Royal Enchantment

by Sharon Ashwood

  Or at least that was what the reasonable part of his brain insisted. There was a burning pit beneath his breastbone that bubbled with frustrated lust and wounded pride. Anger urged him to be reckless, but he was a king. Royalty didn’t have the luxury of emotion—not when they had a realm to protect.

  Arthur swung into Medievaland’s parking lot and barely stopped the SUV before jumping out and running for the gates. The theme park re-created the Middle Ages, complete with jousts, banquets, artisans and costumed minstrels. There was also a midway and rides guaranteed to curdle the hardiest stomach. For the knights of Camelot, it was the one place they could exist in the modern world without completely abandoning who they were. They couldn’t afford to lose it to a dragon.

  The workers at the gates knew him by sight and he ran past without comment. The familiar mechanical whirs and bells of the midway assaulted him, while the aromas of fried onions and popcorn were sharp in the chilly air. Jugglers roamed the pathways, tossing clubs that glowed in the dark while far above, lights from the roller coaster swirled through the starlit sky. As it was close to ten o’clock and a half hour away from the winter closing time, the crowd was thinning out.

  Arthur charged ahead, seeking any sign of fire or panic, but all seemed normal. He stopped beside the life-size statue of a pink unicorn to get his bearings. The text message that had called him to the theme park had come from Gawain. He dialed the Scottish knight’s phone. “I’m here. Where is it?” he demanded the instant Gawain picked up.

  “Look above the church.”

  The Church of the Holy Well was the only truly medieval item in the park. It had once housed the sleeping knights of Camelot and had been transplanted from England decades ago when Medievaland was built. Arthur’s gaze found it easily among the theme park’s structures and he obediently studied the roofline. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Keep watching.”

  Impatient, Arthur paced, the phone still to his ear. What was Gwen doing? Was there any chance of returning to her hotel room that night? His anger was still a live thing, flaring if his thoughts touched it, but hers had been just as hot. Would that make a reunion impossible, or delectable?

  His reverie lasted only seconds before he saw a dark shape gliding above the whirling lights of the rides. It was as if a scrap of nothingness flitted across the sky, but he knew what that absence of light meant. “I see it.”

  “It’s been circling for the last half hour,” said Gawain. “We’ve gathered at the tourney grounds.”

  “Ready my gear,” Arthur ordered.

  He sprinted to the complex where the jousting took place. The games themselves were held in an amphitheater, while the stables and equipment rooms were in low buildings behind. When the white wooden structure came into view, Arthur put on a last burst of speed. Gawain, already clad in his red armor, waited outside the locker-room door. He turned as Arthur approached, silently leading him inside.

  The space where they donned their equipment was much like any locker room, with sinks and showers. Beaumains had Arthur’s white-and-blue armor already spread out on a bench. This was not the gear they used for jousting, though much of it looked similar. This was battle-scarred and shaped to personal taste, often sacrificing coverage for ease of movement. Jousting was inherently dangerous, but it was nothing compared to true warfare, where speed could save one’s life.

  “We don’t know if the dragon will even land,” Gawain said, buckling Arthur’s breastplate in place. His fingers flew with the urgency of one well used to donning battle gear on the fly. “This preparation may be for nothing.”

  “I would rather not meet the beast’s teeth unprotected,” Arthur replied, “though armor never did much against a dragon’s flame.” Unhelpfully, his imagination pictured a potato in tinfoil, ready for the barbecue.

  “Perhaps there’s a modern material that would help,” Beaumains suggested, fastening the metal vambraces that protected Arthur’s forearms. “Maybe asbestos?”

  Gawain gave an eye roll only an older brother could produce. “Perhaps we could put a sprinkler system in our helms and spout like fountains. Go help Owen with the horses.”

  Beaumains bowed and left, giving a cheeky grin. Arthur took Excalibur from Gawain and fastened the sword belt in place.

  “I’m sorry this happened tonight of all nights,” said Gawain. “I know you went to see the queen.”

  No doubt Clary had told him. There was nothing worse than being the object of gossip. Arthur shifted from foot to foot, his armor clanking softly. “The queen understands the urgency,” he said in a tone that didn’t invite conversation.

  Gawain studied him, but said nothing more on the subject. He simply handed Arthur his shield, with its three golden crowns against a field of blue. These were the great kite-shaped shields rather than the smaller, round bucklers—clumsier, but they offered better protection from flame. Arthur took it, and they marched toward the door. Just as Arthur’s mailed fist touched the door handle, he heard the scream of horses.

  As the door opened, Rukon Shadow Wing landed at Medievaland’s heart in a gout of flame. This time, Arthur knew, the dragon had come to kill them.

  Chapter 10

  Only the dragon’s breath was visible in the unlit amphitheater. Scraps of flame picked out pieces from the shadow it cast—a shoulder, a curl of tail, a flare of amber eyes. In contrast, the men of the Round Table stood in the pool of light cast by the building, their shields defiantly bright with color. Beaumains and Percival had readied their horses and were struggling with their mounts’ bridles. The terrified animals were stamping and tossing their heads, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scent. They were good, brave mounts, but they weren’t trained for dragons.

  “Get the horses back in the stables,” Arthur ordered. “We’re doing this on foot.”

  “What’s your plan?” Gawain asked, as the younger knights hurried to obey.

  Arthur heard the blare of sirens—fire and police, no doubt. This was just getting worse. There was no hiding a flapping, talking dragon from the human authorities. “I’ve tried polite reason. Now it’s time to make our scaly friend leave.”

  “I’m right beside you,” said Gawain. Putting action to words, he drew his sword and stood at Arthur’s right.

  “I never thought I’d have the chance to fight a dragon.” Percival stretched his limbs, hiding his eagerness with a show of preparation.

  “I’ve battled one before,” Palomedes replied, sounding less enthusiastic. “I can’t say I wanted a rematch, but here we are.”

  The dragon was moving now, advancing at a steady pace that said it had an agenda. At the same time, Arthur was aware of the other knights clustering around him, shields up to present an unbreakable wall of courage. Every knight who could be was there. With five mighty warriors against one dragon, the odds were almost even. All the same, it was going to be a bloodbath.

  Rukon folded his wings and bellowed, the pale underside of his neck a stripe against the inky sky. A second later, a dozen camera flashes bleached the darkness. Reporters, Arthur realized with a sinking stomach. The hidden world would be in the headlines by breakfast—unless Rukon made the press his late-night snack.

  If Arthur had been a glory seeker, a horseback charge with lance and shining armor would have set social media aflame—right along with Medievaland. As King of Camelot and protector of the mortal realms, Arthur had to put an end to this drama before it began. “No hashtag for me,” he muttered under his breath as he drew Excalibur.

  “Stay here,” he ordered his men, his voice brooking no argument. “I go in first. If he attacks, I’ll keep him busy while you move in.”

  “You’re buying us a chance,” Gawain said darkly.

  “A king spends the lives of his men as carefully as he can.”

  “What about your own?”

&nbs
p; “Give my regards to the late-night news. Now, do as I ask.”

  While he heard armor clank and feet scuffle, the knights knew better than to protest. Discipline had been hard-won among these fighters, but Arthur had enforced his will through respect and occasional bravado. Just the same, when he strode forward their watchfulness prickled along his spine. He was protecting his men, but they had his back. In moments like this, he loved them fiercely.

  As always, the prospect of battle heightened his senses. Night robbed the world of color and precise edges—the amphitheater had no lighting for after-dark events. But he could smell the fairground’s tapestry of scents—horses, food, exhaust, dust and, over it all, the thick musk of dragon. The last clogged his nose and throat worse than it had in the forest, or maybe his chest was tight because the fight was on his ground now. Here, he had far more to lose.

  He stopped halfway down the field. Walking in armor was noisy, and only now could he hear the profound silence surrounding him. No one spoke, no car doors slammed. All attention was fixed on the king and the dragon. As if on cue, the clock tower at the Church of the Holy Well bonged the half hour, confirming that the park had closed. Fewer bystanders would be in the line of fire. Something to be thankful for.

  An image of Gwen’s face flickered through his mind, but he shied away from it. Right now, he had to be a king, not a man. Remembering his wife, in all her softness and fiery temper, would undo every scrap of courage.

  Arthur’s mouth had gone dry, and he had to swallow twice before he could speak—but when he did, he spoke loud enough to make himself heard by everyone present. After all, he’d been trained to address crowds in a time before microphones. “Greetings, Rukon Shadow Wing. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  Rukon let another scrap of flame escape his muzzle. The fire floated like ragged scarves around him, giving the impression of something birthed in a painter’s conception of hell. Arthur guessed it was a sign of temper, and a dangerous one. If the arena floor hadn’t been dirt, the entire place would be in flames.

  “I warned you that I would come,” Rukon replied, the rumbling voice grim. “I have already explained what I will do to reclaim fame and glory among the human realms. Are these your reporters?” He snaked his neck toward the news vans, blowing a puff of steam.

  “Do you really believe renown will come if you eat me on television?” Arthur said wearily.

  “It must be seen and commented upon to be of value. Isn’t that how this world works?”

  “That is hardly the point.”

  “That is precisely the point.” The dragon snorted more fire.

  This wasn’t telling Arthur anything new. He gambled then, the ache in his chest an indication of how much he feared. “You’ve given me words. I will think of them whenever I shovel the stable.”

  Rukon’s head swung back, the yellow eyes glowing hot.

  Arthur lowered his sword and shield, but just enough to show his intention to talk. “You could have killed me yesterday, but you did not.”

  “I spared you so that we would meet tonight, in front of your tale-tellers.”

  “You are here again, but so far you haven’t touched a single blade of grass. Meanwhile, I have received threats from an anonymous fae. These are all part of a pattern, and I don’t believe you are a willing participant. Nor was the dragon who fell from the sky. She was chained with magic, a pawn in a murderous plan.”

  At that, Rukon threw back his head and gave another roar. It was filled with sound and flame, bringing screams from the gathered crowd. From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw uniformed men press forward, but the knights rushed to hold them back.

  Eventually the bellow subsided, fading from fury to what Arthur had expected to hear—grief. “Her name is Elosta,” Rukon said. “Remember her name well, human, and remember it with reverence. There is no telling what befell her. He will not say.”

  “Who?” Arthur demanded, wondering if Elosta was Rukon’s mate. “What is going on?”

  “Treachery,” Rukon rumbled. “You are the Pendragon, little king. Figure it out.”

  But Arthur didn’t have a clue. “Tell me more.”

  But Rukon fanned his wings, spreading them wide until they blotted out the stars. Arthur just had time to lift his shield before he was engulfed in flames.

  * * *

  Gwen had all but ripped the hotel-room door open at Clary’s tentative knock.

  “Sorry I’m back early, but I had a sense that it was time to come home.” The green-eyed witch regarded her closely. “I’m guessing the reunion didn’t go so well.”

  “Ya think?” Gwen snapped, using an expression she’d heard Clary use at least a dozen times that day.

  “You’re wearing my flannel pajamas.”

  Gwen looked down at the fuzzy garment, which was covered in prancing pink sheep. “Nothing I bought today felt comforting enough.”

  Clary finally stepped through the door, closing it behind her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Gwen said it with finality, but carried on in the next breath. “I thought he was listening. Everything was going so well. He told me about the dragon problem—he actually talked about something important happening in Camelot—and he said he wanted to change. But the moment one of his men called, he left and I had to stay behind. That’s not partnership.”

  “That’s pretty patronizing,” Clary agreed. “Has he always been like that?”

  “He’s a king. They’re the definition of patronizing.” Gwen walked to the bed she’d claimed as her own and sat on the end. “I’ve never been able to really serve the people of Camelot. Yes, I arranged receptions and banquets and ran the king’s household, and that was all necessary, but it wasn’t vital. And it certainly wasn’t anything we could build a relationship over.”

  “Sounds boring,” Clary agreed.

  “It was to me. He only let me go to war with him once. Women sometimes did, as laundresses and cooks as well as...other things.”

  There had been a few wives, but more whores who traveled with the baggage trains. Gwen hadn’t considered herself sheltered until she’d seen what went on in the tents at the back of the encampment.

  “What happened?” Clary sat down on the opposite bed and kicked off her ankle boots. They fell to the carpet with a thump.

  “A fever ran through the camp, and I caught it. I was sick for a long time.” There was more to the story, but this wasn’t the time for that tale.

  “Let me guess. He treated you like a glass ornament after that.”

  “Exactly. One that can’t be chipped or covered in fingerprints. But there’s a difference between caring for someone and being careful nothing happens to them.”

  Clary rose, restlessly pacing the room until she opened a tiny door beneath the television stand. It rattled as she pulled out two small bottles and tossed one to Gwen. “This kind of a talk needs lubricant.”

  “I already drank the rest of the champagne.” There hadn’t been much, but it had taken the edge off her hurt for a few minutes.

  Clary tossed a bag onto the bed. “Snack food. The secret is to soak up the drink so you can start over.”

  “It occurs to me that you’re what my nurse called a bad influence.”

  “I’m the terror of mothers everywhere.” Clary fell back onto the bed with her own snacks. “Usually I can’t afford the minibar, but we still have the king’s credit card.”

  At that, Gwen pulled open the bag and extracted an orange object she recognized. There had been a bowl of the bright orange worms sitting on the table in Arthur’s living room. “What is this?”

  “Cheese Wizards.”

  Gwen stared at it, thinking something that orange was possibly lethal, and then popped it in her mouth. Experience never came without risk. The snack was salty
and crunchy, although it didn’t quite taste like real food. “I don’t understand why they call it a wizard.”

  “Because they’re fabulous,” Clary said with a shrug. “A wizard is just an extra-special witch, after all.”

  “Merlin was born a witch?”

  “Yeah,” said Clary, “I wonder how he feels living in a world with Cheese Wizards. One day, you’re the most magical person ever, and the next they name a snack food after you.”

  “Someone named these after Merlin?”

  “Not really. The normal world has no idea real wizards exist. It’s just advertising. Magic is sexy.”

  “Oh.” Gwen really didn’t want to mingle images of bright orange worms and reproduction. Not one bit.

  “But we’re not here to talk about Merlin,” Clary prompted.

  All the same, Gwen didn’t mind taking the spotlight off herself. “Have you met him?”

  “No,” Clary said, flopping back onto her pillow. “Although he came to my hometown to see the high muckety-mucks of witchdom.”

  “What about?”

  “There’s been talk about information sharing between the covens. Boring stuff mostly, though it’s meant loosening up on some of the rules we live by. More chances to travel outside our own coven. No more arranged marriages, for which I’m grateful.”

  Clary rolled to face Gwen, propping up her head on one hand. “I would’ve gone completely fangirl over the Great One. I mean, I’ve never traveled without my spell kit since I was a little girl. I would have had him autograph it. But I was out of town for work. Even witches have to eat.”

  Gwen sat up. “You see, that’s what I want.”

  Clary raised her brows. “To eat?”

  “No, to live the way you do.” Gwen waved a Cheese Wizard for emphasis. “You have a job, places to go, an independent life. That doesn’t make you any less of a witch.”

  Clary’s eyes narrowed. “I agree, though the older generation would argue.”

  “I can be Guinevere the queen and still exercise my mind,” Gwen said, sure of herself now. “You told me that the witches where you come from could help if I wanted to start fresh.”