Page 69 of Enchanted Warrior

“Don’t do this!” she said in a low voice. “I deserve more from you.”

And he yearned to say more, to take her in his arms, but parts of him were going numb again. One limb, then another. Mordred’s wound was taking pieces of him away.

“Leave him to me.” Another set of hands, hard ones this time, dragged him to his feet. “I’ve got you, old friend.”

The demon screamed above them as Gawain brought Arthur’s face in to focus. The monster was signaling another attack. “My lord.” He tried to swallow the blood in his mouth, but his tongue felt thick and dry. “Run.”

“Agreed.” Arthur hauled him forward as the sky filled with the thunder of the demon’s wings. Tamsin sprinted ahead, seeming to grow more and more distant with every step. It was an illusion bred by Gawain’s mounting fever, but it was also truth. She was slipping away. He wanted to call her back, but he was losing consciousness.

Gawain’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint. The last thing he remembered was the demon flapping upward, Mordred dangling limply from its claws. The Prince of Faery had become dinner.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

“I’m a killer,” Gawain said to Beaumains.

“You are a knight,” Beaumains replied, sounding kindly if somewhat impatient. “Cousin or not, Mordred had it coming.”

They were sitting on the top row of benches that formed the spectator stands at Medievaland. Below were the tourney grounds, but no bouts were on and the stands were empty.

They’d returned just hours ago, after Hector and Tamsin had opened the portal back to Carlyle, landing just outside the theme park. About twenty-four hours had passed since Gawain and Tamsin had set foot in the Forest Sauvage.

But to Gawain, it seemed like months since Hector had left him at Medievaland and taken his daughter home. Both witches had been exhausted after reviving Arthur, healing Gawain and opening the path back to the mortal realms. The knights had elected to come here instead of crowding into Tamsin’s tiny home. The king was off roaming the grounds, looking more or less like one more costumed player.

Beaumains leaned back on the bench. “When I got the call from Tamsin to come here and find you, Mordred’s death was all I could think about—but in a good way. Praise the saints and devils, he’s finally gone. Call me bloodthirsty if you like. I don’t care how you did it.”

“I do,” said Gawain, his stomach like lead. “Not that I regret ending the threat of our cousin, but because of how it was done. Being a soldier, a knight is one thing. I understand honest steel and know when and how to use it.”

“But magic is different?”

“I don’t need to remind you that it was my magic that killed our sister. I nearly killed you.”

Beaumains made a noise of understanding. “That was a tragic accident when you were a boy. Mordred goaded you into it. He was a menace even then.”

“But I fell into his trap out of pride.” Gawain studied his brother’s ruined face. “I hurt you.”

“I know.” A sad smile softened the words. “But I also remember you pulling me from the fire. You were the greatest of heroes to me then, this warrior who walked through flames to rescue me. We all stumble, brother, sometimes terribly, but it is how we make amends that matters. And don’t forget you were a child. You didn’t have the wisdom of a man.”

Gawain bowed his head. “I tried to atone. I thought I had cut the rot of our mother’s magic from my soul, but here it is again.”

“Does it need to be rot? I have to confess, I’d sooner have inherited mother’s magic than her singing voice, but children don’t get to pick.”

Bitterness twisted Gawain’s lips. “You don’t think I’ve been tempted by the glitter of untold power?”

Beaumains sat up and punched Gawain’s arm hard enough to hurt. “You’re worried that you’ll turn bad. I’m not. No sooner would you come up with a wicked plot than you’d start apologizing for it. You think too much to enjoy the life of an evil witch.”

“I’m not a witch,” Gawain said automatically, but the words held no conviction. He had no more choice in the matter than in the color of his eyes or the curl of his hair. There was nothing he could do. Nothing.

Gawain leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He had fought for years to deny the truth, but that had availed him not at all. After all this time, he’d finally surrendered to his nature. Shame came like a blow to the gut.

But itwasn’tsurrender, not in the sense of giving up. Frustration clawed at Gawain, pulling apart all his assumptions. He’d used the talents he had to save the woman he loved, and he refused to believe that was wrong.

Beaumains had a point. With magic came responsibility. Merlin had forgotten that, but Gawain would not. He’d seen the consequences of misused power, from the temptations of Lady Bertilak to the tragedy of Angmar’s people. Gawain was not perfect, but he knew deep in his soul that there were lines no one should ever cross.

He let out his breath. All at once the cold afternoon crowded in, clean and sharp and filled with the distant clamor of fairgoers. There was a purity to accepting what he was, much like the song of his magic flashing down his sword. That had been a perfect moment, intent and action in utter harmony. All he’d cared about was keeping Tamsin safe.

That act of love had forced Gawain to destroy his hard-won belief in who he was. He’d transformed himself from killer to champion with the force of self-denial. He’d masked his magic, crushed it, but that had been a lie. His love had made him face the truth—and then he’d pushed her away.

“What are you thinking about?” Beaumains asked uneasily. “There are no suicidal heroics in the works, right?”

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