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Chapter Twenty-Five

G awain lingered in the gloom of the Great Hall.

Before him stood the Round Table and the hundred and fifty tall chairs that surrounded it, each hung with the shield of the knight who had won the right to sit there.

Tapestries lined the walls in brilliant hues, showing the exploits of Arthur and his knights.

Above, there was a gallery for onlookers and another for musicians.

The feasts in the glory days had been something to behold.

The polished wood table was not, as some imagined, a solid circle.

Instead, it was made in sections that fit together in a ring.

Speakers could address the Round Table from the center, essentially giving each member a front row seat.

That was where the Green Knight had issued his challenge, and where Lancelot had publicly taken Beaumains to be his squire.

For many, many years Gawain’s life had been tied to the events that took place in this room.

He stole a glance at his own seat at Arthur’s side, and for once was filled with hope instead of loss.

They could build this all again, couldn’t they?

They would have to build it better. Mordred had been a master of half-truths, pitting friend against friend until the company of knights fell to pieces.

That couldn’t happen again. This time, they couldn’t swerve in their loyalty to king and cause.

This time, they had to hold Arthur’s word above their own petty concerns.

The stakes were even higher than before and, if they faltered, Mordred and LaFaye would crush the mortal world.

“Gawain?” Tamsin stood in the doorway. “Is everything all right?”

“Come in,” he said, and wasn’t surprised when she stopped in her tracks to stare. With the doors wide open, there was just enough light to glimpse the splendor of the room. He tried to see the place with a stranger’s eyes, but it was too close to his heart.

“Everything is fine,” he said. “Or it will be, once we find the king. Look, the seeking spell stops right there.” Gawain pointed to a spot in the middle of the Round Table’s circle, where the pale blue thread shimmered to nothing.

“I see that,” Tamsin replied, still turning in place to see all of the room. “This is amazing.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “It’s Camelot.”

They slipped through the aisle between sections of the table, following the spell to its end. Tamsin wound the thread of light around her wrist and give it a sharp tug. The signal for Hector to join them, Gawain supposed.

He swept a foot through the empty air where the seeking spell stopped. “I don’t feel anything.”

“You won’t,” Tamsin said. “If the tomb is truly obscured, it’s more than just invisible.”

“Then how do we move it through the portal?”

“We don’t,” said Tamsin. Then she reached inside her pocket and retrieved the tiny volume she’d used the night she’d awakened Beaumains.

“There’s a much faster way. I don’t see why we should drag the tomb with us when all we need is your king.

If I bring him back from the stone sleep, the cloaking spell will dissolve on its own. ”

Gawain laughed, drawing a surprised look from her beautiful dark eyes. He dropped a kiss on her sun-bright head. “Have I ever told you how truly magnificent you are?”

“Not nearly often enough.”

Tamsin began reading from the spell book, her light, sweet voice rising and falling in a language Gawain didn’t understand.

His first impulse was to stand and stare at the space where the tomb should have been, hungry for the first glimpse of his king and friend, but that would help nothing.

Instead, he went to the door and looked out, sword in hand and alert to any danger.

The wash of magic behind him raised the hair along his arms, but he was growing accustomed to being around a witch’s power again.

It stirred the dormant magic in his veins, heating it the way her beauty heated other parts of him.

For the first time in many, many years, he yearned to reclaim that lost part of himself—and yet the very idea disturbed him in the extreme.

Gawain had learned not to play with fire, literally or in metaphor.

This time, though, the tingling power signaled that the quest for Arthur was nearly done.

Gawain and Tamsin had kept their bargain, to the betterment of everyone.

Did that not make this alliance with magic worthwhile?

Wasn’t there something here to learn? Gawain pushed the question away, but not as far as he might have done once upon a time.

He felt rather than heard trouble arrive. A tapestry fluttered with a draft that shouldn’t have been there. Gawain spun, sword raised.

“Hello, cousin,” said Mordred, his face puffy and bruised from the beating Gawain had given him.

Tamsin cried out in shock. Gawain’s sword twitched, but he checked his blow.

There was no way he could strike, for Hector was on his knees before Mordred, his head bloody and back arched in pain.

It wasn’t hard to see why—Mordred’s fingers were wound in the older knight’s gray-streaked hair.

As Gawain watched, his cousin gave the hair a twist, bringing a grunt from his prisoner.

“Let my father go!” Tamsin cried.

Mordred didn’t even look her way. He wore armor, the same blue-black steel Gawain remembered from so long ago. He was expecting a fight, and Gawain was happy to give him one.

Mordred gave a serpent’s smile. Frost began to form on the weapons hanging in the room as Mordred’s power sucked the heat from the air. He was getting ready for more mischief. “I think we have a few things to discuss.”

“Did you enjoy my beating so much that you came back for more?” Gawain lowered his arm. Any blow that would kill Mordred would hurt Hector. That was fine—Gawain could wait. “I honestly thought Nimueh might finish the job.”

“She’s gone, the slippery fox.” Mordred fixed him with a bloodshot eye. “Bolted. Vanished. When I hunt her down, she’ll pay for letting you go.”

Nimueh on the run? That was interesting news, but it could wait. “Tamsin,” Gawain said. “Keep reading the spell.” They needed Excalibur if he was going to finish Mordred once and for all.

The room had filled with the golden brilliance of Tamsin’s magic, though the tomb was still invisible. Her eyes were wide with distress and fixed on her father.

“But I say you don’t read the spell, or I slit the old man’s throat.” Mordred’s bruised smile was a leering mockery. “However, I do thank you so much for leading me to Arthur’s tomb. Hunting for it has been such a tedious business.”

Relying on speed, Gawain slapped Mordred’s arm with the flat of his blade, praying surprise would be on his side.

It worked. Mordred let go of Hector, who slumped to the floor without a word.

Gawain glanced down just long enough to see the old knight was not bleeding, but in that split second, he lost his advantage.

Mordred lunged and snatched the spell book from Tamsin’s hands. Mordred laughed as she lashed out with a fireball. “Concentrate, little witch,” he sneered, batting it aside. “Gawain did better than that when he could barely reach the table.”

The gibe made Gawain flinch, but he let it pass. The golden light from the spell was beginning to soften, a sure sign that Tamsin’s magic was unraveling. Mordred had used Hector to distract her, and it had worked all too well. Gawain adjusted his grip on his sword, calculating his odds.

Gawain lunged, aiming not for Mordred’s heart, as his cousin would expect. Instead, he pricked the hand holding the spell book. The book fell, but the motion left Gawain’s defenses open. In a flash, Mordred’s sword—a black blade he called Viper—was in his cousin’s hand.

“You want to do this?” Mordred snarled, his lean face mottling with rage. “Man to man?”

“Gawain!” Despair filled Tamsin’s cry.

The purity of it pulled at Gawain’s core, pleading that he come back safe.

No one had ever called for him like that before, but there was nothing he could do to offer reassurance.

Grabbing his shield from the back of his seat at the Round Table, Gawain rounded on Mordred, smashing the shield hard into Mordred’s half-prepared sword thrust. It wasn’t a regulation move, but it forced Mordred a step toward the door—and away from Tamsin.

Gawain rained blows on Mordred, keeping him too distracted to throw a spell Gawain had no hope of blocking.

He followed with a blow to Mordred’s breastplate that sent his cousin staggering back.

Mordred’s heel slipped, making him stumble.

For a moment, Gawain thought the fight was won, but Mordred was quick, whipping his sword around to parry Gawain’s next blow.

Gawain kicked him in the stomach hard enough to send him skittering into the courtyard, away from Tamsin and her father.

Gawain grinned. He fought for her now, this woman who had called his name.

The moment the coast was clear, Tamsin dove for Hector, only to discover he was conscious and had pulled the spell book under the protective shield of his body.

“You were faking it!” she cried.

“Here,” he said, pushing the book toward her. “Not faking it. Securing the prize so that worm of a faery prince didn’t remember what he came for. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’ve come to appreciate guile.”

Tamsin met Hector’s eyes. Whatever distance had been left between them was gone. “How badly are you hurt?”

“He knocked me out and threw me on my horse,” Hector said gruffly. “I’ll be fine.”

She took his arm, helping him to his feet. He moved stiffly, grabbing the Round Table for support. “Get on with the spell. Gawain will need Arthur’s sword if he is going to survive this fight.”

“Then help me,” she said, taking up the book. “Two of us will make it go faster.”