“They can forge identity papers,” Clary said, sounding less certain.
“You said they could teach me what I need to know so that I can go to school and eventually earn my own keep.”
Clary sat up, setting food and drink aside. Her expression was completely serious. “Yes, but I live on the other side of the country. If you come with me...”
“You live by a completely different ocean,” Gwen said quickly. “I looked at a map. If I go with you when you return home, I’ll be leaving Arthur and Camelot far behind.”
“Are you sure?” Clary frowned. “That’s a big step, and even if you turn around and come home again, you’ve made a statement you can’t take back. And you just got here.”
Gwen didn’t have a good answer. She’d tried to get what she wanted tonight. Rather than argue yet again, she’d shared her feelings with her husband and urged him to share his own. She’d been more than willing to hear him out and find a compromise.
But one text message had hurtled them back to where they’d started. Guinevere, Queen of Camelot, would never be a real partner. Gwen, the woman, was an even-lower priority.
“If nothing else, it will give Arthur and I time to decide what we want.” Her words were quiet but firm.
“A cooling-off period?” Clary asked in a cautious voice.
“He will never change his mind about me. To him, I’m still the overeager young girl who came to court and made a lot of mistakes.”
“Can’t he notice that you’ve grown up?”
“He’s too focused on other things. Perhaps it’s not his fault. I’ve tried making things better, but nothing works.”
Clary reached across the space between the beds and squeezed Gwen’s hand. “The witches of the Shadowring Coven will have you in school in no time.”
Gwen squeezed back, incredibly grateful to her new friend. “I am no warrior queen, nor am I a mighty sorceress like Nimueh or Morgan LaFaye. But I have other talents. Even if Arthur doesn’t care about them, I do.”
Clary gave a slight cough. “For a mighty king, he’s a bit of an idiot, isn’t he?”
Chapter 11
“Oh. My. Goddess.”
Clary’s voice was strident with alarm—loud enough that Gwen emerged from the bathroom, hairbrush in hand. “What’s wrong?”
Clary sat cross-legged on her bed, remote control in hand. She’d turned it on for a late-night talk show, which had prompted a whole new flood of questions from Gwen. It appeared the modern world had taken gossip to a professional level, a notion guaranteed to horrify a queen with a crumbling marriage.
Clary pointed at the screen. “They interrupted my show for a news bulletin. This is happening at Medievaland.”
Gwen moved so that she could see the screen. “That’s Palomedes! I know his armor.”
The handsome Saracen knight was acting as a human wall so the reporters couldn’t pass. Behind him, Gwen could make out flame. This was about the dragons! Transfixed, she slid onto the bed next to Clary.
Some effort had been made to illuminate the scene, but the field was too large for whatever the news vans had on hand. Only the dragon’s glowing eyes and fiery nostrils were clearly visible, the rest a winged hulk with patches of shining scales.
“Look!” Clary pointed again. “The firemen are turning on their hoses.”
Bursts of water whooshed through the air, arcing toward a black shape shifting in the shadows. A disgusted bellow drowned out every other sound. Gwen felt her mouth drifting open in astonishment.
The jiggling camera swung around to a female reporter with red lips and hair that didn’t move despite an obvious breeze. “There is what appears to be a fire-breathing dragon on the field behind me, along with members of the Knights of New Camelot, an entertainment troupe employed here at Medievaland. Most of the entertainers are engaged in crowd control, along with the police. However, the leader of the troupe, Arthur Pendragon, has confronted the monster.”
Gwen gasped as the scene cut to an image of Arthur crouched behind his shield while flame flowed over it. “Arthur!” She jumped off the bed, bounding toward the TV before she realized the futility of it.
The camera focus jerked back to show a draconic head, but a mailed fist immediately closed over the lens. Gwen collapsed back onto the bed, tears standing in her eyes. “Is he hurt?” she demanded. “Tell me if he’s hurt!”
Clary put a hand on her arm. “Wait and see what they say.”
“As you can see,” the reporter continued, “it hasn’t been easy to get good coverage of this event.”
“But, Megan,” said the male voice of the announcer, “isn’t this all a publicity stunt?”
There was a second’s delay while his question made it to the reporter’s earpiece. “Undoubtedly, Kevin, but the authorities at Medievaland are denying all responsibility. No doubt this incident is related to the flaming apparition that dropped from the sky. Animal control officers won’t confirm that it was actually a live cow or whether it was dead when pushed from some kind of aircraft or whether it was actually a hologram.”
“Is Arthur hurt?” Gwen wailed.
Kevin must have heard her. “Megan, have there been any injuries?”
Gwen realized her nails were digging into her palms.
“None that have been reported,” said Megan.
Gwen and Clary exhaled together.
“But with uncontrolled fire in play, all we can do is hope for the best.”
Someone on TV shouted and the camera did another stomach-turning swing. Gwen leaned forward, trying to see better, but the screen showed only a muddle of shadows.
“It’s hard to see, Kevin, but it appears the so-called dragon is getting ready to fly.”
“To fly?” the announcer asked incredulously.
There was a rush and a roar and the camera swung upward, following a trajectory of flame and bat-like wings. “Kevin, these animatronics—or holograms or whatever—are incredible.”
“Every theme park in America will want to know how this was done,” said Kevin.
Clary made a rude choking noise. “It came from an egg, dude.”
The cameras followed the dragon until it was swallowed up by the night.
“Well, that appears to end the spectacle,” Megan chirped. “I’ll have interviews with the entertainers for the morning show.”
“Thank you, Megan.”
“Thanks, Kevin. This is Megan Dutton, Nighthawk News.”
Clary hit the power button, sending the TV into blackness.
“So that’s why Arthur had to leave.” Gwen drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “It was for an important reason. But then, it always is.”
And their marriage never mattered quite as much.
Clary dialed her phone. “Hey, Gawain, is everyone okay?”
Gwen watched her friend’s face darken as the conversation went on. Clary said little before finally heaving a sigh and ending the call. “What did he say?” Gwen asked.
“No broken bones. No major burns. He doesn’t know more than that.”
Still, it was good news. Gwen realized that she could in fact phone Arthur. He’d put his number in her cell phone. Would her call to him be welcome or would it be considered a bother? Why hadn’t he called her to put her mind at ease? Gwen put her forehead on her knees, wishing her heart would stop aching.
Clary turned to face her. “What do you think is going on? With the dragons, I mean.”
Gwen considered. “I can’t say. I only ever knew one dragon and she was very, very old. She had a cave in the hills near my father’s castle. She didn’t like humans much and rarely strayed far from her nest, but she’d talk to me sometimes.”
“You knew an actual dragon?” Clary sounded impressed.
“I can’t say that I actually knew her,” said Gwen, unfolding herself. “The only ones who are close to the dragons are the goblins in the Crystal Mountains. They live alongside the dragon strongholds beyond the Forest Sauvage.”
The Forest Sauvage was a no-man’s-land, neither a mortal realm nor part of the Faery Kingdom and beyond the laws of either. Magic dwelled there, as well as the last remnants of demonkind. It was the kind of place young knights went seeking adventure, some never to be seen again.
“You’re thinking,” Clary said. “I can see it on your face.”
“Arthur is asking the same questions we are. He said as much earlier tonight.” Gwen slid off the bed to pace. “If he really wanted answers, he’d talk to the goblins.”
“And he won’t?” Clary asked uncertainly.
“No one talks to the goblins. The court was all politeness to their envoys, of course, but only as far as they had to be.”
“You met goblins?” Clary went for more liquor from the tiny fridge.
“Yes. The goblins had mineral resources and came to trade. The Crystal Mountains are filled with gold and all sorts of precious gems, but not common salt, which we had in abundance. I learned all this because I was the one left to entertain the goblin delegation while the knights found urgent business elsewhere.”
“Why?”
Gwen waved a hand. “Goblins are repulsive—rude, smelly and unpleasant to look at—but they are interesting. They know more about mining gemstones than anyone I know. That’s why they live in the Crystal Mountains and consequently know about dragons.”
“Which is exactly why Arthur should have you at his side.” Clary crumpled up her chip bag and tossed it neatly into the garbage can across the room. “You’re the one with the answers.”
“No,” said Gwen. “I just know who probably has them.”
“Then tell Arthur. Tell him to get on it.”
“I doubt he’d have much success with the goblins’ king. When the ambassador and his retinue came to Camelot, I’m the one who poured their wine and laughed at their jokes. The will to build a relationship counts for much among their kind. I even gave Ambassador Krzak a lock of my hair as a token of regard.”
Gwen folded her arms, thinking through what Arthur had told her about Rukon, the female dragon and the fae making threats. One didn’t have to be Merlin the Wise to detect the stink of skulduggery and plots. And if she drew that conclusion, Arthur surely had.
But he didn’t allow anyone to help bring these enemies to justice. Oh, he’d trust his men to swing a sword on command, but Arthur kept control where it mattered. He’d protect the human realms with his own flesh and bone if necessary—even if that meant facing down Rukon Shadow Wing. That willingness to bear the brunt of sacrifice was the stamp of a good king. But working alone was also Arthur’s weakness. It would never occur to him to ask a lowly goblin for aid.
But it had occurred to Guinevere, and only she had a welcome with the goblin king. It was up to her to act.
At that thought, a wave of terror passed through her, strong enough that she had to sit down before her knees gave out. She reached for the tiny bottle of wine and uncapped it, taking a healthy gulp.
“What’s wrong?” Clary asked sharply.
“Witches know how to work portals, right?”
“Yes,” Clary said suspiciously. “I’ve been practicing ever since we rediscovered the spell last year.”
Gwen’s heart leaped at the same moment her stomach sank with a fresh wave of fear. It was a horrible sensation. “I need a portal to the Crystal Mountains.”
“Wait.” Clary held up her hands. “Why?”
Gwen wanted a lot of things—school, independence, a chance to explore this exciting new world. But she had accepted the role of queen, and that meant putting the mortal realms first. “I can’t stand by when there’s something I can do, and I’m the only one who actually can do it.”
“Will Arthur agree?” Clary asked, doubt plain on her face.
“No, but that doesn’t matter.” Gwen hugged herself, wanting nothing more than to crawl beneath the bedcovers and hide. “I’m not asking for Arthur’s permission.”
* * *
Arthur lay on the bed in Medievaland’s infirmary, staring at the cracked ceiling. He could have risen and faced the world five minutes ago, but it was quiet and the ice pack on his head felt good. The lack of sleep last night—not to mention the twin calamities of dragons and Gwen—were catching up with him.
Unfortunately, the peace was short-lived. The door opened and Gawain tiptoed in, forehead creased with worry.
“I’m awake,” said Arthur.
“How are you feeling?” Gawain asked, folding his arms.
“Lightly toasted.”
“Fortunately, your shield took the brunt of the flame. Your burns aren’t serious.”
Arthur sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The room swam, forcing him to brace himself.
“Careful,” said Gawain, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You have a concussion. That was a nasty blow you took.”
He could have been incinerated, but once again Rukon had held back. Instead, a flick of the dragon’s tail had sent Arthur flying. Again. It was the same trick the dragon had pulled in the forest, and it was getting old. Although Arthur had broken no bones, he’d lost consciousness for a minute or two.
Gawain lifted an eyebrow. “Rukon must have hit you with as much force as a truck.”
“The beast did it on purpose. A last insult as it flew away.” And the dragon had answered none of his questions—just given him nonsense about his family name.
Gawain handed Arthur a clean T-shirt, and he shrugged it on. It was then he noticed his armor piled in the corner. He vaguely remembered the knights helping him from the field and unbuckling the heavy gear so he could rest. The shield was a charred ruin. “Was that on television?” he asked quietly.
“The flames, yes. Your flying lesson, no.” Gawain shrugged. “The news reported that no one was seriously injured.”
“Good,” Arthur replied.
“There will be a lot of questions. The police, the press and even Medievaland’s owners have been trying to contact you. Go out the back way. I’ll drive you home. We can think up a cover story in the morning.”
Arthur grunted his agreement and pulled on his boots while Gawain picked up a call. As he wasn’t listening to the one-sided phone conversation, it took a moment before Arthur realized something was wrong.
The knight had gone beet red. “You what?” Gawain demanded, voice rising.
The faint sounds of a female voice emanated from the phone. The words were muffled but the tone was clearly excited. Cold dread began creeping into the room.
“Stay where you are. We’ll be right over.” Gawain stuffed the phone in his pocket. He rubbed his temples, then turned to Arthur with an apologetic look. “It’s about Queen Guinevere.”
Arthur rose, Gawain’s tone instantly flooding him with tension. “What about her?”
“The queen believes she knows a way to gather information about the dragons’ recent behavior.”
Arthur frowned. “She does?”
Gawain smiled an apology that looked more like a wince. “You should sit down again. You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”
Arthur complied, but anger was rapidly eroding his confusion. “Tell me!”
Gawain heaved a sigh. “According to Clary, Queen Guinevere has gone on an adventure.”
Chapter 12
Clary had made the portal in the hotel closet, saying it was easier for her to draw the necessary arc of light within a defined space. Gwen, who had no magic whatsoever, couldn’t comment. The only time she’d gone through a portal was with Merlin just days ago, and stepping th
rough that had been like walking through a door. The mechanics—whatever they were—had been seamless. A wave of his hand, and time and space parted.
Clary’s portal, however, had required almost the entire contents of her spell kit, several more snacks and a quantity of curses. It came together quickly, but the effort involved had made the young witch break into a sweat. Eventually, though, there had been a blur of color and light, like the reflection of torches on water, and then a spinning, gasping tumble. Gwen landed face-first on cold, wet grass. For a panicked instant, she couldn’t breathe and flopped over onto her back, willing her chest to inflate. A heartbeat passed, then two, and finally she dragged in a long, rasping heave of air as her lungs remembered how to work. The air was sweet and fresh, tangy with mud and growing things. Gwen rejoiced deep in her soul—this smelled like home, not the city with its motors and garbage and thousands of rushing people. Beyond the sound of her panting, there was the rush of water and a distant cacophony of birds.
Only then did she venture to open her eyes to a blue sky untroubled by clouds. She sat up, feeling a twinge where her elbow had hit the ground during her unceremonious landing, and gazed about her. She was on a gentle mountain slope that rolled into a deep valley. She couldn’t see the bottom from where she sat, only steep angles blanketed with pines that turned the warm greens of her meadow to a somber blue black. On the upper edges of the valley, a scattering of deciduous trees showed it was autumn here, as well. Slowly, she got to her feet and turned to see behind her. There, the land rose, eventually giving way to enormous boulders. The peak of her mountain was cloaked in mist, but she could tell it was only one of many. All around her were snowcaps shrouded in mist wrought gold by the sun. A cool breeze kissed Gwen’s face as she turned, shading her eyes. In the distance she made out twin mountaintops with a distinctive curve to their peaks—an outline she’d seen many times in tapestries and illuminations about the goblin realms. They were called The Fangs—a deadly pass into troll territory. The sight both frightened and reassured her. Despite her inexperience with portals, Clary had indeed sent Gwen to the Crystal Mountains.
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