Page 65 of Enchanted Warrior

“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 momentthe 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.”

Hector gave a smile she remembered from childhood—warm and filled with mischief. He grasped her hand in his, kissing it. “Delighted to.”

They began reading, their voices weaving together in a web of magic. Tamsin fell back through the years. It had been far too long since they had done this, father and daughter. It was like coming home and remembering who she really was all at the same time.

The dome of gold had faded to a mist, but now it came back stronger, glittering like a fine rain. Hector’s voice rang low and firm while Tamsin’s made a softer invitation. The rain became a fall of diamond-bright sparks that began to cling and slide down a solid form. Tamsin’s words nearly faltered as she saw what the brilliant light outlined—a sleeping man, tall and broad shouldered, with a gleaming, wicked sword that reached from his chest to his heavy-booted feet. She made out a neat beard and fall of waving hair, a strong, handsome face and pointed crown. Just as it had with Beaumains, color seeped into the sleeping form, painting him in reds and golds, with the lions on his surcoat a brilliant yellow. Tamsin stared and stared, unable to take in what was before her. Every illustration, every painting of Arthur Pendragon had looked just like this man.

She glanced up at her father, noticing the tears tracking into his beard. With a sudden ache in her throat, she realized her father had raised this king from the time he was a boy. Arthur was his foster son. In a strange way, he was almost her brother.

The vine tattoo on her wrist warmed, channeling her strength as it had when she’d raised Beaumains. But even with Hector’s help, this awakening was harder. Maybe it was because they were breaking the cloaking spell, too, but the harder she pushed her magic, the more it seemed to resist her urging. Her head began to throb in a way that made her stomach queasy. Tamsin closed her eyes.

And snapped them open again when she heard her father’s indrawn breath. At once she saw the tomb was nothing but a piece of stone. This time, she knew enough to look around. Arthur of Britain stood at the door, staring out at the courtyard. Although she could see only his back, she had no trouble taking his measure. He stood with confidence, a man surveying all that was his. With her inner sight, Tamsin perceived the golden aura of majesty around him, the power that was his birthright and his burden. It wasn’t witchcraft—she could tell at a glance that the king was fully human—but something just as old.

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