Wicked Games (6 page)

Twenty-four chairs surrounded the table, presently occupied by Arthur and his knights, Merlin, Nimue, Gwen, Morgana, and a number of others chosen by the two conjurers. Since the total was greater than the number the Table could accommodate, the rest sat at long tables around the walls. Gwen ordered food and wine for her guests, then dismissed the servants once it arrived.

Nimue studied Arthur with a frown. “It might help if I heal that injury before we begin this discussion.”

“You're hurt?” Guinevere's gaze swept the length of his body in alarm.

“Mordred caught me in that old hip wound,” Arthur explained, then turned to Nimue. “I would be grateful.”

“I will need to touch you.” When he nodded, she rose and knelt before him to rest fragile fingers on his dirty knee. Heat rolled up his thigh, followed an instant later by a blessed cool that surprised him into inhaling. An odd sensation followed, like something moving beneath his skin. He was still trying to figure out what the hell it was when Nimue took her hand away.

“The wound will trouble you no more.”

Arthur flexed his leg, surprised when agony didn't shoot through his hip. “There's no pain at all.” He laughed, surprised and gratified. “I've grown so used to the constant ache, it actually feels a bit strange.”

As those at the Table murmured in astonishment—even Morgana looked impressed by the speed of the healing—Nimue frowned. “From the scarring, it must have given you a great deal of pain for a long time.”

Still rubbing his hip in amazement, Arthur nodded absently. “Yes, I took an arrow during a siege of an enemy fortress fifteen years ago.”

“He almost lost that leg.” Gwen's wondering eyes appeared very wide and blue as she gazed at Nimue. A grin spread across her face, brilliant as dawn, and she caught the witch's hand. “Thank you! Thank you so much. I had feared it would always torment him. . . .”

“You're welcome, of course.” Nimue smiled at the queen. “I'm glad I could help.”

Arthur rubbed his thigh hard and grinned when the pain showed no sign of returning. “So,” he said, reaching to carve a slice of suckling pig for Gwen, then putting it on the trencher they shared. “Tell me about this choice of yours, Merlin.”

“To understand that, my king, you must first learn of the future I foresee for humanity if you decline my cup.”

Arthur looked up from pouring Gwen a goblet of wine. “I thought you said you couldn't foresee the future.”

“It's difficult for me to see any individual's future, but the fate of an entire people is a different matter,” Merlin said. He paused as if to consider the best way to explain. “It's similar to the way it's easier to see something large than something very tiny.”

Considering the point, the king nodded. “That does make sense.”

“So.” Leaning back in his seat on Arthur's left, the wizard took a sip of his wine as he flicked his free hand at the metal brazier in the center of the table.

Flames roared up, casting light across the watching faces in shades of blue and gold and crimson, yet radiating no heat. Those watching murmured or gasped at the brilliant display. “Now,” said the boy wizard in his oddly resonant voice, “share my vision.”

Towers appeared in the leaping flames, standing so breathtakingly tall, the people that bustled around them looked like ants. Hulking metal carts on fat black wheels rolled between the great structures, following streets paved not in stone, but a smooth black substance painted with lines of yellow and white.

One cart, yellow as a marigold, rolled up beside a tower. Arthur saw the same dazzled absorption on the faces of those around him that he felt himself.

“If that's a cart,” Gwen murmured, puzzled, watching two people get out of it, “where's the horse?”

She was right. There wasn't a single horse anywhere in sight, despite the stream of carts flowing between the buildings, accompanied by arrhythmic trumpet blasts.

But as Arthur started to ask about that mystery, a rumble sounded, intensifying until he felt the reverberations in his bones.

All those surrounding the towers stopped to stare skyward in alarm.

And died.

Fire blossomed, blinding enough to make the noonday sun appear no more than a candle's flame. When the light died, the city was gone, save for blackened ruins clustered around an immense glass pit. There was no sign of anyone at all.

“What happened to them?” someone asked.

“They died,” Merlin said grimly. “All of them. Instantly.”

The image shifted, fleeing across the Earth like a bird on the wing. Miles away, the first carts appeared, melted into slag or blazing like torches. More miles passed before people appeared, staggering, so horribly burned, Gwen at first didn't realize they were people at all.

“Mankind will be extinct within three years.” Merlin's voice sounded low and tight. “Dead of burns, starvation, exposure, or poison in the air and water.”

“Surely this is the wrath of God?” Arthur turned a troubled gaze on the wizard. “His judgment for the sins of these people?”

Merlin snorted. “God did not do this, Arthur. Men did.”

The king gaped at him. “Are they all magicians in this future of yours? How did they do this?”

“Not magic. Weapons.” The wizard shook his head in sorrow. “Weapons you can't imagine. Your language doesn't have the words, even if I tried to explain.” He turned a brooding gaze on the horrific scene. “And this is only one possible future. There are an endless number of ways and times and reasons humanity may wipe the earth bare of all life. You and your knights and ladies could serve as the balance. You could save your world.”

“But if it's the will of God . . .” Arthur's spread his hands. He had never felt so helpless. “How is drinking from a cup supposed to give me the ability to change this?”

“If it's the will of God, it will happen no matter what you do. But what if it's only the will of sinful men?” The wizard leaned in until they were almost nose to nose. “What if you can save all those who would otherwise suffer and die?”

Arthur shook his head. “Merlin, I don't see how that would even be possible. It must have taken years to build that city. Decades. Perhaps centuries. I am only one mortal man. I'll be dust long before then.”

“Not if you drink from the Grail. A sip from my cup will change you, allowing you to live centuries without aging a day. You could guide your race beyond those shoals.”

“I don't see how even immortality could give me the ability to prevent something like that.” He gestured at the brazier and the slagged city it portrayed.

“Immortality is only one of the gifts the cup will bestow.”

“But why don't you do whatever it is you want done? Obviously, you have great power. Why must it be me?”

“Because this is a task for your kind, and I'm not one of you. What's more, yours is not the only people in danger. My task is to help those others gain the power to save themselves, just as you must.”

“Again, how? As some kind of immortal tyrant? Always at war, always waiting for betrayal? I have been High King but two decades. I wouldn't care to bear such a weight for centuries.”

“A tyrant is the last thing your people need.” It seemed the night sky shone reflected in Merlin's eyes, a spiral of stars through darkness. “You would only guide, not order. In the end, humanity must choose its own way, just as all creatures must. But the choice will be better for your guidance.”

Arthur studied him. “Do you see that, too, then, with this Sight of yours?”

“I see . . .” Merlin blinked and shook his head. “Not enough. Only that the paths to extinction become fewer if you drink. You, and the men and women I will choose from among your people.”

“Men and women?” His brows lifted.

Merlin gestured at their listeners. “By drinking from my Grail, the men will become Magi, gaining physical speed and strength far beyond mortal abilities, while the women will become Majae, with magical skills like those Nimue and I have.”

With a frown, Arthur studied the wizard. “I assume you don't intend my ladies to fight to the death? It would be no even contest, even assuming any knight of mine would fight a woman who has never held a blade.”

“Obviously, I don't intend the men and women to fight, especially not to the death. The combat is only a way for me to judge which of your people is most worthy.”

Nimue spoke up. “As to the women, the contest they face will not be fought with steel. Your queen and the others . . .”

“Wait . . . my queen?” Arthur glowered at Merlin's lover. “Queen Guinevere will
not
fight.”

Guinevere turned from her husband to look at the young witch, who stared back at him with ruthless eyes. “Then are you willing to watch her die of old age or mortal disease, while you live on, looking a decade younger than you do now? For if you drink from the Grail and she does not, that is precisely what will happen.” For all her blond delicacy, there was steel in the young witch, tempered and cold as a blade in a snowbank.

The kind of cold that burns,
Gwen thought. Before her courage could fail her, she said the only thing she could. “I'll take your test.”

Arthur caught her hand, worry in his eyes. “Gwen . . .”

“I will do whatever I must to keep you. I'll fight however they choose. And I'll not lose.” She locked eyes with him. Gwen hadn't been married to Arthur Pendragon all these years without learning how to stare him down.

His gaze finally softened. “As you wish, my lady.” He turned a level stare on Merlin. “I'll drink from your Grail—after my queen passes your test.”

Merlin didn't even blink. “No.”

Arthur had a way of seeming to grow larger and more dangerous when crossed. He used that trick now. “Then I'll not drink.”

Merlin's voice dropped. “As you will. But be warned: if you decline my cup, others will not. It may be you will have cause to regret it.”

A chill slid over him. “Are you threatening to offer it to Mordred?”

Merlin's head rocked back as he gave Arthur an impatient look. “Of course not, but someone will accept it, regardless of the cost. Especially if it means tasting their heart's dearest dreams.”

Dearest dreams? Like an heir?
Arthur thought, suddenly seeing a personal benefit to something that had begun to sound a lot like martyrdom without even the promise of heaven as a reward. Could Nimue heal whatever it was had caused his and Gwen's childlessness as easily as she had his hip?

Gwen's gaze met his, and he knew she was thinking the same thing. “If we drink from your Grail, would a child be possible?” he demanded. “Could we become parents?”

Merlin turned to the fire as if seeking an answer in its flames. After a long pause he said, “When you decide you want another son, there will be no difficulty.”

“A child.
Our
child,” Gwen whispered. She caught his hand. “Ours. I'd fight any battle to hold your son in my arms.”

Arthur turned to Merlin. “I'll drink your potion.”

“There is one more thing to consider, sire.” Nimue frowned, looking from his face to Gwen's. “If she loses . . .”

“I will not lose.” Gwen said stonily. She'd fight to her last breath for her chance at that cup, no matter what it cost her.

The witch gazed at her without blinking, without even appearing to breathe. Finally she looked at Merlin and tilted her chin ever so slightly.

As if she'd given him permission, Merlin turned to Arthur. “There is one thing more. The women who drink from the Grail will gain the power to work magic almost as great as Nimue's. The men, however, will become like the males of my race.” He swept his black gaze around the room. “Those who whisper I don't eat are correct. I must drink the blood of my mate instead. It's her magic which sustains my life.”

As everyone in the room gasped, cursed, or crossed themselves, one of the knights said exactly what Gwen was thinking. “You want our king to become a blood-drinker?”

“Oh, not damned likely,” Lancelot snapped, before he turned to Arthur. Normally he deferred to the High King, but sometimes he acted like the childhood friend he was. “You can't mean to do this, sire. Not even to gain an heir.”

“It could cost your soul,” Kay agreed. “Not to mention your throne. You'd be handing your enemies a cause they could use to trigger a revolt.”

Gwen's heart sank, knowing the two men had a point.

Arthur paused a moment before he said, “My knights are correct. I want a son or daughter, but not at the cost of plunging my kingdom into a civil war that could cost the lives of all I love—not to mention those of uncounted innocents.”

“Rejecting my offer will not prevent such a war, my king,” Merlin retorted. “Even now, the Saxons flood into your kingdom, hungry for land and conquest. Keeping them out would take more manpower than you can muster. It doesn't take a wizard's Sight to know they'll eventually march against you. Perhaps not this year, perhaps not even the next, but you will inevitably face them. When that day comes, you and your elite knights will be older, slower, and weaker, against a force that greatly outnumbers yours. They'll wipe you out, Arthur. Not just you personally, but your entire culture. All you've accomplished, all you've fought and bled for, will be lost to darkness.”

“If you're correct,” Arthur retorted, “we're going to have to deal with the Saxons regardless of whether we drink from your cup or not.”

“True enough, but your ladies will have magical abilities almost the equal to mine, while no mere human will be able to best you and your knights in battle—you'll be too fast, with too much raw strength. You'd be more than a match for the Saxons.”

Gwen frowned. “But did I understand that Arthur would have to drink your mate's blood?”