Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I still do not understand why he did it,” Gereint put in. “Betraying the king…” He subsided, shaking his head as if it were a thing that would remain forever beyond his comprehension.

  “Evil ever chooses the weak and willing,” Myrddin replied. “But I think it was really Gwalchavad she wanted.”

  “Me!” He startled me with this unexpected announcement.

  “You were the first to find Morgaws,” he stated simply. “You are Lot’s son, after all, and Morgian knows you. It would have served her purposes well to bend you to her will.”

  The thought made me uneasy. “Then Morgian was behind it after all?” I asked.

  Myrddin pondered this before he answered. “I believe Morgaws was Morgian’s creature from the beginning, and acted on Morgian’s command,” he said, then, in a voice heavy with regret, added, “Would that discernment had come to me sooner—how much suffering might have been saved…the waste…the sad, sad, waste.”

  “What will she do now?”

  “We have removed yet another weapon from the fight,” he answered. “I have no idea what she will do now. But I think it prudent to assume we have not seen the last of Dread Morgian.”

  The threat implicit in this statement hung over me for a long time. I fell silent, thinking about the things Myrddin had said, and was roused some while later when Gereint suddenly cried out, “Riders approaching!”

  The shout startled me like a slap in the face. Deeply immersed in my reverie, I had not been attending to what was happening around me. I looked up to see that the forest had completely disappeared: every tree—root, branch, and twig—had vanished with the mist. There was nothing of the forest to be seen anywhere, and we were once more in the low-hilled barrens of the blighted land.

  I had no time to marvel at this, for Myrddin and Gereint stood a few paces ahead of me, and beyond them, some small distance away, a mounted warhost was advancing swiftly.

  Arthur, with Gwenhwyvar beside him, joined us quickly, and Bors and Rhys pushed in as well. We stood there in a tight knot as nearer and nearer they came. Soon I heard the dull rumble of the horses’ hooves on the ground, and I scanned the onrushing ranks quickly and determined that there must be close to fifty riders—too many to fight, if it came to that.

  “Maybe they are some of Cador’s kinsmen,” speculated Rhys, shading his eyes with his hand.

  Before anyone could reply to this, Arthur loosed a wild whoop and started running to meet the riders.

  “Arthur!” shouted Gwenhwyvar; she darted forward a few paces, halted, and called back to us over her shoulder. “They are not Cador’s men. It is Cador himself!”

  “And Cai, and Bedwyr, and all the rest,” proclaimed Myrddin, a great, exuberant grin spreading across his face. “They are alive!”

  It was true.

  By some miracle known only to God himself, they lived. Within moments we were surrounded by the very kinsmen and swordbrothers we had committed to a fiery grave in the forest. Alive again! They were all alive! Words alone cannot tell how startling and rapturous was that miraculous reunion. My heart soared like an eagle as I ran to greet them.

  “Cai! Bedwyr!” I cried, rushing to embrace them as they slid from their saddles. “Cador! You are alive, praise God. You are…” That was all I managed to get out before the tears came. I am not ashamed to say that I stood before my friends and wept; I cried the happy tears of one who has had his fondest wish answered before he could even articulate the longing.

  For their part, the lost Cymbrogi regarded us with bewildered amusement. They stood shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other while we tried to express our immense relief at their unanticipated resurrection. We all talked at once, and tangled over one another, and succeeded only in making the thing more obscure for all our explanation.

  “What do you imagine happened to us?” asked Bedwyr, eyeing us with bemused curiosity.

  “Brother,” announced Bors, “we thought you dead!”

  “Why should you think that?” wondered Cai, squinting in amazement.

  “We saw your bodies!” Rhys exclaimed, exasperation making him blunt. “Back there in the forest.” He gestured vaguely behind him to the low, barren hills.

  “Truly,” said Arthur, his handsome face alight with the all-surpassing pleasure of seeing his friends once more, “we saw your corpses hung up in a tree like the carcasses of deer after a hunt. Indeed, we burned the tree so that you should not be dishonored in death.”

  Bedwyr shook his head and looked to his companions, who merely shrugged and allowed that some dark mystery had clouded events—which was only to be expected, after all.

  “After you entered the forest,” Bedwyr told us, “we lost sight of you. The fog came down and—”

  “The fog,” echoed Arthur softly. “I had forgotten about the fog.”

  “When we could no longer find the path, we made camp and waited until the daylight to resume the search.”

  “You have been searching all this time?” asked Rhys.

  “Aye,” affirmed Cai, “since first light this morning.”

  “How can that be?” Bors blurted. “It is at least seven days since we last saw you.”

  “Seven if one,” agreed Gereint, then added uncertainly, “Though we had no sun to go by. Still, it seemed a long time.”

  “You make it more than it is,” replied Arthur confidently. “Indeed, it could be no more than three days by my reckoning. Though it is true the sun did not show itself the while.”

  “Three days and nights together at least,” Gwenhwyvar confirmed.

  Cador, shaking his head solemnly, said, “However that may be, I assure you all, only one night has passed, and that quickly. We rode out to find you as soon as we had light enough to see the trail.”

  “It is but one night since we left you,” Cai maintained doggedly. “But can you imagine our surprise when we could not find the wood we left just the night before?”

  Well, it could not be denied that the wood had disappeared. Cai suggested that perhaps the same enchantment which had shown us the corpses of our friends had somehow stretched one night to seven for those who had entered that bewitched domain. We then speculated on how this could be accomplished. Myrddin, growing impatient with our ignorant babble, put a stop to it.

  Drawing himself up, he said, “You speak where you should be silent. Heaven is not the only eternity; Hell is eternal, too. If more explanation is required, let us simply say all that passed in the forest was, like the forest itself, wrought of sorcery. Yet, by the Great Light’s grace, we have endured the worst the Enemy could devise and we have prevailed: the Summer Realm is saved, and the Most Holy Grail is restored.”

  He straightened himself, and turned his face once more towards the trail, saying, “Look your last on the Wasteland, my friends; Llyonesse is no more.” He paused and, as if gazing beyond the veil of years, added, “Ah, but what was once will be again. Hear me: when the Thamesis reverses its flow and the sea gives up that which has been given to its keeping, the world will marvel at the glory that is Llyonesse.”

  So saying, he put his feet once more to the path and, without a backward glance, began striding toward Ynys Avallach. Arthur and Gwenhwyvar walked beside him, refusing the mounts offered them by Bedwyr and the others. However, I did as I was bade and stood for a moment to look upon the Wasteland one last time,

  Then I turned and followed the Pendragon and his Wise Emrys back to the land of the living, where the Summer Realm was waiting for its king.

  See, now: more seasons have passed than I care to count. I see the land blossoming with peace and plenty under Arthur Pendragon’s reign, as under the warmth of a bright summer sun.

  To be sure, the drought and plague persisted into the following year, giving way only slowly and grudgingly. They continue to bring painful memories to all who survived them, and we will be a long time restoring the damage. As always, there is so much to do.

  And in the doing, there is blessed forgett
ing. Most of those who followed Arthur into Llyonesse do not willingly talk about what happened, and very few outside the Dragon Flight have heard what took place during that long snowless winter. Britain will never know how close she came to destruction. Yet it seems that not a day passes but I find some reminder of the terrors we endured. It is often that I have sat alone at day’s end, gazing into the dying light and contemplating all that took place during those strange, confusing days.

  It still seems a dream to me in many ways. I see her face before me, and I feel her breath hot on my neck. My passion stirs within me and I wonder: would I have given in? If it happened again, would I be able to hold out? I would like to say that it could never happen, that I would remain steadfast and strong. In truth, I cannot say I would not fall. Therefore, I pray God I will never be tested beyond my endurance.

  The Queen of Air and Darkness was the power behind Morgaws’ actions, of that I am certain. Some have said, and some believe, that Morgaws was simply Morgian in a different guise. The Wise Emrys never believed this, however, and after long contemplation, I fear he is right. Morgaws was not Morgian—much as I might wish otherwise. Who, then, was she?

  The power of evil is another mystery to me. How was it we believed those endless deceptions? Why did it assume such mastery over us?

  Bishop Elfodd, whose advice I have sought on this matter more than once, believes that the power of any evil—great or small, it makes no difference—derives not from its own strength, much as some profess and many believe. “No, in order for it to succeed,” the bishop explained one day in the spring following our return, “evil must first remove the preserving goodness of the thing it would destroy. For the truth is that even the smallest good is more powerful than the greatest evil.”

  “All appearances to the contrary,” I added wryly.

  “Oh, yes!” he exclaimed, growing excited. “Appearances are always to the contrary—always. Much of Morgaws’ power lay in her ability to make herself appear something very different from what she was. It is the Evil One’s oldest deception, and we are no less vulnerable to it than we ever were.” He shook his head sadly. “Yes, and it is also the one deception that must be preserved at all costs, for once mortals truly understand what a weak and contemptible thing evil really is, the Ancient Enemy’s destruction is assured.”

  I did not fully believe Elfodd when he said that, but as I have puzzled over the thing, I am persuaded he may be right. It would explain why Morgaws stole the Grail and desecrated the chapel—that is to say, she made Llenlleawg do it, because I think she could neither possess nor command the objects she so desired. Llenlleawg also threw Caledvwlch into the well—perhaps because even at his most depraved and hopeless, he could not bring himself to wield that weapon against his king. So it was that by cleansing the altar, Bors, Gereint, and I, however unwittingly, prepared the way for the Grail Maiden to reconsecrate them. Though we did not know it at the time, we helped return a mighty weapon to the battle.

  What to say of Llenlleawg? Myrddin and Arthur remain adamant that all men must answer for their actions. Bishop Elfodd, too, is of the opinion that the former champion must be punished for his sins. “Remember,” the good bishop has said, “we are not required to defeat evil, but only to stand against it. That is enough—the outcome remains with God; it is His battle, after all. However, we are required to refrain from actively helping the Enemy, and Llenlleawg helped the Enemy greatly.”

  That he did. No one denies it. Llenlleawg, exiled and outcast, is paying the price for his treason now. But I know how easy it is to slip, to fall, to be overtaken by a will greater than your own. Perhaps alone of all the rest, I understand Llenlleawg best—because I, too, stood near the flame and was very nearly singed. “We were all deceived,” as Gwenhwyvar said, and it is true.

  Moreover, I believe that deception began long before we knew it. I long considered I was the first to set eyes on Morgaws; however, now I am persuaded that Rhys met her before I did—that day he went out to look for water. He has no recollection of it at all; he remembers neither leaving nor returning to camp, nor the bite on his arm. But I remember, and I think he met Morgaws by that pool, surprised her, perhaps. Or maybe she tried her seductions on him and failed. She tried me next, but found an easier victim in Llenlleawg. Who can say? So much of Morgaws—like the deaths of the Cymbrogi—was illusion, after all.

  “Be that as it may,” the Pendragon is quick to point out when asked, “the fact that their deaths were an illusion does not lessen Llenlleawg’s treachery. Let us never forget eight brave warriors died defending the Grail Shrine that night, and fifteen pilgrims were slain.”

  He is right to remember, of course. Those deaths are lamentable. Still, the fact that the Cymbrogi were not slaughtered has gone a long way towards softening Arthur’s heart where his former champion is concerned. At least the king no longer speaks of taking Llenlleawg’s life in expiation of his crimes. Therefore, I will continue to hold out the hope that one day soon a way will be found to redeem the Irishman and allow him to take his place in the king’s service once more. Who knows? After that night in the forest, I never again expected to see Bedwyr, Cai, and Cador drawing breath in this world, but here I drink ale with them every night as if nothing had ever happened. So who is to say what miracles may occur?

  In the meantime, life goes on. There is Caer Lial to rebuild, and that work takes up most of our time. The old City of the Legions in the north is home once again to Britain’s defenders. Upon our return to Ynys Avallach, Arthur understood that the Grail Shrine was a mistake, and that the Grail, most precious and holy treasure, must be guarded with more subtlety and greater vigilance.

  Therefore, the High King returned it to its first and foremost Guardian: Avallach now keeps it, and that is only right. But the Grail is known now, and will continue to draw the attention of anyone who hears about it. Thus, the Pendragon has determined that the Grail should be removed to a place of greater safety. Together, Arthur and Avallach are making plans for a new stronghold—somewhere in the north, far away from Llyonesse. Arthur never held a great love for the south, in any event—a northerner myself, I know he finds the southern hills too close and the wooded valleys too cramped; it makes him uneasy when he cannot look out across the wide and empty hilltops and see the distant horizon—and Caer Lial, though long abandoned, yet possesses strong walls, and enough rubble stone for restoring many of the buildings.

  Thus we have come north—where my tale began, and where it now ends. I have set the thing down in the best way I know. Make of it what you will. See now: I lay down my sharpened reed and I will not take it up again. Tomorrow, when I arise, I will be a scribe no more. I mean to take my place beside the Pendragon and, God willing, there shall I remain until the end of my days.

  E-Book Extra

  Stephen R. Lawhead on…

  The writing process

  Book-writing is a three-ring circus (complete with clowns and animals). At any given time there is 1: The Book Just Written, which is being edited, typeset, proofed, published, and needs to be promoted. While this is going on I am trying to write 2: The Book of the Moment: the one I’m working on pretty much nine-to-five, five days a week. It takes about ten months of writing and two months of re-writing from first word to last. Meanwhile, I’m beginning to think ahead to 3: The Next Book. I work up a proposal for the new project several months before finishing the current one so that by the time I’m ready to begin writing, the idea is set and the publisher is on board.

  The actual writing, then, takes about a year—but it takes roughly three years from concept to printed copies.

  This is a far cry from the romantic vision of the writer, locked away in his garret with nothing but a typewriter, a bottle of whiskey, and an overflowing ashtray, with his editor—and creditors—banging at the door, demanding that he slip a few pages of his deathless prose underneath the door…but it works for me.

  His Writing Influences

  When I was a teenager,
I was reading Ian Fleming, Robert Heinlein, Mark Twain, and (under duress) Thomas Hardy. My wife says the influence of the James Bond books is marked. Charles Dickens, Walter Scott, Jules Verne, Stevenson, and Dumas are my literary heroes. I’ve had great enjoyment and drawn great inspiration from the Norwegian author Mika Waltari (The Egyptian, The Etruscan, The Roman, The Wanderer, and others). Martin Cruz Smith is the living novelist I most enjoy for solid entertainment. Lawrence Block’s columns in The Writer and his book Telling Lies for Fun and Profit were greatly encouraging and instructive in the early days. I am irresistibly drawn to historical heretics because they give me new ideas on what might have been; Julian Jayne’s masterpiece, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind is a book I come back to every now and then. Really.

  The sequence of the Pendragon Cycle

  To get a chronological reading of the Pendragon Cycle, first read Taliesin. Then read Merlin. Next, read the first two parts of Arthur, followed by Pendragon and Grail in order. Finally, read the last part of Arthur, and, if you’re keen to complete the marathon, finish with Avalon, which recapitulates the themes in a modern setting.

  Names

  The names I used in the Pendragon books came from various sources, mostly ancient texts of one sort or another, including the Mabinogion. Some are names which continue, with slight alterations, in Welsh, Scottish, and Irish, today; others are names which are no longer in common use, but could be revived.

  My surname is Scottish, deriving from a placename which can be found in the Border country of Scotland where a “law” is a hill, and those who dwelled at the foremost part of the hill lived at the “head”. There is a tiny village in the Borders bearing the name Lawhead, and I visited it once to see Lawhead Farm, Lawhead Croft, and even a Law-Head Cottage. I’d never seen the name hyphenated before and asked the woman living there what it meant. She told me it meant the sign painter got carried away in a fit of creativity and took it on himself to add the hyphen.