by Black, Regan
“Another prophecy?” He wasn’t sure he could bear it.
“No, my friend.” She knelt by the gathered water, sat back on her heels. “A window, a glimpse of what may come.”
With one hand grasping his, she tugged him down to join her, with the other she poured some faint light from her palm to stir the water’s surface.
Camelot came into view and at the sight Arthur’s pulse settled as it always did when he returned from a journey. Clouds crowded in from the west, as they often did in his dreams. He decided to increase the watch and to explore his western border once his visit here had ended.
The image in the small puddle shifted, familiar at first and growing less so as he watched the knights he’d chosen head off on three different paths.
“There is hope, Arthur,” the Lady said as the water rippled and changed to those strange settings of his dreams.
He saw Gawain and the hound, surrounded by people in odd costumes, the scene hemmed in by buildings stretching toward the sky. Could the world grow without trees?
“The future,” said the Lady. “He will get through if necessary.”
Arthur would have to trust her conviction since the idea tested his comprehension. The other knights appeared, Kay and his bear in a snowy mountain range, Bors and his hawk near a body of water that was surely the edge of the world itself. Those were not places Arthur knew. The energy even in the images felt wrong. The idea of peering into a time yet to come left him swaying.
“Time is fluid and for our purpose it is irrelevant.” The lady spoke gently, her grasp a warm anchor. “Think of time as a river traveled by a special few. Your friends most likely will wade deep. You most likely will not.”
“I would choose differently.” For the entirety of his rise and reign he led from the front, as an example to those who followed. He would go if called, if needed. Surely the very soul of the earth and all the company of heaven knew he would travel anywhere, any time, to squelch Morgana’s evil.
“Shh.” The water changed again, showing a collection of more familiar objects. A dagger, a pendant, and a key, all in the current style, spun lazily as if they rested just under the water’s surface. Arthur knew they would not appear were they not important to the cause.
He memorized them, vowed to look for them as he ventured through the rest of his days. On the heels of that thought, the water went still, becoming nothing more impressive than a small puddle again. His pounding heart eased until all he heard was the trickle of the each droplet on the stones above. Standing, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Will I see them again?”
The Lady of the Lake allowed him to help her to her feet. She shook her head. “Not as you know them now. In generations to come, it is unlikely, though I cannot say for sure. All I have learned tells me your time, Arthur, is here and now.”
Generations to come. The concept unsettled him. Destiny, struggle, and purpose in this life he understood had been daunting enough as he grew into a king. Thinking of time, of days and years, flowing as a river that could be traveled? The notion troubled him more. Who would he be, when and where, if the magic pulled him back from beyond the grave?
“You will always be you, Arthur,” the Lady answered as if he’d spoken the question aloud.
“And tomorrow you must return to those who need you most.”
“As you say.”
The Lady gave him the rest of the day, allowing him time to sort out the bewildering images and thoughts crowding his mind. He honored her only request that he stay close to the small encampment she’d designated for him and his men.
The afternoon turned to night and his friends did not return, seeing to their own obligations and preparations to be sure.
In the stillness of dawn, Arthur stood at the shoreline of Avalon. From here, where the mist was thin, he could watch the sunrise over both Avalon and his domain. Rarely did he feel his mortality as keenly as he did today. He knew his days were numbered, had always been, just as it was for every man. To his knowledge, only the three men he’d brought to Avalon might be able to cheat death.
“Morgana will not have the last word,” he told the sun peeking over the horizon.
“She may well have several words between now and then,” Merlin said.
Arthur had long ago given up on asking how the wizard snuck up on him. He didn’t bother turning to the deep voice laden with wisdom. Nor did he ask his friend why he hadn’t shown himself to the knights recruited to their cause. None of those questions would be answered.
“How does the day find you, Merlin?”
“Lighter than those before it,” the wizard replied with more candor than Arthur had heard in years. “You’ve done well and I thank you. The world may never give you proper credit for all that you have sacrificed and will yet sacrifice for its preservation.”
“Will we prevail?” Arthur winced as the words left his lips. That question too was doomed to go unanswered.
“Do you believe?”
Arthur believed in many things. He believed in a world of justice and peace. He believed in the inherent goodness of imperfect people and the perpetual threat of discontent and evil. He believed in powers he didn’t understand and great accomplishments he’d witnessed that could only be attributed to miraculous intervention.
While clear answers would be welcomed, he supposed he had enough proof and evidence to counter any vagaries of dreams or intuition.
“Yes, Merlin, I believe,” he said at last.
He waited for Merlin’s response while the sun, a golden orb setting the world aglow, pushed at the misty veil, seeking any weakness. In the ongoing silence, he knew his mentor and counselor was long gone. With his hand on Excalibur’s hilt, Arthur sighed. Once more Merlin had given him what he needed most, confirmation of his own heart and purpose.
The knights were dispatched and he should depart as well. Arthur walked along the shore until the mist was at his back and the glassy lake hidden once more. Feeling the difference in the very earth under his feet, he stretched his legs and ran through the trees, signaling the guard who’d been waiting patiently for his return.
It was time to reorganize and begin his hunt in earnest on the western horizon. If he could do even one thing to ease the way for his brave knights, he would live with that purpose beginning today.
He leaped into the saddle, casting a glance back toward the mists hiding Avalon. As for the future, he would leave that in the capable hands of Gawain, Kay, and Bors.
The End
Preview: Timeless Vision
Prologue
6th century England
Gawain stared into the banked fire and rubbed a hand over his breast bone, thinking of a different fire and the spirit that had been lurking inside it. Tomorrow would be his greatest test, one he could not fail. A year ago he’d left Avalon for this sole purpose. Every day since, he’d been searching, making progress and inroads, only to discover another thread in need of clipping. He could see now how each day, nearly from his birth, had led him to this one point in time. He had one final night to refine his plan and prepare for the worst.
At his feet, his lean greyhound gave a heavy sigh and shifted to rest his long face across Gawain’s boot. Man and dog would go forth together, for good or ill. He stroked the soft ears, the muscled shoulder. A gift from his sister, this dear creature had become all the loyalty Gawain needed. It would be a shame if their lives were cut short too soon.
He sighed as heavily as the dog had done. The future was never certain and Gawain’s life held more mystery than most.
“To bring an end to the threat we have witnessed requires all that we are,” he said to the hound, pulling a thin dagger from his boot.
There was no peace, no middle ground, no negotiating with the evil simmering just under the earth’s surface. It waited to surge forth on a tide of greed and hatred, devouring every good and holy thing in the land.
Much as he resisted and resented the magical gifts from the twisted
branch of his family tree, there was no other choice on this field of battle. “Peter!” he called for his squire.
The young man stood at his side an instant later. “Yes, sir.”
“I must ask a great favor of you,” Gawain began. “A commitment I do not ask lightly. Sit down.”
He settled on the other side of the fire and Gawain waited, watching the young man’s gaze drift from the hound to the blade until finally he made eye contact.
“When the sun rises tomorrow I will make my attack on the evil teeming in the cave in the valley. The odds are long and I would have some assurances from you.” He paused, but the squire, wisely, did not reply. “There is a spell I must cast. It requires a host, a blood bond to render it most effective. It cannot be my blood.” He glanced to the stars, wishing it were otherwise. If his blood bound the spell, should Morgana’s followers kill him tomorrow, they’d be able to undo his efforts immediately.
“Whatever you need, I will provide,” Peter stated with a steady regard.
“I’ll have your vow that you will not get a woman with child.” The squire’s eyes went wide. “For your own safety your family line must die with you. If you have children, our enemy will search relentlessly for a way to undo the binding spell I will cast should I fall in battle tomorrow.”
“You will not fall. You are the most prepared -”
“The odds are long,” Gawain repeated, cutting short the praise that made him uncomfortable. The burden, resting heavy on his shoulders, was enough without heaps of flattery piled on. “I won’t take a chance that this evil will gain more solid footing under my watch.” The task was to purge England of Morgana’s crafty machinations before she did the unthinkable. He hadn’t received word from the others for some time now, had no way of knowing how they fared.
“You have my vow,” the squire said.
“Should we not survive the battle or the spell, you will know what to do with our bodies.” He stroked the hound’s ears. “I have provided detailed instruction.” He handed the squire a parchment, waited for the young man to read his final orders. “Keep your vow and whatever happens on the morrow, good will prevail.”
The squire nodded.
“I thank you,” he said. “The world will thank you.” Gawain signaled for Peter to come closer. “Pet the dog,” he said quietly. As the squire complied, Gawain pulsed a bit of magic into the air until he felt his squire relaxing.
When Peter’s eyes glazed over, Gawain pricked the young man’s hand with the dagger, drawing a spot of blood. His voice low and intense, the air seemed to vibrate around him, pulse through him as he cast the spell. Carefully, he let the squire’s blood drip over the dagger, the final binding ingredient merging with his words and reinforcing his intention to quash the rise of Morgana’s destructive power.
With the spell complete, the pressure in Gawain’s chest eased. In that blessed moment of peace, he roused the squire and sent him away while he and the hound waited for the sun to rise.
Chapter One
21st century
His body sore and aching, Gawain opened his eyes to find his vision blurred and unsettling. It happened whenever his physical sight blended with the mystical bond that allowed him to see the world through his greyhound’s eyes as well. He’d long ago stopped cursing the roots of magic in his family that made the union possible, as the gift had saved his life on the battlefield more than once.
At the moment, his hound’s view was full of Gawain’s profile. The devotion warmed him, but it was unhelpful. Had they succeeded in putting an end to Morgana’s followers? He could tell by the cool air and near darkness they were in a cave. Suppressing a shudder at the thought, he blinked several times until he was seeing only with his natural eyes.
Looking about, he saw they were in what amounted to a stone tomb. Hearing water flowing nearby, he muttered a prayer of thanks to his squire for following directions. Slowly, Gawain stretched his stiff muscles and sat up, reaching over to pet the hound’s perked ears. At least one of them was alert. “How have we fared?”
The hound replied with a soft whine as he snuffled at Gawain’s beard, then his ears.
He soothed the dog while he regained his bearings. Images, memories, and plans tumbled through his mind while he struggled to put his thoughts in a logical order. Though his armor was gone, his sword and scabbard were at his side. Interesting. He scratched at the thick whiskers on his chin and cheeks, concerned by the excessive length of his beard.
The hopeful justification for his current state was that his last-resort spell had rendered them exhausted and they’d been mistaken for dead. Even as he considered the notion, it felt wrong. His empty stomach rumbled with raw hunger. How much time had passed since he’d been forced to cast the spell?
If all had gone well, if his sacrifice had worked, he shouldn’t have woken at all.
Concerned now with more than his beard, he stood quickly. The small cave twirled around him and he paused, giving his head a moment to stop reeling. The hound nudged him again, seeking encouragement or affirmation, he wasn’t certain.
He followed the sounds of the water to a small pool fed by a narrow trickle of water flowing gently through a crack in the rocks. As much as he detested being underground, feeling trapped by the earth and power coursing through it, this place was different. Peaceful. The squire had done a fine job.
Everything was as it should be, except for his being awake.
Scooping up a handful of the water, he sniffed the liquid first, and then tasted a drop. Satisfied it was safe to drink, he and the hound quenched their thirst from the shallow pool.
Each passing moment brought new awareness of his surroundings and his personal condition. An urgency pressed him, a spike of heat behind his breastbone. He rubbed at it, remembering the magic, precautions, and warnings. A fire nymph had touched him on the day he’d agreed to this undertaking and since that day the spot seemed to heat when he was on the verge of a crucial decision.
When he’d cast the spell on Morgana, he’d wanted to claw the fever right out of his chest. Praise God his hands had been full with fighting her followers.
He sat back now, contemplating the dark sheen of water on the rock. In the quiet, beneath the heat, he felt an infilling of strength. A rare feat for him in this place. He preferred open air for his quests and his magic over cramped, underground spaces.
“Shall we see what’s brought us awake?” he asked his hound. The dog flopped down beside him in a silent show of support.
Gawain wasn’t precisely afraid, but he was concerned. His last act of magic had been to bind a foul sorceress, keeping her confined to the sixth century. Her power twisted by the world, he and his friends were tasked with holding the defensive line.
Memories of that last morning filled his head. The chaos, the darkness swelling up from the earth, roots and stones pressing in on him from all sides. Without the squire’s vow, the spell would have failed. He and his hound would have fallen in battle, their blood and souls fodder for that ravenous evil power.
So what need did the world have for him now? He sensed only peace and harmony in this place. Beside him, his hound was equally content.
“Merlin?” The name reverberated in the chamber until only the soft song of the water remained. Well, the magician wasn’t known for answering, was he? Whatever or whomever had roused him, he’d given his oath to serve.
He stilled his mind, preparing to call forth his magical vision. Peering into the water as the hound rested at his side, he spoke the first words of power he’d learned and opened his senses. He bid the images to flow across the surface of the pool.
Familiar vistas of trees and lakes, meadows and mountains, gave way to villages that grew into vast cities. Castles and fortresses rose and fell. The views bled one into the next, shifting and changing before he could question anything. The hound at his side and the recollection of the gentle voice of his sister anchored him. He realized, with no small concern, he was watching centuri
es fly by, life and death, generations of families and rulers passing within a blink. It was a blessing, a relief when the landscape slowed, but the view he faced was so foreign to him, he trembled head to toe.
The terrible possibility King Arthur had warned about, enlisted his help to avoid, had come to pass. He’d been warned during his training back in Avalon, back in his own time, when he understood the world. Although the priestess then had shown him a preview, he couldn’t quite understand the drastic changes in the world he’d known and loved.
In the image on the water, towers were packed one nearly on top of the next. Some reflected light from strange, gleaming surfaces. Others - made of stone - were more familiar in structure if not design. People, so small in comparison to those structures, hurried to and fro across paved paths. Their attire was as strange to him as their carriages. He spied a horse with a man wearing a uniform or sorts. Not armor, but boots at least, with an insignia on his shoulder. Did the mark give him authority? What kind of strength did this one man have that he could effectively oversee the sheer number of people moving about? Was he on the side of good or evil?
Gawain gawked at the strange images and symbols flashing and changing. The people didn’t seem bothered, or even aware of the phenomenon surrounding them. He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead, a product of the magic as well as what it revealed. He’d known fear. Any knight or warrior who denied such a thing was the worst kind of liar. Gawain had long ago vowed to remain honest in all things.
“This will be our greatest challenge,” he said. He laid his hand on the hound’s shoulder for comfort.
He returned his focus to the images beyond the pool. His clothes and sword would be vastly different. Entering this world would require a bit of glamour magic until he could find suitable garments.