Master of Swords (10 page)

Hard arms closed around her. Panicking, she tried to beat them off, only to hear Gawain snap, “Calm down! It's me!”

Lifting her, he leaped. Lark sensed the familiar magical rush of a dimensional gate passing over her body. Then they were through, and she sucked in a hard breath, inhaling cool, clean air untainted with magic and smoke. Helplessly, she began to cough.

“Well,” Gawain growled, “That was a complete goat-fuck.”

The world went out.

 

Breathing hard, Edge
watched the gate vanish with a soundless magical pop. Savage exultation rolled over him in a heady wave.

He'd fought one of the knights of the Round Table and won.

Killing the bastard would have been better, of course, but forcing him to retreat was almost as good.

Damn, but they weren't kidding when they said revenge was a dish best served cold. His had been cooling for two decades, ever since Bors had told him he wasn't fit to be a Magus.

Well, tonight he'd come one step closer to ramming that particular bit of arrogance down dear old Dad's throat.

He glanced around, taking in the wreck of his sanctuary. Many of his precious volumes of mystical lore were in flames, but even that wasn't enough to dim his euphoria. So what if he'd collected those books for two decades? He had no need of them now.

Still, he was going to have to move his lair somewhere else. It wouldn't take Gawain long to come back with reinforcements.

Edge was almost tempted to hang around anyway—one of the attacking party was sure to be Bors—but he knew that would be a mistake. The fight with Gawain had drained his reserves too far, and the little bitch's last blast had actually hurt. He'd need to build his strength again before he could risk another confrontation.

He'd come so far since Geirolf's death.

Months spent stalking, killing, and draining his fellow cultists had begun to pay off. Yet one fight with Gawain, Kel, and the bitch had eaten deeply into those precious reserves. Battered as he was, he'd have to hunt again tonight.

It was too bad he hadn't managed to kill Gawain. An astonishing amount of raw magic was bound up in one of the knights of the Round Table. An immortal, with over a thousand years of magical life spent both absorbing the energy of the Mageverse and feeding from magic-using women…

What's more, Gawain had drunk directly from Merlin's own Grail, then passed on the wizard's power to generations of offspring. The stored mystical energy from that alone would carry quite a kick.

Add to that the raw, alien magic bound up in the dragon sword—God, what a meal those two would make!

But perhaps he'd be wise to set his sights a little lower than Gawain and Kel. An ordinary Magus—even a knight of the Round Table like Bors—wouldn't have the Dragon Sword's magic to back him up.

It was certainly something to think about.

 

His hands shaking,
Gawain held the Dragon Sword over Lark's unconscious body as she lay in his bed. “Is she going to be all right?”

“We need to get her helm off. I'll…” Ruby eyes widened. “Cachamwri's eggs, it's dented like a Coke can!”

“What? Where?” Laying the sword down beside her, he gently turned her head. “Shit.” There was a fist-sized hollow on the left side of her enchanted helm. And if the helm looked like that…“We need a healer. Now.”

“Calm down, I can take care of her.” Gawain felt Kel's magic call to his, then sweep across Lark's still body. The helm vanished, revealing an icily pale face marred by a constellation of bruises. Most sinister of all, blood matted her dark hair, and the shape of her head looked…wrong.

Gawain stared at the wound, appalled and sickened. “If she'd been mortal…”

“She'd be dead, but she's not mortal and I can heal her. Now shut up.”

Gawain sank down on the bed next to her and gave himself up to whatever magic Kel needed. “We almost lost her. I almost lost her.”

“But you didn't. Watch it, my reserves are low from the fight. I'm going to have to draw on yours.”

Gawain gritted his teeth as he felt Kel's magic start sapping his strength. His body seemed to grow heavier. Suddenly he felt every ache and bruise from the battle. Swallowing, he lay back against the headboard, silently cursing himself.

The dragon's magic flowed over her body, glowing fiercely.

Lark drew in a sudden, sharp breath.

“There we go!” Kel said triumphantly, allowing the power field to fade. “Just a little bit more.”

Another surge of power, the drain so fierce Gawain thought for a moment he was going to throw up. Then, blessedly, Lark stirred and moaned.

“God, my head hurts,” she husked, without opening her eyes. “I feel like crap.”

“No surprise,” Kel said. “What were you thinking, stepping between us and that psychopath?”

“Not so loud,” she pleaded. “And I was thinking you were about to get whacked.”

Gawain sensed her drawing on her own magic to complete the healing Kel had begun. Dragging himself upright, he examined her anxiously.

Lark looked up to meet his gaze, frowning. He was relieved to see that she looked alert and clear-eyed. Even the bruises had vanished, though blood lingered in her hair. “Tell me you killed him.”

Gawain shook his head. “I had to get you out of there. You were badly hurt.”

Her frown deepened. “You should have finished it, Gawain. Now we've got to worry about catching that nut job again.”

Exhausted, he let himself sag back against the headboard as his eyes drifted close. He ached in every muscle, and he felt dangerously weak. “You were hurt. Look, I have to…” He never managed to finish the sentence.

Alarmed, Lark jerked upright as Gawain's head lolled. He looked pale, almost bloodless. “He's passed out!”

“Healing Sleep,” Kel told her. “Between fueling my magic during all those powerful spells and fighting Edge, he's done for the night. He'll need to recharge from the Mageverse and feed when he wakes.”

Lark frowned. Magi drew much of their sustaining magic from the Mageverse itself; that was the reason for the Daysleep. They drew the rest from their partners during sex and blood drinking. “Is he going to be all right?”

The dragon's small head nodded. He looked almost as haggard as his partner. “Just let him have a pint or two from that lovely throat, and he'll be right as rain.”

She snorted and rolled off the bed, feeling suddenly full of energy. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it in favor of their immediate problem. “What's this about Edge and Lord Bors?”

“Edge is Bors's son,” Kel explained.

Lark frowned. “That's not Mageverse magic he's using.”

“Cachamwri's breath, no. Edge's application to become a Magus was refused decades ago. Somehow he must have hooked up with Geirolf in the meantime.”

The descendants of those who'd drunk from Merlin's Grail were called Latents because they carried the genetic potential to become Magekind. But unless repeated sexual contact with a Maja or Magus triggered the Gift in their DNA, they remained mortal.

The Majae's Council decided which Latents received Merlin's Gift after checking to ensure they were morally and mentally capable of dealing with such power. It wasn't a decision anyone made lightly, since it wasn't uncommon for new Majae to go insane. And an insane Maja was a Very Bad Thing. Lark imagined a psychopathic Magus would be even worse.

Because qualified applicants were so rare, most Magi were in the habit of fathering large numbers of illegitimate children. The theory was that the more of them there were, the more likely one or two of them would make viable Magekind. Most of them had no idea what they were; John had been an exception.

“How did Edge find out he was a Latent?”

Kel furled his wings back and settled down, looking more like a tiny silver swan than a dragon. “His mother was a Maja. She raised him in the Mageverse.”

Lark's eyes widened. “He's a Latent on both sides?” And one of them a knight of the Round Table. Boy, that was a prescription for the Bad Guy From Hell.

For a moment, she imagined what it would have been like to grow up in the Mageverse, knowing you had the potential for immortality and incredible power. Believing it would be yours, only to be denied. “No wonder Edge is pissed. But how did he end up serving Geirolf?”

“I have no idea.” Kel yawned delicately, his long forked tongue curling like a cat's. With a sigh, he settled his tiny head down on his partner's forearm. “I've got to go to sleep, or Gawain won't be able to rest as deeply as he must. Try to stay out of trouble, child.” Jeweled eyes slid closed.

“I'll do my best,” she told him dryly.

An instant later, he froze in place. It looked as if someone had cast the sword's hilt in just that pose, with its triangular head resting on Gawain's armored arm. Then the armor covering Gawain's muscled body melted away, leaving his big body naked and lax in sleep.

Visibly exhausted though he was, his body was still breathtaking enough to make her own purr in approval. She remembered the instant when he'd stepped on that book and started to go down. She hadn't even thought twice about stepping between him and Edge.

Which would have been fine, if it had only been duty that motivated her. Unfortunately, she knew her act of self-sacrifice had more to do with the tender heat she'd seen in Gawain's eyes when they'd made love.

“Oh,” she muttered, “that's so not a good sign.”

Particularly considering that Tristan and Diera were united in the belief that he'd never see her as anything but a tasty little side dish. And they had a point. After all, this was the same man who'd broken Diera's heart—Diera, who was so much more powerful, experienced, and lovely than Lark.

If Gawain could walk away from a Maja like that, what chance did she have?

Lark's first impulse
was to head for the Ladies' Club. Unfortunately, it was still nightfall, and she didn't want to leave Gawain alone in the Healing Sleep.

As she debated what to do next, her stomach rumbled a demand for dinner. She made a quick trip to the kitchen downstairs, assembled a sandwich in Gawain's well-stocked kitchen, and returned to the living room to eat it in front of the fire.

As she munched, Lark's mind kept returning to the battle. She'd been so far out of her weight class, there hadn't been much she could do but sling books and take a blast for Gawain. It was humiliating.

What would Tristan do in this situation?

She could almost hear that deep, rich voice.
Know your enemy, Lark
.

In other words, find out more about this Edge character and determine a way to bring him down.

Ordinarily, Lark would turn to Diera for help with a question like this. Though not quite as old as Tristan and Gawain, her friend had been around for almost a thousand years. Tristan knew Bors, too, of course, but somehow she suspected this kind of thing would strike him as gossip. Diera, on the other hand, knew where most of Avalon's metaphorical bodies were buried—heck, she'd probably held the torch for the grave diggers.

Unfortunately, she and Gawain also had a history, one Diera was uncharacteristically bitter about. Lark wasn't sure she wanted to poke that particular wound.

Still, if anybody knew anything about Edge, Diera would be the one. The sorcerer had to be dealt with, period, so her friend was just going to have to suck it up.

Decision made, Lark pulled out her cell phone. The device had no business working in the Mageverse at all—not only were there no cell towers here, its battery was dead. Luckily, like almost everything else in Avalon, it was enchanted. “Diera,” she told it.

A moment later her friend's voice answered. “Lark?”

“Yep, it's me. Listen, I've run into a situation, and I was wondering if you could help.” Better to avoid mentioning Gawain if she could avoid it.

“Certainly, darling. Why don't you come to the house and we'll discuss it over tea.” She sounded pleased with herself. “I have a great deal to tell you, too.”

“I…can't just now. Gawain's in a healing sleep, and I don't want to—”

Alarm rang in her voice. “What's wrong?”

A bit surprised at her friend's obvious concern, Lark filled her in on the fight with Edge, then sketched in its aftermath.

“I agree, you definitely shouldn't leave him alone under those circumstances,” Diera said when she finished. “Wait a moment, and Antonio and I will be right over.”

The phone went dead.

Oh, this should be interesting
.

She looked up to see a dimensional gate forming next to the fireplace. An instant later, Diera stepped out of it, followed by the tall, muscular dark-haired Magus.

Apparently they'd kissed and made up after their earlier fight. As Lark greeted them, Antonio watched Diera's every move as if utterly smitten, a fact that obviously flustered the Maja.

Delighted, Lark disposed of the remains of her dinner and conjured tea for the three of them. Diera and Antonio seated themselves on the couch so close together their knees bumped.

“First, I'd like to apologize for my abysmal behavior earlier tonight,” Diera announced, giving her tea a subtle zap to adjust its sugar content to her liking.

Lark made a dismissive gesture. “Don't worry about it, Diera. We're friends. God knows you've put up with a lot worse than that from me.”

“That may be,” Antonio said in his deep, accented voice, “but even an immortal cannot afford to waste her life in such bitterness.” His gaze slid to Diera's face and lingered hungrily. “A woman of such beauty and intelligence has so much more to offer.”

And from the sound of it, Antonio was dying to sample Diera's offerings. Lark lifted her tea and took a sip to hide her threatening grin.

Diera colored prettily and patted the hand he'd rested on his muscled thigh. “After I calmed down, I realized what a little bitch I'd been. Actually, I think losing my temper like that did me some good. It showed me exactly what my bitterness has done to me. It's been two years since Gawain and I broke up. I need to forgive him, ask his forgiveness in return, and move on.”

Directly to Antonio, it would seem.

A surprising burst of jealousy shot through Lark.
Forgive him for what?
She fought down the impulse to ask and sat back in her armchair. “Sounds like a positive step.”

Diera turned earnest blue eyes to hers. “When Gawain wakes from the Healing Sleep, please call me. I want a clean slate between us.”

“I'd be happy to.”

Her friend nodded briskly. “Good. Now, about Richard Edge…”

Relieved at the change of subject, Lark studied her friend. “What can you tell me?”

Diera hesitated. “Actually, I think it would be wise to bring Bors in at this point. He deserves to hear what you've told me, and he may be able to throw some light on where to look for his son. It's obvious Edge will move elsewhere, now that you've found his temple, or his lair, or whatever it was.”

Lark grimaced. “Diera, I don't know Bors. I'm not comfortable giving him news like this. Shouldn't we wait for Gawain?”

“And lose hours we could use to investigate this? I don't think that would be wise.”

She stifled a curse. “I suppose not.”

Diera nodded briskly and produced her own cell. “Bors? Diera…I'm well, thanks. Listen, a friend of mine and I need to talk to you. It's about Richard.”

She fell silent a moment, then nodded briskly. “I'll create a gate for you.”

 

Like Diera, Bors
arrived with his assignment, a rangy young man named George Rivers. The kid immediately moved to prop a tattooed shoulder against the fireplace mantle and regard them all with an air of acute boredom. Lark had the impression he wished he were off killing something.

But it was Bors that held her interest. Dark and brawny, his resemblance to his son was uncanny. Ironically, he appeared younger than Edge, since he'd drunk from Merlin's Grail in his early twenties. Then there was the animation and warmth in his gaze, so different from the reptilian chill in his son's.

It was painful to watch that warmth drain into horror as Lark related the events of the night.

“Oh, Merlin's beard. Richard—one of Geirolf 's cultists?” Bors stared at her, his expression stricken. “And he tried to kill you and Gawain?”

“I'm sorry,” Lark said awkwardly, mentally cursing herself for not waiting to stir up this particular hornet's nest until Gawain was awake.

Bors sat forward in his chair, broad shoulders hunched. “I loved that boy,” he whispered. “And his mother doted on him.” Suddenly he stood restlessly and began to pace. “Maybe that's the problem. Maybe we loved him too much.”

“You and his mother were Truebonded?” Lark asked.

Bors looked around at her, jolted from his guilt. “Meredith and I? No. Lovers for a time, nothing more. But when she became pregnant with Richard, I was determined to play a part in his life.” He stopped his pacing to stand with his dark head down, lost in thought. “In retrospect, that was yet another mistake. She should never have tried to raise him in the Mageverse. We should have known better.” Blowing out a breath, he admitted, “And I should have stayed out of his life. If nothing else, he wouldn't have been able to give Gawain such a run.”

“Why not?” His apprentice asked from the fireplace, dropping the disinterested pose.

Bors shrugged. “I taught him how to use a sword from a young age, just as we knights were taught centuries ago.”

“What's wrong with raising children in the Mageverse?” Lark asked, puzzled. “You both wanted to be with him. Seems to me that was just what you should have done.” John would have loved to grow up with Tristan's full-time attention.

“The problem is that children are mortals.” He started pacing again, his strides long and restless. “They need to be raised among mortals, not by people who can realize every whim with a thought.”

“What's more, it doesn't take a child long to realize he changes when everyone else here does not,” Diera added. “Since there are so few children in Avalon, the child comes to feel isolated, unable to connect with those around him.”

“And with Richard, it was even worse. By the time he became a teenager, it was obvious something had gone badly wrong.” Bors's face was tight with remembered pain and guilt. “He was callous. He…one of the neighboring Maja had a dog, a toy poodle. Yappy little beast, but harmless, and she adored that animal.” He stopped pacing to run an agitated hand through his hair. “Richard killed it. Ran it through with his sword and left it to bleed to death. Said it had annoyed him. He was all of twelve.”

“Oh.” Lark winced. Killing and tormenting animals was one of the signs of developing sociopathy in teens.

Bors nodded. “And then there was what happened with Diera.”

“Diera?” Lark raised her brows and looked at her friend. “What'd he do to you?”

Antonio frowned, tensing protectively.

Diera glanced at him and took his hand. “Nothing that dramatic. He had a little crush on me, but he was a child. I tried to let him down gently…”

“And he threatened to kill her,” Bors gritted.

“He didn't mean it. He was a child, simply speaking out of frustration and rage.”

“He may have been a child then,” Antonio told her, looking even more upset, “but he's certainly not one any longer. You could be in danger.”

“I doubt it. We reinforced Avalon's wards after the invasion.” She gave him a comforting smile. “There's no way he could get through.”

The young Magus did not appear comforted.

Lark turned to Bors. “What happened after he threatened Diera?”

“Meredith finally moved to mortal Earth with him. We'd hoped he would form a sense of empathy among his own kind, but it didn't work.”

“No,” Lark said softly. “He'd been raised among Magekind, so he wouldn't have fit in back on Earth either.” Suddenly Tristan's distance from John was much more understandable.

“Exactly.” Bors stood with his head down, his expression troubled. “He was constantly in trouble, with his teachers and other children. He was expelled from school, stole a car, got in trouble with the law. I think he would have sold our secret to the first reporter he found, but his mother put a spell on him to make sure he couldn't talk.”

“God.” Lark rubbed a hand over her face, wincing. “The teenage years are normally hard, but…”

“Yes.” Bors sighed. “I moved in with them early on, trying to help Meredith control him, but my attempts at discipline only made him angrier.”

“That must have been tough,” Lark said softly.

“And it got tougher when Richard turned eighteen, because he fully expected me to submit his name to the Majae's Council to become a Magus.”

“And you said the only thing you could say,” Diera said.

“Which was, of course, no.” He blew out a breath. “Richard was furious. He swore he'd make me regret ruining his chances at immortality. He never spoke to me again.”

Lark stared at Bors. “What chance at immortality? The council would never have approved him, not with that track record.”

“Exactly. I actually considered submitting his name just to keep the family peace, knowing he'd be denied. But I hoped that my refusal would make him see he couldn't continue to follow this path.”

“But it didn't work.”

Bors sighed. “No.”

“What about his mother?”

“She continued to try to help him for several more years before she finally gave up and washed her hands of him. To my knowledge, she hadn't seen or spoken to him in fifteen years. The irony is that she died in that final battle with Geirolf 's army three months ago.” He turned and walked to an armchair, then dropped into it heavily. “In a way, it's a blessing. She doesn't have to see what he became.”

“I'm sorry,” Lark said softly.

“I never dreamed he was capable of anything like this. It wouldn't have surprised me to discover he'd become a petty thief or been shot in a barroom brawl, but this…” His voice trailed off. “My worst nightmares never included anything like this.”

Antonio spoke softly. “What are you going to do now?”

Bors looked over at him, his gaze flat. “The only thing I can do—kill him.”

His apprentice straightened away from the fireplace in alarm. “Dude, I don't think that's a good idea. He's your kid. Yeah, sounds like he needs killing, but you shouldn't have to do it.”

“There are others who can fulfill that duty,” Antonio said quietly.

Bors shot him a glittering look. “Maybe I deserve to suffer.”

“I think you've already suffered more than enough,” Lark said.

“It's pointless,” Diera agreed. “And not particularly safe. You can't afford to go into combat like this. He'll eat you alive.”

“I don't care.”
The knight slammed his palm against the coffee table, making the cups rattle and jump. “I did this! I am responsible for making him what he is!”

Diera rose from her seat and went to kneel beside Bors's seat so she could meet his eyes. “Perhaps when he was eight, but Richard is in his forties now. He's responsible for making himself what he is.”

“And what he is, is a monster.” Bors gritted his teeth. “I kill monsters.”

He rose from his chair and started for the door.

“You're not going after him now?” Lark demanded, shooting to her feet in alarm. “Without reinforcements?”

Bors gave her a glittering look over his shoulder. “Of course not. First, because I'm not a fool, but more importantly, my primary responsibility is to Arthur. He must be informed my son has turned traitor.” Pain flashed across his face. “Arthur will probably dispatch the Round Table.” Straightening his shoulders, he strode from the room like a proud man walking to his execution.