyes widening, and sprang to her side. “Are you well?” He touched her face, as if unsure she was real.
“She lives,” said Nimueh, her voice cool. “If you do not leave quickly, that will change. The fae will feel the death of their brothers and send more soldiers.”
“Let us have the books,” begged Tamsin.
“That is not possible,” Nimueh replied. “My oath to the queen prevents it.”
The bag of books lay on the floor between Tamsin and the fae. Tamsin dove for it, but Nimueh blocked her with an upraised arm. Tamsin ducked, but Nimueh was eerily fast. She snatched up the bag, chanting words of power in a clear, ringing voice. For an instant, Tamsin saw the magnificent creature she had been—a noblewoman among fae, mistress of the Lake of Enchantment.
Nimueh hurled the books toward the portal with the speed and force of an athlete. Tamsin cried out, leaping to catch the prize, but missed. A blue-white flash bleached the tiny room, bright as a flare but freezing cold. The brilliance blinded Tamsin and she curled over, sheltering her face with her arms. From where she huddled on the floor, she felt cold, fresh air on her hands as if someone had opened a door. Tamsin’s first impression was of ice, as if all the heat in the world had been sucked away. There was a giddy moment of weightless nothing, where here and there were empty ideas. The white light flowed around them, so intense that Tamsin thought she was drowning in the brightness. Gawain was the only solid thing in that place, his arm hard with muscle as it tightened around her...
And then they were standing in a grassy meadow with the sun splashing down in thick golden bars through early-morning mist. Tamsin spun around. The portal was gone, but her backpack lay at her feet.
“What just happened?” she demanded. “And where are the books?”
Gawain looked around, his hands on his hips so that his dark cloak gave him a square silhouette. “At a guess, the Lady of the Lake redirected your portal to send us to the Forest Sauvage. The books are here, too, I suppose. Somewhere.”
The Forest Sauvage. What had Angmar called it? A place all but forgotten, a wood beyond the mortal world that was made to beguile and confuse. And then there was that bit about hidden dangers. Well, wasn’t that comforting?
The fact that Nimueh had the power to pull a stunt like that didn’t make Tamsin feel any easier. Fortunately, the Lady of the Lake seemed to dislike Mordred enough to help them.
Tamsin shrugged her coat more closely over her shoulders and picked up her pack. The day was sunny, but there was a cool dampness in the air. Dew glittered on the long grass and picked out a spider’s web in the branches of the tree above them. Apples weighed down the tree branches and perfumed the air with heady sweetness. They were in an orchard.
“Was sending us here what Nimueh meant by smoothing the path to your king?” she asked.
“I expect so,” Gawain replied, then gave her a searching look. “Are you well? After what Mordred did?”
She ran a hand through her hair. It had been the most awful violation imaginable, but this was no time to dwell on it. If she did, she’d crumble—and that was the least helpful thing she could do right then. “I’ll survive.”
“Good.” The word was simple, but his expression said a
thousand things more.
“This must be someone’s land,” she said, changing the subject before she started to cry. “Look, there’s a castle!”
Though it was hidden by a stand of oak trees, Tamsin could make out the tops of two blocky towers of stone. “Do you know who lives there?”
Gawain rubbed his jaw. It was dark with stubble. “Once it belonged to the king, but it is hard to say who dwells there now. In the Forest Sauvage, things are rarely as they seem. However, it is as good a place as any to begin our search.”
They began walking toward it. Gawain moved easily, as if all the empty space of the countryside was a relief. He kept Tamsin close beside him, his fingers brushing hers and twining through them as they walked. At any other time, it would have been a delightful country stroll. Birds flitted from tree to tree in busy flocks. It was autumn, but earlier than at home.
“There are fresh hoofprints,” Gawain said, indicating the grass. “A company of riders passed this way not long ago.”
Shortly after, they saw a riderless horse in the distance, but no indication of other people. Though she said nothing, that detail made Tamsin uneasy.
It did not take long before the castle emerged from behind the trees. A drawbridge led over a wide moat that reflected the towers and the sky with still perfection. Tamsin looked at the brooding gates and imagined all the monsters of the Brothers Grimm lurking inside. It was impossible to see past the thick arch of stone and the massive, iron-strapped doors that were at least three times the height of a man.
Gawain drew his sword. “Stay behind me. I’m the one wearing armor.”
Tamsin didn’t argue. At least he wasn’t ordering her to say behind and alone in the orchard. Crossing the drawbridge didn’t make the specter of the towers any better. The stone seemed to darken as they approached, as if there was a blight clinging to the gray granite. As Tamsin looked up and up, the looming spires of rock blotted out the sky. Every instinct she possessed said magic dwelt within, and it wasn’t kindly.
Enchanted Warrior Page 17
