Enchanted Warrior (9 page)

“You're an abomination,” Tamsin growled at the creature.

It made a soft chittering noise, crawling on all fours, wings folded tight and hugging the shape of the stones it clung to. The movements were more insect than animal, sending every one of Tamsin's nerves frantic with revulsion.

Tamsin could hear the heels of Nimueh's boots clicking on the stone floor. Tamsin squirmed, trying to see over the lion's back. The fae was coming closer, businesslike but unhurried. Tamsin fell back. The lions were a refuge, but they were also a dead end. She panted, nerves jangling. She was going to have to break cover and try for the side exit before Nimueh cut off her last hope of escape.

The gargoyle suddenly dropped in front of Tamsin's face, gripping the lion's mane with its back paws and grabbing with the front ones. Tamsin shrieked in surprise as needle-sharp claws raked her cheeks. Covering her face with one arm and batting with the other, Tamsin scrambled for freedom, but the gargoyle dropped onto her back, clutching her braid and hanging on with jabbering, squeaking glee. She cried out in pain, reaching around to jerk her hair free, but it chose that moment to bite, sinking its fangs into the flesh of her wrist.

Anger took over. Tamsin gripped the gargoyle and let fly with a pulse of blue energy, sinking it straight into the beast. It flung away with a squeal, arrowing at hideous speed until it hit the wall. The impact was horrific, an earsplitting crash ending in an almost gentle tinkle like the fall of broken china. The gargoyle was in pieces. Tamsin froze, horrified despite everything that she'd destroyed a piece of art. Then Nimueh was there.

Tamsin felt the stir of fae magic and didn't hesitate. She hit first, hurling a bolt of power. The first caught Nimueh square on the shoulder, sending her off balance. The fae spun in a swirl of pale hair, using the momentum of the blast to catch herself and throw her own pulse of energy. Tamsin dove out of the way, rolling to her feet, and then struck out again. A flash of light strobed through the church, bleaching everything white with its brilliance. By the time Tamsin blinked the world back into focus, Nimueh was gone.

Tamsin swore, furious and relieved at once. Had she hit her?

A moment later, the main door groaned open. It was Gawain, looking around the gloomy cavern of the church. He caught sight of her and bolted to her side. “Are you all right?”

He skidded to a halt and dropped to one knee. After one look at her scratched face, he pulled her closer. Tamsin gulped down the aftermath of panic as she buried her face in his shirt, breathing in the warm scent of him.

“Tamsin?” he asked gently when she didn't speak.

“I had a visit from Nimueh.” The words came out slowly, mumbled through a sudden fatigue. She'd fought back, she realized with a giddy lurch. She'd stood her ground well enough that the enemy had withdrawn.

He drew back. “How badly are you hurt?”

Tamsin looked down at her wrist where the creature had bitten her. There was an angry red mark, but it could have been worse. “I'm fine.” Then she started to shake, the adrenaline leaving her body in a rush. The world went foggy with tears.

“Hush.” Gawain folded her into his chest, comforting her with the warmth and strength of his arms. “I've got you. You're safe.”

Tamsin let herself melt against him. Only a few days ago, he'd grabbed her in this same church, scaring her half to death. Now his gesture was one of concern. The rapid, fundamental shift left her shaken.

“Tell me everything,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair for a long moment before he helped her to her feet.

She did, leading him back to her office as she described her encounter in detail. Gawain went quiet with worry. “I was afraid that Mordred would trace you. That makes working here a risk for you.”

“I might not be working here long. I'll have to come up with some excuse about the gargoyle.” She grimaced. “I can't exactly say it came to life and attacked me. Maybe I could say there was an earth tremor.”

Gawain looked dubious. “I wouldn't believe that story.”

“Thanks. That's helpful.” She stopped, picking up a set of car keys from the floor. She remembered Nimueh holding them. The fae must have dropped them during the fight. Tamsin shoved them in her pocket and went into her office, Gawain on her heels.

Beyond the office door, visitors were drifting in again. Tamsin heard an exclamation of dismay that said the ruined gargoyle had been found. At any moment, she'd have to start answering questions. Tamsin closed her eyes and stifled a groan. Then she remembered what she'd been doing before Nimueh ruined her day.

Tamsin picked up the invoice from her desk. “I might have found one of the tombs.”

Gawain snatched the page, his features tight. As he frowned at the faded writing, his nostrils flared, the lines bracketing his mouth growing deeper. He looked like a man afraid to hope.

“I don't understand all of it,” she said. “There's writing at the bottom of the page that looks like it might be something out of heraldry, but it's so faded I can't be sure.”

“‘Purpure, a two-headed eagle displayed or, beaked and membered gules, over all a bendlet gules,'” Gawain said, apparently having no trouble with the strange words. “It's a blazon.”

A blazon was the formal description a herald used when recording a coat of arms. This one described a golden two-headed eagle with red beak and talons, wings spread against a purple background and crossed by a red diagonal stripe.

“What's the significance of it?” asked Tamsin.

Gawain lowered the page, swallowing hard. His gaze was guarded, almost terrified. “It means you found my youngest brother, Gareth Beaumains.”

Chapter 9

T
hey had a tomb to find.

By the time Tamsin and Gawain escaped Medievaland and gargoyle-related paperwork, it was dark and rush hour traffic had eased. As a result, the drive into Seattle took only about forty minutes. Gawain amused himself with the Camry's car radio, pushing buttons until he found a station that played heavy metal.

“That is proper battle music,” he declared with satisfaction. “It sounds of hoofbeats and the clash of weapons.”

“I had no idea ancient warfare and retro rockers had so much in common. Maybe it's all the long hair and sweaty leather.”

Gawain raised an eyebrow. “You're mocking me.”

“Maybe.” Tamsin bestowed an innocent smile, though her nerves were still jangling. “It gives me something to do besides worrying about Mordred.”

“You surprised him,” Gawain cast her an approving glance. “He has forgotten how strong witches can be.”

“The covens keep to themselves.”

“Will your coven Elders approve of you helping me?” Gawain asked.

“I don't know. As I say, they're not crazy about getting involved with other people's conflicts.” Tamsin shrugged. “But if I bring them Merlin's books, the Elders will forgive anything.” They wouldn't be able to resist the knowledge—and power—such ancient lore could bring.

“And if you don't bring them the books? Will they forgive an indiscretion then?”

Tamsin bit her lip, anger and determination bubbling up in her. The car sped up, and she had to force herself to relax and slow down. “If I really made the Elders angry, my powers would be stripped for disobedience. I would be made a servant of the Elders so they could watch me. That's a lot like being their live-in secretary, nanny and housekeeper until I find a husband who can afford to pay them enough to let me go. If they never find out what I'm up to but I fail to find the books, I lose this job and go home. There won't be any second chances at a life outside our town.”

Gawain watched her carefully. “You don't want to go home. Not like that.”

“Everybody prefers choice. The only reason I play by the rules is because I love my family and don't want to leave them forever. This job—and these books—are my one chance to have everything I want. A little risk is worth it if I can get the job done.”

Gawain folded his arms. “We made a bargain. You help me, and I help you. We will find your books.”

They parked at the edge of the university's campus and walked toward the Humanities Center. It was a sprawling new building, all concrete and glass with little architectural imagination. Tamsin searched the web on her phone as they neared the entrance, the cold wind numbing her fingers.

“What are you looking for?” Gawain asked.

She slowed to a stop, reading the tiny screen. “There's an arts center in the lower level of this building and I'm guessing that's where the tomb is housed.”

Tamsin paused again, reconsidering her words. “Gawain, there's no guarantee the tomb is here. That invoice was from decades ago. Anything might have happened since then.”

After a moment's pause, he turned and strode for the doors. “A chance to find him is better than nothing.”

Tamsin closed her eyes, barely able to imagine what finding his brother as a statue would be like for Gawain. When she recovered, she had to jog to catch up to him.

Gawain pushed open the glass door and held it for her, his gaze already searching for a way to the bottom floor. It was close to eight o'clock and only a few students lounged on the benches near the door. Every one of them looked up as Gawain stormed through the foyer, reminding Tamsin of animals wary of a passing lion.

The stairs to the lower level were to the left. They descended and began searching the corridors, passing drinking fountains and bulletin boards, computer labs and vending machines. “I don't see any art,” Gawain said with irritation.

“Let's keep looking. This place is a rabbit warren.”

Gawain made a doubtful noise but kept walking. They finally found a set of double doors that opened into a separate section of the building. The first thing Tamsin noticed was a poster for a theater production, and the next was that the decor was much fancier than the area they'd just passed through.

She looked around to realize she was in the lobby of the art center's theater, complete with wine bar and crystal chandeliers. The main doors were up a flight of marble steps to her left. There must have been nothing on that night, because the place was empty.

“There he is,” Gawain said, pointing toward the back wall, where a large block of stone stood against the wall.

They both hesitated. Tamsin sucked in her breath, suddenly nervous. She'd found the clue on the invoice—now she was struck with a sudden sense of responsibility. She'd raised Gawain's hopes, so this had to end well.

He started forward eagerly. Tamsin followed a step behind, casting a quick spell to hide their presence from security cameras and wandering guards.

Gawain reached the tomb first. He gave a faint cry and fell to his knees beside it. Slowly he reached up, touching a hand to the figure's frozen arm. Then he bowed his head, despair in every line of his big frame.

The figure on the tomb was life-size, his feet resting on a crouching lion—a symbol of his bravery in life. His hands were crossed over the sword hilt placed on his chest. The fall of the knight's lashes was so real, the curve of his fingers so natural, that she could believe he would rise and stretch at any moment, yawning himself awake.

“It's beautiful,” she whispered, then remembered she was talking about a man, not a sculpture.

Tamsin reached out, her fingertips grazing the cool stone of the figure's youthful face. Her fingers touched rough stone as she reached the cheek. “There's damage here, as if something scraped the stone. Does that matter?”

“Those are scars. His face was burned as a child.” Gawain shifted with sudden disquiet. “I don't like seeing him this way. He was never so still. My brother seems truly dead.”

Tamsin put a hand on Gawain's shoulder, which felt fever-hot even through his coat. She squeezed gently as a tremor of emotion passed through his body, but he didn't seem to notice. He leaned his head forward, resting it against the edge of the sarcophagus. Hands fisted, Gawain wrapped his arms around his body, as if he would shatter with grief.

Tamsin had promised to help him, but she had not thought beyond locating the tombs. Now she blinked back tears, aching to ease his pain. Finding the knights was not enough. She had to do more before her heart broke in two.

Sudden inspiration darted through her like an electric shock. Clumsy with excitement, Tamsin dropped her backpack to the floor and fumbled with the zipper. She rummaged until she felt the side pocket inside the pack and withdrew her father's spell book. She cradled it in her hands a moment, feeling the worn leather of the cover against her fingertips. Grimoires had a way of knowing when they'd be needed, sometimes before their keepers did. This was one of those times. She untied the thong that bound it and began turning the pages to find the entry she wanted.

The page crackled as she finally turned to
A Charm to Awaken Those Who Watch
. Unlike some rituals, it didn't call for elaborate preparation. There were no potions or talismans, altars or symbols painted in sacred inks. These instructions had been old before much of that had been invented. This was simply words and will, unadorned and raw.

She began to read, slowly at first, chanting just under her breath. She felt the vine tattoo on her wrist warming, channeling her strength. The words were in the ancient tongue of witches and, while she knew it well, she hadn't spoken it since she had learned it from her father. The language felt strange in her mouth, almost like muscles she hadn't stretched for so long they'd gone to sleep. She felt the mark around her wrist begin to prickle with heat.

Gawain slowly raised his head, turning to look at her. “What are you doing?”

“Hush,” she said, and kept reading.

Magic began to collect in the air. It was not like the blue energy most witches used, because this spell didn't stem from the modern school of magic. This was older, warm where the Elders' power was cold. A mist of gold formed above the tomb, the tiny sparks glittering against the gloomy shadows.

Gawain got to his feet, apprehension filling his eyes.

She reached the end of the spell, refusing to stop until the words were done. “I know what I'm doing. Now let me work.”

Tamsin began the incantation again. She had to read it three times from beginning to end for the spell to take effect. Gawain grabbed her arm, interrupting her. “This is too dangerous. To you. To Beaumains. What if Mordred senses what you are doing?”

“Then we need to hurry.” She stepped back so she could look up into his face. “But we can't walk away and leave your brother here.”

A stricken look flashed across his features. Of course he knew that. He was trying to protect her. She could not fault him for that, but she needed his trust.

“I beat the Lady of the Lake and her gargoyle today. Trust that I'm strong enough to do this.” Her encounter with Nimueh wasn't quite the same as waking Gareth Beaumains, and she could see the protest gathering in his expression. “If you don't want me to keep going, I will stop. But if you do, I will give your brother everything I have.”

Gawain pressed his lips together, clearly struggling, but he nodded. “Go on. I will keep watch.” He stepped aside, giving her room.

She released her breath, his acceptance easing the crushing tension around her ribs. She began the incantation again. The golden mist had begun to fade, but now it flooded back, brighter than before, with tiny sparks like silvery shooting stars. Magic built in an unseen presence, an invisible visitor that ghosted through the room, almost touching her, almost breathing against her skin. Tamsin wasn't the only one who sensed it. Gawain had drawn the knife he kept in his boot and had backed away, looking up and down the room as if he sensed watchful eyes.

He hated magic, but he had chosen to trust her anyway. That meant something, and it gave her strength.

By the third time Tamsin read the words, she felt the magic drawing upon her reserves. She focused her will, concentrating on the stone melting away like ice from a warm and living body. She imagined the beat of a human heart and warm blood coursing through muscle and sinew. She envisioned the heavy yawn of the newly awakened, the first flame of intelligence lighting the sleeping features. The more intensely she projected those thoughts, the harder she felt the magic sucking at her, drawing her vitality up like a milk shake through a straw. Pressure began to build behind her eyes, and she knew she'd have a headache later. Her knees began to quiver.

But all that meant nothing, because the golden mist had steadied into a thick, constant glow. It surrounded the effigy in a dome, the surface catching rainbows like a soap bubble. Through the haze of light, Tamsin began to see the stone figure shimmer. Change began at the feet, where they rested on the lion's back. The supple leather boots deepened in color, shifting from stony gray to brown leather. Tamsin nearly faltered in her reading as her heart pounded with excitement. Colors began seeping upward as if the stone was soaking up life from the surrounding cloud of magic. The hem of Gareth's surcoat changed to deep blue, the mail coat beneath glittering silver. Buckles turned to brass, fur to dark sable, the scabbard of the sword to crimson leather. Finally, the loose curls of hair became auburn. The flush of youthful skin showed the knight was no more than twenty.

Tamsin finished reading and closed the book, slipping it back into her pocket. Her fingers trembled with exhaustion and the knowledge that she'd done all she could. If her magic was true, Beaumains would wake. He had to. Any other outcome was unthinkable.

Gawain was beside her now, his warmth a welcome comfort. He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close. The affectionate gesture was so unexpected she nearly jumped, but then soon leaned against him, needing his strength.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“We wait,” she replied, hoping with every cell of her body that this would work.

The golden dome of magic seemed to harden around Beaumains. Tamsin wasn't sure how long that took, but it felt like months. At that point, it grew dull and opaque. Tamsin imagined it cracking and falling to pieces, but instead it just began to fade in patches. Finally it shredded like mist in the wind, but the effigy remained utterly still.

Tamsin could feel the tension growing in Gawain as he watched his brother's unmoving form. Her own body coiled like a spring under pressure, every muscle cramping with the urge to shake the young knight until he woke up. She could still see Gawain in her mind's eye, kneeling before his brother's tomb. She would do anything to erase the agony she'd seen in him and prayed her magic had been enough.

The hope and desire, her need to make it right for Gawain sapped the last of her strength, and she dropped to one knee.

“Tamsin!” Gawain supported her with one arm around her middle, making sure she didn't fall. “Are you well?”

The room tilted, and Tamsin braced one hand against the floor. Gawain wrapped his arms around her, getting a better grip.

“I'm just tired,” she said. A sense of failure crept over her with a sickly touch, leaving her skin clammy. “I need to sit down for a moment, that's all.”

Gawain gathered her up and helped her to her feet, speaking no word of reproach. That, too, meant much, but it left a hollow feeling inside her. She had longed to do better.

When she lifted her head, her gaze fell on the effigy and she was forced to blink twice. All the color was gone, but that wasn't all. Where it had been exquisitely detailed before, now it seemed blurred, worn by time to a crude version of itself. Her first thought was that she'd damaged it.