Wicked Games (7 page)

A blend of incredulity, anger, and pure male possessiveness flashed across Merlin's face. “Hardly. He'll have to get his own witch.”

“It's not exactly a hardship to feed a Magus,” Nimue put in. “It does me no harm. Indeed, if the day came when Merlin could not drink of me, my health truly would suffer, for the blood he takes keeps my body in balance.”

One of Gwen's ladies burst out, “But . . . doesn't that hurt?”

The witch's lips curled into a smile more earthy than ethereal. “Only enough to be interesting.” She and Merlin exchanged a wicked glance.

“How old are you?” Arthur demanded, wearing a tight expression of profound discomfort.

Merlin glanced at him, plainly puzzled. A moment later understanding filled his eyes. “Older than we look. Much older.”

Arthur studied him, frowning. “This potion will not turn
us
into children?”

“You will appear younger, but not that much younger. The potion will adjust your age until you are at your physical prime.” Merlin ran a hand through his hair, his expression growing harried. “Nimue and I miscalculated when we chose these forms. The first people we saw were a goose girl and a stripling shepherd. We didn't know how you judge age. If I had it to do over, I'd take the form of an old man with a gray beard halfway to my belt.”

Take the form?
Gwen wondered.
What in the name of all the saints are they?

“But we have veered from the subject at hand—the choice you face.” The cool glint in Merlin's gaze said he would not entertain questions. “If you drink from the Grail, you will become immortal, able to heal virtually any injury save decapitation. You will be many times stronger than you are now, with the speed to match . . .”

“Which would be damned handy on the battlefield,” Arthur murmured.

“Yes, I rather think it would be. Like you, the eleven men who win their respective contests will have the opportunity to become something more than human. So will the twelve women who will likewise gain immortality, with the ability to work great feats of magic besides.”

Arthur frowned. “What price will we pay for all this? It's been my experience that any boon exacts some equal cost.”

Merlin glanced soberly at Guinevere. “As I said, you will have to drink blood as I do. Small amounts, true, no more than a goblet's worth, not enough to endanger those you drink from. The Majae, however, will need to give blood as badly as the Magi will need to receive it, for otherwise they'll risk illness, even death. If your wife fails her test, you will have to drink from a Maja—one of the new witches—or risk killing the queen. And for us, drinking from a woman is intensely sexual.”

Arthur swallowed, aware that Gwen had frozen beside him, her eyes wide. “That . . . is a very high price, Merlin.”

“Aye. You see why I said you must consider the choice carefully.”

His immediate instinct was to refuse out of hand, but he could feel his wife's gaze on his face.

God help him, but he'd never found it easy to deny Gwen anything. Could he really refuse her the chance at the child she wanted so desperately?

Could he really turn away from the chance at a son who might become the king Britain so desperately needed, especially since he'd banished Mordred . . . ?

A
rthur knew there'd be political ramifications to becoming one of these Magi of Merlin's. In recent years, the church had taken to persecuting Druids with determined hostility. He wasn't looking forward to discovering the Pope's reaction to a blood-drinking king.

Which was why he needed to know all the implications, so he asked the next question that came to mind. “We'll be able to work magic, as you do?”

“The women will, but the males' magic will be limited to shape-shifting—the ability to take the form of wolves—and self-healing.”

“Why? You don't have such a limit.”

Merlin's expression darkened. “My people have found males with the full spectrum of power sometimes use it to abuse their females. It's best to ensure women have the advantage in order to protect themselves.”

Arthur longed to protest that Gwen had nothing to fear from him, but he held his tongue. There was no guarantee the same would be true of everyone else who passed Merlin's test. Many men did subject their wives, lovers, and children to abuse, though Arthur dealt harshly with anyone he caught at it. If a man with the power Merlin had described turned on his wife, she'd be hard-pressed to survive, even with magical talents of her own.

Merlin gestured, and the Grail appeared in his hand once more. Mist bubbled from its contents, a glowing blue smoke that painted the wizard's young face with cerulean highlights and cobalt shadows. “You now know as much as you may about the task before you, the abilities this cup will bring, and the price it may exact. Make your choice, Arthur.”

“If you will allow me to confer with my wife and my knights . . .”

Merlin nodded. “Of course.” He and Nimue rose and walked from the room.

“You must do this, Arthur,” Gwen told him after the door closed behind the pair. “If Mordred or the rebels come at you again, such abilities would save us.”

“But, Gwen—what if you don't pass this test of Merlin's? I don't want to watch you grow old and die.”

“And I don't want to watch some young fool run you through because age has stripped you of your abilities,” Gwen shot back. “You defeated Mordred today through superior strategy and a quick blade hand. But I'll say one thing for that boy: he learns from his mistakes. When he breaks his oath—and he will—he won't rely on simply outmuscling you. He'll strike at you where you're most vulnerable: your sense of honor, and the father's love you try so hard to ignore.”

Arthur snorted. “Then he's going to be sadly disappointed, because he killed that when he threatened you.”

“He's alive now, isn't he?”

The king waved that point aside, though it was a damned good one. “Be that as it may, I'm more concerned with whether I should allow you to take Merlin's test.”

Gwen's blond brows lifted. “Allow?”

“You're assuming Queen Guinevere will fail her challenge,” Lancelot pointed out. When they both looked at him, the knight lifted his chin. “Forgive me, sire, but you're underestimating her. She is as strong a woman as you are a man.”

“He's right,” Kay agreed. “The queen may look the fragile female, but there's a core of steel running just beneath all that silk.” A tall man, Arthur's foster brother had a broad, handsome face, a thick blond beard, and a gleaming mane of hair he refused to cut, though he had to braid it and coil it tightly under his helm when he fought. Combat disadvantage or not, women loved the hair, and Kay loved women. “But there is another concern.”

“There always is,” the king growled. “What's yours?”

“Your enemies will say you have been seduced by the powers of darkness.” When Arthur snorted, the big man spread his hands. “Some will tell any lie that gains them a political advantage.”

“And the gullible will believe their slander.” The king grimaced, knowing he was right. “But if I don't drink from Merlin's Grail, my enemies will be just as quick to take it for themselves, should they get the chance at it. And even if they don't, Merlin's right about the Saxons. We don't have the manpower to keep them out as it is now.”

“Nay, sire,” Kay agreed. “We can't patrol every inch of coastline without leaving gaps they can slip through.”

Arthur turned to Gwen. Whenever he faced a decision with as many cons as pros, he'd learned to listen to her opinion. Seventeen years of marriage had taught him his queen was more often right than wrong. Yet if she couldn't be by his side, what was the point? As if reading his mind, she spoke now. “Arthur,” Gwen said softly. “You have always been willing to gamble on your own strength and wits, no matter how grim the odds. Be as willing to take a chance on me. I swear I will not fail you.”

Arthur stilled, gazing into those clear, determined eyes. “You're right. You've never failed me, not in all our years of marriage. All right, I'll drink from the Grail.”

“But what of the wagging tongues?” Kay asked.

The king bared his teeth. “We'll cut them out as needed.” He turned to Galahad, the youngest of his knights. “Call them back in, if you please.”

They waited until Nimue and Merlin were seated again. When the wizard's gaze met his in expectation, Arthur gave the man a decisive nod. “I'll drink from your cup.”

Merlin looked pleased. “Ah, good.” As if to forestall any second thoughts, he extended the Grail, his expression expectant.

Arthur took it. Ignoring the blue mist boiling from its surface, he tossed back its contents in one long swallow, then handed the cup back.

An instant later, fire raced across his skin and sizzled through his blood with pain so savage, it was all he could do not to howl at the agony. He shot to his feet, unable to remain sitting with such agony slicing through him, only to stagger as his knees buckled.

“Arthur!” Gwen gasped as Lancelot caught the king.

“'M fine,” Arthur slurred, lifting his lolling head with an obvious effort. Beads of sweat broke out on his face as his skin took on a gray cast that sent terror shooting through Gwen's blood like pellets of sleet. “Jus' tired . . . Need to sleep.” His head fell forward as Lancelot helped him back into his chair.

Steel slithered from eleven scabbards in a metallic chorus. Merlin lifted a brow at the ring of sword points aimed at him by grim-faced Knights of the Round Table. “Arthur will be fine.” He sounded amused, despite the murderous intent in the warriors' eyes. “But he'll be unconscious for a day at least while his body completes its transformation. The spell in the potion is complex, and it takes time to do its work.”

“Then let's get him into bed,” Gwen told the knights.

“Shouldn't someone watch these two?” Kay asked, gesturing at Merlin and Nimue, his gaze hard.

She flicked a glance back at Merlin and Nimue, neither of whom looked at all intimidated. “Given their magic, what's the point? Besides, they have the king's confidence. Unless any of you doubt Arthur's judgment, we have more important things to focus on—like getting him to our chambers.”

Kay inclined his head, conceding the point. She rose as Lancelot and Kay helped the barely conscious king to his feet.

As Gwen led the way from the room, she frowned in worry. What was the Grail doing to Arthur?

•   •   •

B
y the time they helped the king out of his dusty, bloody armor, sweat streamed from his skin, and his eyes swept back and forth behind his closed lids as his lips moved with muttered, disjointed orders.

“He's feverish.” Gwen turned toward Nimue, who had followed them to Gwen and Arthur's chambers. “Shouldn't we do something?”

“This fever won't hurt him. His body heats because Merlin's spell is transforming it.”

“Is there something I can do to help?” Gwen sat on the mattress beside him and covered his nude body with a linen sheet. He didn't stir.

“Just give him your throat once he wakes. When he finishes his change, he's going to need a lot of blood.”

Judging from the looks on the knights' faces, they didn't much like the idea, but they also knew it was far too late to complain.

Lance turned to Kay. “The rumor mill is no doubt hard at its grinding. I'll bet you a week's pay some barking-mad idiot has already decided Arthur has become a wizard puppet.”

Kay grunted. “We'd better make sure we're patrolling the fortress and village in enough numbers to discourage would-be killers. If we roust all the soldiers out of the barracks and taverns, we'll have the manpower for the job.”

“I suggest we use only the Round Table knights to guard this room,” Lance said. “I trust us, but I'm not so sure about random barracks rats who might have a yen to assassinate King Arthur.”

“Good point.” Kay looked thoughtful. “I think I'll head down to the village, hit the pubs myself. Start a conversation or two with my boys before I roust them out to work.” As seneschal of Camelot, he oversaw the fortress guards.

Lancelot's lips took on a cynical quirk. “While you're at it, make sure you squash any nasty rumors before they can take root.”

“I'll do that.” The big man left, silent as a ghost.

Lancelot turned to Gwen and bowed. “With your permission, we will go work out our watch schedule.”

Gwen gestured. “Tend to it, then, Sir Knight.”

He left, the rest of the Round Table filing out after him, probably off to work out the rest of the watch schedule. Nimue waited until the rumble of masculine voices had retreated down the hall. “I do have a more immediate topic we must discuss.”

“Then let's not do it standing.” Guinevere led the way to the pair of chairs before the cold hearth. As Nimue took the one opposite her, Gwen looked up to see Morgana through the chamber's open door, walking along the balustrade, her shoulders hunched wearily.

Deciding she could use some reinforcements for this conversation, Gwen called, “Morgana? Come in here, please. And close the door behind you.” Her friend nodded and stepped inside. “Come sit down by me, darling. You look like you could use a goblet of wine.”

“After what my son did?” Morgana grimaced. “It's going to take at least an entire bottle. Maybe two.”

“Then we'll have to make sure you get it.” Nimue gestured, conjuring a third chair as the shutters swung closed, leaving the three women in blessed dimness.

Morgana started as candles placed around the room burst into flame. After a moment, she sat down. Normally Gwen, too, would have flinched at this flamboyant display of magic, but after the kind of day she'd had, igniting a few candle flames didn't even rate a second glance. Not in the face of her singing relief.

Against all odds, she still had her husband. She'd find a way to deal with the rest of it. For the first time all day, her muscles began to relax.

“First you need to be aware that the sun disrupts magic, so Arthur will have to avoid direct sunlight,” Nimue began. “Now that he's become a being of magic, he'll be more prone toward severe burns and sunstroke. What's more, he'll be unable to remain awake while the sun is up.”

Gwen frowned, wondering why they were only hearing about this now. “That's a pretty serious weakness.”

“True, but you—or in any case, the twelve Majae—won't have the same vulnerability. They'll be able to protect the men against daylight threats.”

“But if there are only twelve of these Majae, that's not much of a force, even with the twelve Magi,” Morgana pointed out. “How are we to protect ourselves with so few?”

“Eventually, there'll be more of you. Your children will inherit the potential to gain these powers as well. And since the Magekind will be immortal, your numbers will increase rapidly.”

Gwen wanted to quiz the witch about just how the children would gain those powers, but her attention fell on her husband's sweating face. There would be plenty of time for questions later. Right now, her immediate concern was Arthur. “You said earlier you had something to tell me about the king.”

Nimue gestured, conjuring a bottle and a trio of goblets. She filled the cups and handed two of them to Gwen and Morgana. “When he wakes, he will want blood—and sex. And he may be more forceful about getting them than he has been. Or will be afterward.”

Was the woman trying to frighten her? “Come now, Nimue. I can't believe Arthur would ever hurt me, no matter how he's changed.”

“He won't hurt you.” She grinned, dark and knowing. “But he will be fairly demanding.”

Gwen snorted. “He's demanding now.”

“Not compared to this. When he first wakes, he won't recognize you—won't even be capable of real thought until you let him drink from you. And he'll be very, very aroused. Don't try to resist him, no matter how aggressive he is.”

Gwen stared at Nimue, her mouth going dry as her imagination fired. Arthur, holding her down, taking her, drinking from her . . . She hoped the witch couldn't sense her growing arousal. “Just how much blood will he need?”

“Not enough to kill you, though I don't doubt it would be a serious problem if we weren't here. Have them send for me once he feeds. I'll heal you.”

“How will he obtain this blood?”

“His teeth will be sharper. He will bite your throat and drink.”

Morgana stared at the witch, her eyes wide. “Oh, my.”

Nimue laughed. “Don't look so terrified, child. It's actually quite erotic.”

The healer blinked. “You think being bitten is erotic?”

“Well, yes. Of course, it helps that I have a Truebond with Merlin.”

“A what?” Gwen frowned. Sometimes talking to Merlin and Nimue could be incredibly frustrating. She found herself parroting half the things they said in sheer confusion.

“A Truebond. It's a kind of magical mental link. It allows me to feel what Merlin feels, share his thoughts, his needs. When we make love . . .” She smiled, the expression deeply sensual.