WARNING: This chapter is rated M for language and violence. Readers, I'm sorry about the language later on in the chapter (there are 3 cuss words), but I think someone like Tristan is bound to cuss at some point or another!

DEAR READERS: I have just found out that writers are no longer allowed to respond to individual reviewers within our stories, so I have had to go back and erase my comments to you from previous chapters. I truly regret this, for I have enjoyed responding to your reviews within the framework of my story. However, this website has provided another way for writers to reply to signed reviews via e-mail. My review replies will go directly to this website and they in turn will forward it to you while keeping your e-mail address private. I will not be able to respond to every signed review individually, but occasionally I will send a review reply to let you know just HOW MUCH I appreciate your comments. Believe me when I tell you, your reviews are a big motivation factor for me. Sometimes it's the only motivation! So please keep reading and reviewing!

Thank you to all of my reviewers and my beta Kris. I wish everyone a safe and fun holiday. May you all be blessed with much love, happiness, and good fortune this coming year!

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TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER SEVEN (Five days later, a half-day's ride east of Camboglanna)

Gawain would die.

Tristan did not need to hear the army surgeon's somber pronouncement to know the truth. Neither did the other knights as they quietly gathered around the hospital wagon to wait.

They knew what the outcome would be before Gawain was taken inside. They knew it from the moment they heard Gawain's pain-filled, angry roar and turned to see the golden knight catch and cradle his intestines as they spilled from the gaping wound in his abdomen. The Woad had sneaked up from behind, reached beneath his armor, and gutted him as cleanly as if he were a fish or small animal of prey.

It was so unexpected it almost defied belief, for they had won the battle this morning—a surprisingly easy victory against the Woad marauders, with only two Roman soldiers killed and a mere handful injured, and none of those seriously. Instead, the ground was littered and bloodied with dozens of dead Woads, and pieces of Woads—an arm here, a leg there, and severed heads and headless corpses everywhere. Out in the open, the primitive weaponry of the blue savages was no match for the armored might of the Roman army. And Arthur had lured them out into the open. They were foolish to engage, and had died for their foolishness.

But one had not been dead enough. Tristan did not know how the Woad escaped their notice. As was their habit, the knights and the Roman soldiers scoured the field after the battle and ended the suffering of the dying and the not-so-nearly dying. There was little honor in killing a wounded enemy who would otherwise live, but it was practical. Especially when said enemy was a Woad.

The cunning bastard had pretended to be dead. And the Roman soldier who later swore the man was dead when he examined him must have grown too confident and complacent after the victory to have realized the truth. There was no other explanation.

Gawain would die for a careless soldier's mistake, and only Tristan's iron discipline kept him from running the misbegotten Roman through with his sword. He looked at the sad, angry faces of his fellow knights as they kept vigil outside the wagon, and knew they felt the same. They would all like to run the Roman through, and mayhap they would get their chance, but now was not the time. Galahad was openly crying, his hand tightly clenched around the hilt of his sword, as his eyes followed the Roman's retreating figure.

"Don't even think about it. Not now," muttered Lancelot, echoing Tristan's thoughts.

"He deserves to be gutted the same as Gawain," hissed the young knight, and he actually took a step forward, but Bors grabbed his arm and stayed him.

"You'll only get yourself killed, boy, and that won't do Gawain any good." The murder of a Roman citizen by a non-citizen—no matter how justified—was punishable by death. The Sarmatian knights were not citizens of Rome.

Galahad dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hand. He wept in despair, and did not care who saw or heard. Bors sighed and patted the young man's shoulder, as if comforting one of his many children. Of Arthur's six remaining knights, no two were closer than Galahad and Gawain. They were more than friends and comrades at arms—they were brothers of the heart. From the moment Arthur brought them together under his command, Gawain had declared it to be so, for young Galahad bore an uncanny resemblance—both in appearance and temperament—to the golden knight's dead sibling.

Tristan lowered his gaze to the ground. He did not want to see Galahad weep.

Gawain was as fierce a fighter as there ever was, brave and brash, and seemingly indestructible when the battle fever was upon him. Tristan once saw him bring down three enemy warriors with his axe whilst an arrow protruded from his shoulder and another from his back. One of the warriors he felled was about to cleave Tristan in two. Gawain was as strong as a tree or a young ox, unfailingly loyal and steadfast, a good man to fight alongside with in battle. But even he could not cheat death. In the end, no man could, Tristan reflected, no matter how strong or fierce or brave.

Outwardly, the scout remained dry-eyed and detached, almost grim, but deep inside his fallow heart a kernel of grief sprouted. Only the gods and Tristan's innermost self saw it, and he ruthlessly crushed it before Tristan the warrior could become aware. Grief had no place in a warrior's life, anymore than love did. And so, he refused to grieve. But he would deeply regret Gawain's passing, and he would miss him. That much he could—and did—allow.

Beside him, Dagonet took a shuddering breath, and the scout suspected the big knight was fighting his own tears. On his other side, Lancelot kicked the ground in frustration and started to pace. This same scene had played out over and over again throughout the years; only the players changed, their numbers ever whittling down.

Gawain would die, and then they would be five. Out of one hundred knights hand-picked by Arthur to sit at the Round Table and fight for a cause not their own, only five would remain. Inside the hospital wagon, Tristan knew that Arthur was devastated.

And he was right. When Arthur emerged a short while later, he looked like a defeated man. His face was drawn and haggard—ravaged by the burden of yet another death. And his eyes were bloodshot. Arthur felt too much, cared too much about his men—more than was prudent for a commander, Tristan believed—and it had taken a heavy toll.

Galahad stood up and glared at Arthur through his tears, daring him to say the words, while the other knights held their collective breaths and waited for their commander to climb down from the wagon. At last, Lancelot asked, "Is he gone?"

Arthur solemnly eyed each of his men, his gaze lingering longest on the young knight, then he shook his head. "It will take hours, but he cannot survive such a wound."

Hours? Hours? How could that be? Tristan's heart began to thump, and Morgan's lovely face came unbidden to his mind for the hundredth time that week.

Distraught and angry, Galahad seemed as if he was about to attack Arthur, and his comrades tensed, but he grabbed the older man's arms instead and choked, "Is he awake?"

"No, Galahad…"

Arthur said more, but Tristan did not hear it. Hours. Gawain had hours to live. Disemboweled prisoners often lived hours, but their punishment was carefully and precisely meted out to ensure it. Who had ever heard of a disemboweled soldier surviving that long? But if the army surgeon said so…

Camboglanna was less than a day's ride away. In fact, with a fast horse, one could make it in a matter of hours.

Morgan was in Camboglanna. Morgan had healed a dying dog…

"Arthur!" Tristan interrupted his commander. The others startled at the unfamiliar urgency in the scout's voice, and turned to stare at him. "We need to get Gawain back to the fort now. We need to get him there fast."

"Are you mad?" Lancelot asked.

Tristan ignored the dark knight. He approached Arthur and looked him in the eye. "I think he can be saved."

Lancelot snorted in derision, but the other knights closed in.

"How?" Bors and Dagonet asked as one.

Galahad clutched at his arm. "Do you jest?" The angry disbelief in his voice was tempered by newfound hope.

Tristan's attention remained fixed on his commander. Arthur studied him for a long moment, then quietly said, "Gawain is in God's hands now. Nothing short of a miracle can save him." He paused and pursed his lips. "Can you offer me a miracle, Tristan?"

Gawain had hours yet to live. Morgan had saved a dying dog in minutes. A dying dog. The scout's heart thumped faster. For the sake of Gawain, he was about to place her in great peril.

"I think I can," he replied. Galahad gasped and dropped his hand. Tristan was buffeted by the intense emotions roiling through and from the knights around him—shock, disbelief, hope, anger—but he forced himself to stay calm and cool in the face of Arthur's scrutiny.

"Explain," his commander demanded.

"I know a young woman. A healer. She is very gifted. I believe she can save him." Would Morgan see it as betrayal? Undoubtedly—for that was precisely what it was.

"I have never heard of such a healer at the fort," Arthur said, with a shake of his head. "Our surgeon is the best one in the frontier and he says Gawain will not live. How can this young woman save him?"

"Do you trust me, Arthur?" Tristan asked instead of replying, even as he felt a stab of remorse for breaking faith with Morgan.

"You know I do."

"Then trust me when I tell you that I believe she can save him. I have seen her save a dying…" Tristan hesitated, unwilling to say 'dog' and have Arthur dismiss his claim. "I have seen her save someone who was dying, someone who should have and would have died from his injuries without her."

Tristan did not tell Arthur that she was a sorceress—that she healed with magic. His Christian commander would see that for himself soon enough. There was no need to betray the girl in front of the encampment—before the Roman soldiers who listened unabashedly a few paces away and the Roman surgeon inside the hospital wagon. The gods willing, Arthur would agree to protect her, as Tristan knew the other knights would once they learned the truth.

Galahad spoke up. "Arthur, if there is any chance this woman of Tristan's can heal Gawain, then I think we should take it."

Lancelot snorted again, and asked, "Who is this mystery woman? Why have we never heard of her before?"

Tristan spared the dark knight a cold glance—he and Lancelot would surely come to blows one day—then shifted his gaze back to Arthur. "I will ride ahead to fetch the healer and meet you at the estate. Dagonet can take Gawain. His horse will readily carry the weight of two men. The others can relieve him if need be." The wagon would have been preferable, of course, but it would never reach the fort in time.

Lancelot was appalled. "This is madness! Arthur, he will never survive it." His face spoke of utter disbelief and dismay.

But the other knights were swayed by Tristan's calm assertions. "He certainly won't survive if we do nothing!" countered Galahad.

"At least this way he will have a chance," added Dagonet, who seldom spoke up about anything. In truth, he was even quieter than Tristan. The scout knew that whenever the big knight did speak, Arthur was apt to listen. This argument was won.

Bors realized it too. "Bah! What are we waiting for?" Ever impatient, he trudged off to where the squire Jols had gathered their horses, and thus reminded his comrades that time was wasting.

"Go, Tristan. Make haste," Arthur said, his decision made.

Tristan heard the surgeon's loud protests as he rode away shortly thereafter, but he never doubted for a moment that the knights would soon follow with Gawain—Arthur's word was command on the field. Nor did he doubt Morgan's ability to save the golden knight, if he survived the journey back.

It did not occur to Tristan that she might refuse outright to heal Gawain, until he was alone with his thoughts on the road to Camboglanna—alone, except for his horse, which sensed the scout's urgency and raced like a dragonfly, and the ever-faithful hawk that accompanied them overhead.

Would Morgan refuse? Tristan scowled into the wind. There was no telling how she would react to his betrayal. He had witnessed her fit of temper in the alleyway. When riled, she lashed out like a caged lion. But she was vulnerable too—especially when she was with him and let her guard down. He had wounded her before with his callousness. Would she be angry this time, or would she feel hurt? Or would she simply be afraid? Tristan acknowledged that she had a right to all three emotions.

Whatever she felt, however she reacted, he could not allow her to refuse him.

And she might not. Morgan was infatuated with him—the gods and she only knew why—and he stood a good chance of winning her compliance merely by asking. After all, she had bedded Gawain more than once. Tristan knew this because he had asked the golden knight. She had bedded Galahad too, and the closeness between the two friends would not have escaped her notice. The girl was, if anything, observant. Both Gawain and Galahad were popular among the whores, and Morgan—in all likelihood—favored them over most of her other clients. Yes, she might readily agree to heal the golden knight.

But if she required coaxing—or even an apology—Tristan would do it, though it was out of character for him to show such weakness to any person. If he had to bend her to his will, so be it. He was well versed in the art of coercion and felt no qualms about resorting to it—though, in truth, he did not relish doing so with Morgan. She had taken him places he'd never been. She touched him in ways that no other woman ever could. And since their last coupling, she verily haunted his thoughts, preying on his mind at the oddest moments.

Tristan had acquired a taste for her.

And yet, despite any reluctance he might harbor, the scout knew that if he had to threaten her with bodily harm, he would, to get what he wanted. A choice between the girl's feeling of security or Gawain's life was no choice at all. Though he was far from indifferent to her, he barely knew Morgan—save in the carnal sense—but he had fought and bled and broken bread alongside the golden knight for many, many years. If he were forced to choose between the two, Gawain would win hands down.

Willingly or not, Morgan would heal Gawain.

But once Gawain was saved, Tristan would do his best to protect her, even if it meant defying Arthur. That much he vowed.

And no sooner did he vow it than he gave a short, ironic laugh. To think, just a few days ago he intended to kill her if she became too much of a complication. Well, she was certainly that now, and Tristan was caught in her web fast and true. Yet he could no longer imagine ever wanting to take her life.

The grassy fields and dark forests that abutted them passed in a blur as one hour lapsed into the next and the day waned. Tristan scarcely noticed, for although he instinctively kept his senses attuned to any sign of danger, during the remainder of the journey random images preoccupied his mind. Images of Morgan in and out of her red dress, as she spoke, and smiled, and made love to him. Images of Gawain gutted by the Woad and Galahad weeping and Arthur's distraught face. And other, traitorous images he quickly quashed—of Morgan's delicate hands on Gawain, and Gawain paying court to the young woman who saved his life.

At long last, Tristan's horse crested a high hill and Hadrian's Wall and the fort came into view, the ash-gray stones painted a warm gold by the late afternoon sun. Tristan was almost home, and he was shocked to realize that that was exactly what he had called it inside his head. Home. Since when had Camboglanna become home? Of all the knights, only Bors considered it so—and that, Tristan suspected, was because of Vanora and her brood.

Might Morgan have something to do with his strange new feeling? Possibly, the scout admitted. Probably. He recalled the last time he saw her, just before the knights rode out five days ago, and his expression grew thoughtful. He did not get to speak to her again, for a scant few hours after he left her room, word of a Woad raid reached Camboglanna. But he spotted her in the crowd of well-wishers that lined the main street of the fort to see the knights and Roman soldiers depart. Morgan wore her usual solemn face and hung back from the other people, electing to stand alone on a small raised stoop. He slowed his horse as he passed her by and drew a loud, angry curse from Lancelot who rode too close behind. Tristan saw her cringe at the dark knight's outburst, then she raised a hand in farewell. The scout nodded back, and a small smile tugged at his mouth. For the first time ever, he understood a little of what Bors must feel each time he left the fort. And, as he sped through the large wooden gates on his way to battle, Tristan realized—for the first time too—that he had something, or rather someone, to come back to. Whether he welcomed it or not.

Now as he rode back through the gates five days later, he was hardly surprised to feel his body tense in anticipation of seeing her again, despite the gravity of his mission.

Just like the last time he returned, the streets of Camboglanna were almost deserted, for it was nearing dusk. Tristan reached the stable a short time later and relinquished his reins to a surprised groom. The scout settled his hawk on her perch. Then, with a mumbled apology to his horse and a quick stroke of the long, dappled neck, he walked out of the stable courtyard and onto the street. He could not remember the last time he left his animals in the stable without first attending to their needs. But he had to get Morgan to the estate before the others arrived.

Tristan did not run to her room; rather, he maintained a brisk walking pace, and ignored the curious stares of a wine seller and two Roman guards who passed him by. Within minutes, he was climbing the narrow wooden steps at the end of the alleyway, two at a time. As he knocked on her door, a preternatural calm settled on his face. His expression betrayed nothing of the turmoil inside his head.

Morgan opened the door. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw him, and her lips parted in a delighted smile that he could not help but return. She quickly stepped to one side to let him in, then leaned her back against the wooden panel and closed it behind her as he turned around.

"Tristan…" The warmth of her smile echoed in her voice, and in his gut.

The girl took his breath away. She had not finished dressing for the evening and only wore her red chemise. Her hair was unbraided, and tumbled carelessly down her back in a riot of curls as black as a starless night. It was the first time he saw it unbound, and for the space of several heartbeats, he forgot why he was there as his eyes drank her in. He loved her hair. His gaze shifted to her slim, boyish figure, and he could see the nubs of her nipples through the thin fabric of the chemise. He could see them grow hard under his stare.

Her beauty was exquisite, sensual. Her presence brought him an unfamiliar joy. And he wanted nothing more than to crush her in his arms, bury his hands in her lustrous curls and his shaft in her delicate body.

Morgan reached out, and laced his fingers with her own. "I am glad you have returned safely," she said.

And, suddenly, he remembered Gawain.

Tristan squeezed her hands. "But not all of us have, Morgan. We need your help."

She stiffened at once. "What do you mean?" Her voice sounded wary. The warm, loving look on her face was replaced by her usual guarded expression. It almost pained him to see it. Almost. He had made his choice.

"Gawain is mortally wounded. Arthur and the knights are bringing him back as we speak so that you can heal him."

Morgan gasped in shock. "What!" She shook her head, as if negating his words, then glared at him, "You told!" And he did not deny it.

She started to pull back, and tried to wrench her fingers free, but Tristan tightened his grip. Her pulse hammered wildly beneath his thumb, and hinted at the volatile emotions surging inside of her. She was going to be difficult. "Listen to me. He has been disemboweled. You are the only one who can save him now."

"No! No!" she exclaimed, and struggled harder. "You said you would not tell!" Her brows drew downward in a scowl. She was furious now, and frightened. Tristan could feel the sudden heat of her anger, and smell her fear. "You lied to me!" she accused.

He tried to reason with her. "It's Gawain, Morgan. Gawain."

Morgan did not listen. "Let me go!" she shouted, and kicked his shin. She was barefoot and did not hurt him, but—lest she try to aim higher next time—he released her hands and spun her around, then roughly pulled her back against his hard body. The collision winded her, driving the air from her lungs in a loud whoosh. Before she could escape, he wrapped his arms around her waist and chest, and trapped her own arms in the process. Morgan was not going anywhere.

"Now listen to me…"

"Let me go!" she shouted again, and wriggled and writhed and pushed to no avail, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The jerky movements of her back and buttocks against his body, and the feel of her soft breasts pressing against his upper arm as she struggled to free herself, set his blood aflame and wreaked havoc with his insides. Tristan's loins burgeoned with life. He was not angry with her—for she had every right to be upset—but he was annoyed.

"I am not letting you go," he warned through gritted teeth, "so stop it before you get hurt."

Still, she refused to listen. As she continued to writhe, Morgan twisted her head sideways and bit him viciously on the arm. The scout grunted in pain and slid his arm upward to grab her chin with a none too gentle hand. He pushed her head back and up until their gazes met—and clashed.

Morgan's eyes were stormy, and bright with hurt and accusation. Her mouth was set in a tight, unyielding line.

Tristan sighed. He did not want to hurt her anymore, but he had to. "It's Gawain. You've fucked him before," he told her harshly, and she flinched as if he had struck her. "Surely that must mean something to you."

He saw her face lose all its color then flush a deep red. He saw the fight go out of her eyes before she closed them tightly.

"Morgan…"

"Please…" she whispered, as her body slumped in his arms, "please don't ask this of me."

"There is no one else I can ask. I'm sorry." And he was, but there was naught he could do about it.

Her eyes remained closed when she started to cry softly. He hardened his heart against her tears and wiped all expression from his face. But Morgan refused to look at him even when he released her at last and gently disentangled the buckles of his cuirass from her hair.

Without sparing him a glance, she walked around him and toward her bed on unsteady legs, looking every bit like a drunkard. She was in deep shock. Tristan thought he heard her mumble, "I have already done what I could for him," though he was not sure of the words. Before he could question her, she plopped on the edge of the mattress, and spoke again, her wet eyes staring into empty space.

"How can you expect me to do this? My master does not know that I…"

"He does not have to," the scout asserted. Morgan bowed her head. She looked as defeated as she sounded, and this time he could not stop the pang in his heart.

"I am expected at the tavern," she now argued half-heartedly. "What do you think will happen when I fail to show up?"

"Bors will send word to Vanora that Arthur has hired you for the night—that should satisfy the tavern keeper. And we will pay you for your time." No one would ever think to question the fort's commander.

Morgan heaved a sigh, and finally lifted her troubled eyes to his. "It's not just that…it's…I am afraid," she admitted. Her hands now clutched at her skirts, opening and closing convulsively. It was a habit of hers when she was frightened, Tristan recalled, and he nearly smiled.

She reminded him of a little girl. He approached the bed and crouched before her. "I know you are afraid, " he told her, in as gentle a voice as he could muster. "But I do not think you have cause to be. We will keep your secret." At least, he hoped so.

She did not believe him. "Your commander is a Christian."

"He is a fair man, Morgan."

"When are Romans ever fair?" she countered. He heard the bitterness in her voice and knew that she must have good reason to doubt.

"Arthur is different from other Romans. In fact, he is only half-Roman. He is like you, Morgan," and he was surprised to see her startle and go very still, "for are you not part Roman yourself?"

Morgan said nothing, but he had her full attention now. Her gaze was riveted on his face, her expression strangely intent—and enigmatic. Save for the fear that still lingered in her eyes, he could not read her at all, but at least she was listening.

"If you save Gawain's life, Arthur will not repay you with punishment. He is a noble man, a man of principle. He will protect you, and if, for some reason, he cannot, I will. I give you my word that I will protect you." And he meant it.

Morgan smiled a brittle smile. "Just like you gave me your word not to tell?" she asked him quietly.

Tristan's mouth tightened. True or not, her words stung. He stood up and looked down at her with a cold, impassive face. "I am not asking you to heal him."

Her eyes narrowed and she nodded in understanding. "I have no choice, do I?"

There was no need to reply—she already knew the answer. He stared at her for a moment longer, then headed for the door. "Get what you need. We leave now," he ordered.

Morgan stood and walked to the narrow table in the corner. She lifted the skirt of her chemise and spread it as she kneeled to pull out two baskets from underneath the table. Her hair was so long that it fanned and curled around her on the floor, on top of her red skirt, and he was struck once again by its wild beauty. A brief, appreciative smile graced his lips. Later tonight, when all this was over—when Gawain was healed—Tristan would bed her.

He casually watched from the door as she took a bundle of comfrey and other herbs he did not recognize from the first basket and set them aside. Then she did what he thought was an odd thing. She quickly looked over her shoulder at him before removing the lid off the second basket. His body tensed. Was she trying to hide something? He could not see what was inside, but she rummaged through it with great frenzy and breathed a loud sigh of relief when she found and took out a piece of rock chalk and the pink stone she had used to heal the dog. Curiosity got the better of him, and with the speed and silence of a serpent he sneaked up behind her, and grabbed her wrist just as she was about to replace the lid.

He grabbed her wrist and nearly snapped the fragile bones when he saw what lay inside. Amid a motley assortment of rags and ribbons and rocks were two poppets.

Tristan knew what poppets were used for—black magic. Death spells.

He should not have been surprised—not really—but he was.

He bent over and picked one up in each hand. The first poppet had a small lock of curling black hair stitched onto the head and a bone needle stuck through the chest. He could be anyone. Most of the men in Camboglanna had hair like that. Titus, the brothel keeper and her master, was one such man. Tristan glanced at Morgan. She sat so still that she scarcely seemed to breathe, as she watched him with eyes that were as wide as a doe's. He frowned, and looked at the second poppet. This one had an oak leaf—fresh, not dry—tied around the torso with a pale yellow ribbon, and several long strands of sun-kissed hair wrapped around the head. A woman? Not many at the fort had hair that fair, and most of those who did bleached their dark tresses gold. Tristan's frown turned into a scowl. He held the poppet up to the lamp and took a closer look at that hair. No, not a woman's. Gawain's.

The second poppet was Gawain.

He dropped them both on the table and swung his head around to look at Morgan. No longer frozen still, her body quivered uncontrollably. Her cheeks were devoid of all color. She was terrified again and did not bother to hide it. Tristan pinned her with hard, glittering eyes—unforgiving eyes—and hissed, "You bloody little bitch."

She had played him for a fool.

Before he could stop himself, he struck her hard across the face, splitting her lip. He struck her even though he had never before hit a woman with his bare hands. Morgan cried out and fell to the floor in a trembling heap. Tristan's fist closed around the hilt of his knife. Only the certain knowledge that Gawain would die without her magic kept him from plunging the blade into her treacherous heart.

It had all been an act on her part. Everything she said and did was an act.

"You lying whore," he spat, as his other hand closed around her arm in a grip that was meant to bruise. He dragged her to her feet. Morgan stumbled against him, and he let go of her arm and shoved her back, for he was loath to have any part of her body touch his.

"Stop," she entreated, holding one hand in front of her in a pleading gesture, while she swept her hair away from her face. With grim satisfaction, his eyes followed the trickle of blood that ran from her torn lip down her chin. He silently vowed to make her bleed a lot more before the night was out.

She had meant to kill Gawain with her witchspell. Ordinarily, Tristan would scoff at the very thought that a poppet could kill, but he had seen Morgan's magic firsthand. He knew what she was capable of. The bitch had bedded Gawain and then tried to kill him as surely as if she held the knife that disemboweled him. Morgan had fooled them all.

"Tristan," she said, her voice as quivery as the rest of her, "it is not what you think." His gaze lifted to her eyes—vicious, lying eyes, he now knew, though to look at them one would never suspect. She wore an expression of abject fear and sadness and pain, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe it away with his fists. But lest he hurt her—truly hurt her—before she could save Gawain, he smothered the burst of hot, impetuous rage that compelled him to strike back. Instead, he allowed his familiar, cold detachment to take over. He allowed his blood to freeze in his veins.

"Destroy it now," he commanded with lethal calmness, and pointed at the poppet.

Morgan shook her head. "If I do, the golden knight will die." He did not believe it for one moment. He would not—could not—believe anything she said anymore. Yet he knew such magic was complicated, not easily reversed. Dare he countermand her and risk further harm to Gawain?

"Get your things together," he told her instead.

But she was not ready to give up. "I can explain…"

"I don't want you to," he interrupted. "I want you to shut up and do as I say." Or I will kill you. He did not have to say the words. She understood well enough. For a moment she stood gaping at him, then she nodded her head jerkily and dropped to the floor to gather up the herbs and chalk and healing stone. To these she added several strips of linen from the second basket and wrapped them all up in a kerchief.

"Are you afraid, Morgan? You should be," he taunted as she worked. He sounded cruel and pitiless, but that was the least she deserved. Gawain was dying because of her. Morgan did not look at him, nor did she rise when she was done. She simply sat there with the kerchief on her lap, staring off into some faraway place. And he suddenly realized what she was doing. She had blocked him out; she was blocking it all out.

Tristan muttered an oath. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her to her feet. Then he forced her to look at him.

"You will undo the evil you have wrought this day."

"Tristan, I did not…" she started to protest, but she sounded dull and disengaged.

"Shut up!" he snarled, while his fist twisted painfully in her hair. Morgan stared up at him with flat, passionless eyes, as if she was already dead. Tristan sneered with unmistakable malice. She was beyond contempt, beyond simple hatred. She deserved to be obliterated for what she had done. He drew her closer, brought her face within an inch of his own. Revenge was best served cold, and he was very, very cold.

"You will undo this evil," he repeated, "and save Gawain. Then, little sorceress, you will answer to me…"