Wicked Games

by Angela Knight

  Adding tinder to the fire, Mordred and his rebels were spreading the most appalling rumors that superstitious peasants were only too happy to believe. It was said Arthur drank the blood of infants, while Gwen and her ladies had unholy relations with demons they then sent off to kill peasants and nobles alike.

  People had indeed died, but they’d been the victims of Mordred’s vicious raids. Unfortunately, he left no one alive to tell who the real villain was.

  Arthur had done his best to combat the rumors while searching for his son and the rebels. The few times he and his forces had succeeded in finding them, the king had won the resulting battle.

  The problem was, those victories were getting more difficult with every passing day. Arthur’s army was bleeding men in a constant flood of desertions. Apparently, the fact that the king now had to do all his fighting at night did not endear him to his men, even those who’d served in the royal army for decades.

  Arthur had tried everything he could think of to stanch the losses among the ranks, but nothing worked—not pay increases, promises of farmland, or even fiefdoms seized from rebellious nobles. He was forced to finally order the execution of anyone caught deserting. Hangings became a nightly ritual—which did not exactly endear Arthur to the survivors.

  But the desertions slowed to a trickle.

  Meanwhile, Guinevere and her ladies went on practicing magical combat under Nimue’s tutelage. As the days passed in sweaty mock warfare, the twelve learned how to throw fireballs at one another and erect magical shields to protect themselves.

  Arthur, however, didn’t care. He was adamant that the ladies were going to stay off the battlefield, particularly Gwen. It didn’t seem to matter how often the new witches demonstrated their abilities; the king remained unimpressed. Or at least unwilling to admit to it if he was.

  Gwen had no way of knowing what the stubborn wretch actually felt. He’d gotten so good at shielding his mind, she sometimes felt they had no Truebond at all.

  It was terrifying.

  Every time he went out to hunt Mordred, she was afraid he wouldn’t return. That he’d manage to get himself killed, and the first she would know about it was when she dropped dead from the Truebond.

  When she mentioned this worry, Arthur only snorted. “Mordred will be in hell before he knows what hit him.”

  This despite the fact that the king himself had often said overconfidence was as lethal in battle as blind panic.

  Gwen suspected he didn’t believe defeating the rebels would be that easy. Unfortunately, he had no intention of admitting as much.

  As it was, every nightmare she had—and she had a lot of them—resulted in a row over his refusal to allow Gwen and her ladies to play a part in any battle whatsoever.

  Between that and the desertions, Arthur grew more and more distant, as if determined to hide any worry he felt. As a result, the tension between the king and queen grew so intense, it made even the Knights of the Round Table uncomfortable.

  It soon reached the point where they made love only when hunger literally drove Arthur to it.

  For her part, Gwen was miserable. She was losing the man she loved. Worse, she had the horrible feeling that soon that loss would become permanent.

  And Mordred the Bastard would be High King of Britain.

  TWELVE

  Merlin and Nimue had disappeared again.

  The witch had explained they needed to find more champions of humanity in other lands, people who would eventually serve as Arthur’s agents. Yet to Gwen it felt as if the magical pair were abandoning them when they most needed the help.

  At least the witch had left her a way to get in contact, if absolutely necessary.

  In the meantime, Gwen was on her own. She had to get through to Arthur, whether he was blocking the Truebond or not. She’d taken to demonstrating her magical skills at every opportunity, even with something as mundane as mealtime.

  They’d been gathering in the Round Table chamber for meals since Gwen first became queen. Though the Magi no longer ate, Arthur decided the practice was still useful because it gave him a chance to observe how the witches dealt with his knights.

  Which generally boiled down to a great deal of flirting.

  Initially, the idea of conjuring food came about because so many of the household servants had fled Camelot. Gwen and her ladies could easily have cooked their meals by hand, but the queen thought using magic while everyone watched was actually a better way of making Arthur realize what magic could do—or more to the point, what Gwen and her ladies could do with it. Yet so far nothing seemed to have made an impression on him; he always looked faintly bored. It made Gwen feel like that particularly clumsy juggler who had tried to entertain the court one day last winter.

  It was intensely frustrating. There were times she could have cheerfully beaten his thick head in.

  So much for the Truebond.

  One particular night in late August, the ladies passed their conjured dishes back and forth while the men discussed how best to deal with Mordred’s machinations.

  Gawain, who’d been watching Morgana like a hungry fox eyeing a chicken, suddenly glanced around and frowned. “Where’s Tristan?” The two were best friends; where one was, the other was usually somewhere nearby.

  Lancelot shrugged. “Trying to mend his marriage, most likely.”

  Gawain blinked. “How does he mean to do that? He hasn’t even spoken to Isolde in weeks.”

  “She seems to have had a change of heart. I saw them on the stairs today, and she was laughing and talking to him. He looked more than a bit puzzled.”

  No wonder. Gwen grimaced. Isolde was Tristan’s wife of twenty years, but she’d failed Nimue’s test. To Isolde’s fury, Tristan had accepted the Grail anyway, even knowing she would remain mortal. As one of Arthur’s greatest knights, he evidently hadn’t wanted to deprive the kingdom of his skills at a time when everything seemed well on its way to going to hell.

  Gwen spoke up. “So they’ve reconciled?” At least somebody had.

  Lancelot gave her a narrow, icy glance that said very clearly how deeply furious he still was. “So it appears.”

  “I hope they can mend their marriage.” Gwen absently used her fork to push her food around on her plate.

  Arthur leaned down to whisper, “You need to eat, Gwen. It does no one any good if you starve yourself.”

  Gwen shot him a cool glance and replied so softly a human couldn’t have heard her. “Yes, I’d imagine the blood of a starving woman doesn’t taste nearly as good.”

  He gave her a long, cool look. “We are not going to do this here. Save your ire for our chambers, my queen.”

  Gwen knew he was right. Fighting in front of the knights and ladies of what was left of their court was definitely not a good idea. She sealed her lips and went back to pushing food around her plate.

  Across the width of the table, Gawain looked up and gasped, then leaped up to stride around the table. Gwen glanced around in alarm.

  Tristan leaned in the doorway, naked and covered in blood. One shaking, gory fist held a knife that dripped scarlet on the stone floor.

  As the others exclaimed and jumped to their feet, Gawain reached him, hooked an arm around his waist, and lowered him carefully to the floor.

  Morgana beat Gwen and Arthur to the pair. When the other knights and ladies tried to gather around, the healer looked up and snapped, “Give me room to work!”

  Instinctively responding to her tone, everyone but Arthur and Gwen fell back. “Tristan, shift to wolf form,” the king ordered, his tone urgent. “Let your magic heal you.”

  Tristan’s only response was a low, barely conscious groan.

  “I don’t think he can shift, sire,” Morgana told him, examining the knight in worry. “He’s too badly hurt. His attacker’s knife missed his heart, but only just.”

  “Isolde . . . Isolde . . .” Tristan murmured, his eyes fluttering closed, only to open again. “God, Isolde . . .”

  “Is
your wife in danger?” When Tristan only moaned, Arthur glanced up and caught Lancelot’s gaze. “Make sure Tristan’s attacker didn’t get his wife.”

  But before Lance could make it to the door, Tristan spoke. “No point. Dead . . . Isolde’s dead.” He started to cough. Blood sprayed across the stone floor.

  Morgana drew her belt knife, slashed it across her wrist, and presented the bleeding cut to the blond knight’s mouth. For a moment it appeared Tristan was too disoriented to take the blood she was offering. Then his nostrils flared, and he latched on to the cut. The healer winced at his desperate sucking. Normally, feeding the men was deliciously erotic, but foreplay did have its place; at the moment, Tristan was apparently too badly hurt to realize he was hurting her.

  Arthur looked around at Lance again. “Find me the one who did this. Galahad, go with him.”

  “Aye, sire.” The two knights strode out.

  Though obviously impatient, Arthur waited until Tristan released Morgana’s wrist and raised his head. “Did you see the assassin? How many of them were there? Where did they go?”

  “No assassin.” Tristan met the king’s gaze, his mouth tight with pain. “I killed her.”

  Everyone froze.

  “What?” Arthur demanded, as the knights and ladies stirred and murmured in shock.

  Gwen shared his astonishment. It was almost impossible to imagine Tristan laying hands on any woman in violence, especially his wife.

  The king stared at him in astonishment and growing rage. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “She . . . She stabbed . . . me . . . first.” Tristan panted, his handsome face contorted in pain. “Tried to kill me. Missed.”

  “I don’t understand. Why, Tristan? What happened?”

  “Sire, a moment.” Morgana looked down at the knight. “Do you feel well enough now to shift?”

  He nodded. “Your blood helped, my . . . my lady.”

  Magic fountained around him. When it was gone, a huge wolf lay on the floor where Tristan had been. There was no sign of blood on his shining honey-gold fur. He looked up at them with Tristan’s blue eyes and made a sound as if attempting to speak. All that emerged was a low, lupine whine that became a growl of irritation. The knight transformed yet again. Though his skin was as bloody as it had been when he staggered into the room, it was obvious his injuries had healed.

  Tristan groaned in relief. “God’s teeth, that’s better. Isolde was better with a blade than I thought.” He looked down, seeming to register at last that he was naked.

  Even as he colored in embarrassment, Gwen gestured, conjuring a tunic over his nudity. “Thank you, my queen.” He scrambled to his feet before helping Morgana to her feet with automatic courtesy.

  “I’m glad to see you back with us,” Arthur said. “Now what the hell happened?”

  “Isolde approached me in town. She’d been treating me like a leper for weeks, so I was surprised when she said she wanted to be . . .” His eyes flickered. “. . . Alone. We went to our chambers, and she confessed she’s the one who’s been spying for Mordred.” His big hands curled into fists. “She claimed she’d only done it because she was so hurt and angry that I’d accepted the Grail.”

  Arthur growled a low curse.

  “I was all set to drag her before you, when she told me she knew what Mordred’s plans were. She said she’d spy for us if only I would forgive her.” He curled a lip in self-disgust, his gaze tortured. “She begged me, sire, vowed that she’d realized how wrong she’d been. She swore by Christ’s wounds she wanted to make amends for what she’d done, if only I’d make love to her.”

  Arthur lifted dark brows. “And you believed her?”

  Tristan raked a harried hand through his hair. “She was my wife, sire. I loved her once.”

  With an effort, Arthur managed to avoid a telling glance at Gwen. There were any number of things he could have said to his knight then, but the king kept his silence; it was obvious Tristan well knew how thoroughly he’d erred. “Go on.”

  The knight’s bark of laughter sounded edged in acid. “She waited until I was distracted to jerk the knife from beneath the pillow and drive it into my chest. Evidently she didn’t know that wouldn’t do the job.” A muscle worked in his cheek. “So I pulled the dagger and used it on her—and I damned well know what I’m doing.”

  Now everyone in the room winced in pained sympathy. Arthur laid a hand on the knight’s powerful shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tris.”

  “Sire, I did manage to get one bit of information out of her before she died.” Tristan’s face twisted in such pain, Gwen decided she really didn’t want to know how he’d extracted that information. “She told me Mordred plans an attack on the village of Camlann. He means to burn the town to the ground and slaughter everyone there.”

  This is the battle, Gwen realized. She had absolutely no grounds for that belief—except for the cold certainty sweeping up her spine. This is what I’ve been dreaming about all these months.

  Arthur would die at Camlann—unless she convinced him to let her prevent it.

  • • •

  It was easily the worst row they’d ever had. Gwen stopped just short of pitching crockery at his head. Arthur, for his part, informed her icily that her dreams had been only that—dreams. What’s more, if she dared set foot on the battlefield, he’d throw her in gaol for a year—in the unlikely event she managed to survive the battle at all.

  Then he stormed out, bellowing for his knights.

  Gwen gazed mutinously after him. “If you think I’ll give up that easily, you know me not at all, my love.”

  Mary, Joseph, and all the saints, she wished Nimue and Merlin were here. Luckily the witch had left Gwen with a way to contact them wherever they’d gone.

  The queen headed into her dressing chamber. There, in the corner beyond her big bathing tub, stood the largest mirror she’d ever seen. Fully her own height, it was so large as to be impossible to manufacture by any technology even the Romans had had.

  Nimue had conjured it in but a moment.

  As the witch had instructed her, Gwen stepped up to the mirror. “Nimue.”

  The image of a woman appeared, but it wasn’t anyone Gwen had ever met. Her features were exotic, with odd-shaped brown eyes set aslant in a round, delicate face. She had a nose like a child’s, though there was nothing childlike about her small, lush mouth. Her hair hung long and straight to her hips, shining black like a crow’s wing. She wore flowing robes of white silk such as Gwen had never seen. She said something in a language Gwen had never heard before, then paused, and added, “Oh, Queen Guinevere! Hello.”

  A blink later, the exotic woman became Nimue. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Nimue’s dark gaze searched hers. “Something has gone very wrong.”

  “Arthur is taking his army to fight Mordred. I think—no, I know—this is the battle I’ve been having nightmares about.” Gwen had taken care not to sound the alarm about any of Arthur’s other skirmishes for this very reason: she wanted Nimue to take her seriously when she was sure the crisis had arrived.

  Nimue’s gaze searched hers for a long moment. Just as Gwen’s nerves began to scream, the witch nodded. “Very well, I’ll come. Don’t fear, Gwen. We’ll sort it out.”

  A shimmering point of light appeared in the air, growing swiftly into a wavering opening. Nimue stepped through into the bathing chamber, and the gate vanished.

  “Merlin cannot leave this new batch of candidates just yet; things are at a particularly delicate point,” the witch told her. “But judging by your expression, things are just as delicate here.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Gwen said. Feeling suddenly weary, she led the way into the bedroom, where she sank into one of the hearth chairs.

  Nimue sat down beside her. “Tell me what happened.”

  Gwen recounted the events of the past two hours, though she had to stop to blink back tears more than once. “This is the dream. I know this is the dream. This is the night Arthur d
ies.”

  The witch leaned over and took her hand in a warm, strong grip. “Arthur is not going to die. Or at least, you and I are going to do everything in our power to prevent it.”

  Gwen blinked away more of those shameful tears. “But what are we going to do?”

  Nimue’s gaze met Guinevere’s, level and determined. “We’re going to make Arthur a sword.”

  • • •

  They stepped through Nimue’s gate into a huge cave with quartz walls, the faceted rock glittering in the light of the witch’s magic. The patter of falling water drew Gwen’s attention to the other end of the cavern, where a waterfall tumbled down the stone wall into a dark pool. In its center lay a circular island of smooth dark stone, too regular to be anything but a conjuration.

  “What is this place?” Awestruck, Gwen turned in a circle, gazing up at the stone ceiling three stories overhead. The very air seemed to glow with power, a sense of magic so strong, gooseflesh spilled across her skin.

  “The Sidhe natives call this cave the Womb of Magic, and they’ve been using it for major workings for hundreds of years. The crystal acts to focus the magic of this world.”

  “This world?” Gwen moved over to the nearest cavern wall and hesitantly stretched out a hand to touch it. It felt warm, almost throbbing with power.

  “My people call this universe—this world—the Mageverse, the realm of magic.” Apparently realizing how puzzled Gwen was, she elaborated. “Magic is not native to your world, which is why we had so much difficulty giving you your abilities. When you draw on your power, the Mageverse is its source.”

  Purely as an experiment, Gwen gestured. The magical flames that leaped from her fingers burned brighter than she’d ever seen them blaze. What’s more, they came with ease. “Magic does seem much stronger here.”

  Nimue nodded. “It is. When you intend a major working like this, you would be well-advised to gate here to do it, thus our trip now. This is going to be a particularly difficult bit of magic, and I need all the help I can get.”