by Jasmine Walt
“What might a clue look like?” Loren asked. She was standing off in a corner looking up. “Maybe something out of place? Maybe something from Arthurian Legends in a French chateau?”
We all turned our attention in the direction of her gaze. Up on the wall was a crest. Embedded in the crest were the images of a sword, a shield, a cross, and a lamb.
“I recognize that from when I was younger,” Loren said. “My mother had a picture of it.”
“It’s the crest of Glastonbury.”
Arthur stormed over and, with one mighty pounding, busted the wall down. But the moment the plaster crumbled, he jerked his hand back as though there were fire inside.
Lance and Gwin took a step back as well. Even Loren took a step to the side, rubbing her head as though she were coming down with a migraine.
I stepped up to the hole in the wall. Inside was a jar. But surrounding the jar was a fist-sized pale blue rock. A bluestone.
If this was the house of a witch, what was that kryptonite doing in the walls? Whatever was in that jar was something that someone didn’t want another with witch’s blood to see. I reached in and pulled out the jar.
We all retreated to the far side of the room. I set the jar on the table and reached into my bag for my gloves. Arthur sighed, his jaw tense as he waited, knowing I wouldn’t touch the ancient document inside the jar without protection.
Once I was gloved up, I carefully unfolded the ancient document on a table. The symbols jumped out at me, calling upon various parts of my brain. They didn’t seem to adhere to any one language, but I did catch a name.
“It says it was written by a Joseph…Joseph of…”
“Glastonbury?” asked Lance. “There was a knight by the name of Joseph of Glastonbury.”
“Not Glastonbury,” I said. “Arimathea.”
“It’s the same man,” Arthur said.
“Joseph of Arimathea?” I said. “From the Bible? The man who buried Jesus?”
Surprisingly, I remembered the man. His name was actually Joseph of Marmorica. He was an Egyptian merchant and a relative of Jesus on his mother’s side. Everyone during that time knew Joseph. He was a wealthy man and on the council of Sanhedrin. The same council that voted for Jesus to be put to death. Joseph had been working on the inside of the council to get his nephew leniency. As we all know, that didn’t work, and Jesus was crucified.
History forgot about Joseph. So did I. But the knights didn’t seem too surprised to hear his name mentioned.
“Are you saying Joseph of Arimathea came here?” I asked Arthur, but it was Gwin who answered.
“This was his home,” Gwin said. “He lived here with his wife and family.”
She looked like she wanted to say more, but she quieted with a look from Arthur.
“And he was in Glastonbury before that?” I asked.
“Many times,” Lance said. “Once with his nephew, a young man named Yeshua, who became known to the world as Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.”
“There’s not much mention of the life of Christ between his birth and when he began preaching the gospel,” Arthur said. “But he worked with his father and did some traveling with his merchant uncle during those times. Sometime after the crucifixion, Joseph came to settle here with his family.”
“That’s not possible. Jesus died in 36 A.D. This was written around 300 A.D.
Arthur nodded. “Joseph of Arimathea had witch’s blood in his veins.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Hold up,” I said. “Are you saying that Jesus had witch’s blood?”
Arthur didn’t answer that question. He posed another. “What does the scroll say?”
I turned my attention back to it. Now that I had a reference that the author could indeed be writing in a hodgepodge of three different languages, like an ancient form of Spanglish, the words came somewhat easier. Some looked Aramaic and then there was also a bit of Egyptian mixed in with…was that Celtic?
But the patterns of the languages did not follow the rules. At some points, the Aramaic looked old, as though it could be Galilean. And the Egyptian wasn’t the Coptic that had fused with the Greek alphabet. But it was all written by the same hand. It was as though whoever wrote this had lived a very long life in many different places. And then I realized something truly horrible.
“It’s a poem.” I groaned.
Which was just great. Next to riddles, poems were my least favorite form of literacy. I concentrated on the first stanza. I already had the first line translated as it was the author giving a shout-out and telling everyone his name. But the next lines had me tripped up grammatically.
“The which had grace…which saved in the…city of…Sarras… the spiritual place.”
But “which” was spelled two separate ways. I had to assume that one of these translations was a noun and the other a preposition. I began again.
“This is Joseph of Arimathea. The witch had grace which was saved in the City of Sarras in the spiritual place.”
“Keep going,” Arthur said.
I focused on the second stanza. “They were afraid to the form of one dead three hundred years. But I said…”
I stared. The verb and subject agreement was horrible in this poem.
“But Joseph said, ‘A man like you, look on me and have no fear,” Loren finished for me.
We all turned to her.
“I know this poem,” she said. “The City of Sarras. It’s one of the obscure romance poems about the Knights of the Round Table. My mother used to read them to me when I was a little girl. It was in a book.”
“This scroll was in a book?” I said.
“Yes, but you skipped the beginning where it talks about Galahad, Bors, and Percival going to the Castle Carbonek to eat with King Pelles.”
I looked at the scroll. “That’s not here? What comes next in your version? After the part about having no fear?”
“Um…” Loren scrunched her nose and looked up, as though she was reciting the poem from the beginning. “‘Then they saw two angels standing there, wax candles in their hair?’ Or maybe it was in their hand? ‘And Joseph of Arimathea between that twain did stand.’”
I followed along with her. It was a near perfect translation.
The next part Loren recited about knights coming to the table to eat was not in the scroll.
There was a hodgepodge of the next parts where Loren remembered more of the knights drinking from the Grail. But the scroll told a different tale.
“Too sweet for earth, my savior was. Too marvelous to behold. But after Night, the day and here in the realm of Logres the Grail cannot stay.”
“So it was here,” said Arthur. “But Joseph moved it? Does it say where?”
I read on. “Til to Sarras you sail the sea. Til you come where you and I stood face-to-face. Til you stand in the City of Sarras in the Spiritual Place.”
“So the Grail is in Sarras?” Lance asked.
“Where’s Sarras?” Gwin said.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said.
“Pull up Google Maps.” Loren snapped her fingers.
I hung back, waiting patiently. Knowing with certainty they wouldn’t find the ancient city of Sarras on any map.
Arthur’s gaze found mine. He quirked his brow in question.
“Yeah, I know where it is,” I said. “And I call shotgun.”
17
The moment we stepped through the door from Champagne and back into the throne room of Camelot, we all parted ways. Gwin and Lance went in opposite directions from each other, neither saying a word.
Arthur called the remaining knights to him. They took their seats around the table and were informed of Merlin being alive, as well as of his treachery. Arthur didn’t speak harshly of Gwin’s role in the events, playing her up as a victim instead of an accomplice.
I knew that the brothers hadn’t always seen eye to eye. I’d had the same impression of the elder prince of Camelot that Lance had—that he was a bit entitled. But I had always
chalked that up to his poor health and fragility. Just look at the mountain of a father and younger brother he had to measure up to.
The shock of Merlin’s treachery was not taken lightly by the knights. They hadn’t dealt with dark magic in hundreds of years. Now they had to contend with a vampiric wizard, whose end they did not know, as well as the ever-advancing Templar army, who wanted to wipe their kind off the face of the earth. It was a lot to deal with.
I hung back with Loren but felt a buzzing in my pocket. I looked down at my cell phone. My thumb hovered over the talk key.
“If you don’t press that button, so help me, I will reach down your throat and pull out your spirit and do it myself.”
I rolled my eyes at Loren. But then I went out into the hallway and pressed the button. I didn’t mull over my salutation approach this time. I kept it simple.
“Hey,” I said.
“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” Tres said.
“And yet you’re only calling now?”
“You were at sea.”
“I called yesterday, or did you not get the message from your guard dog?”
Tres chuckled. As he did, a bit of static mixed into the reception. I held my breath and went still. Cell communication was notoriously iffy when it came between two Immortals. But when he spoke again, his voice was crystal clear.
“My guard dog, as you call her, keeps away the unwanted attention I receive on an hourly basis. The moment she handed me your note, I called you. Because I want your attention on a moment-to-moment basis.”
“You do?” My voice came out breathy, like one of the damsels of the medieval romances Loren loved as a child.
“Where are you? I’ll hop on my yacht, or my jet, and come to you.”
“You can’t,” I said.
“Why? Are you in some tomb in a native land?”
“Pretty much.” I looked around at the ancient sconces on the walls. “I’m in Camelot with the knights.”
Silence. I wondered if we’d lost the connection, so I stared at the bars on the phone. They were all present and high. And then…
“Is this going to have to be a rescue mission? Are you in the dungeon?”
“No.” I laughed, pressing the phone to my ear. “I was invited. The Arthur needed a favor that only my specialized skills could manage.”
“Specialized skills?”
“Translations. He needed a couple of scrolls translated, and I do specialize in ancient tongues.”
“Hmm. I’d like to teach you my ancient tongue. When will you be leaving there?”
“I’m actually leaving in the morning, but we’re going on a quest.”
“He invited you to the castle and on one of his quests? Are you sure he’s not trying to get you killed?”
“Be kinda hard to do, my being Immortal and all.”
I thought back to Igraine’s words and her vision. That only seven Immortals would return to the garden. She’d been right about Merida now being with Merlin, though in a completely unexpected way. That was the thing about visions of the future and past. They weren’t always clear.
I wondered if I should tell Tres about what I’d learned? Or maybe about the dream I’d had of us all in a garden. A dream where he and Zane looked like they were the best of friends? Probably not.
“Where are you headed off to?” Tres asked. “I have some time off. Maybe I can tag along? Or meet you once your mission is complete?”
“We’re headed to Iraq.”
“You’re going into a war zone?”
The city of Sarras was in what was once known as the Kingdom of Babylon, better known today as Iraq. But we weren’t just headed to see the palaces in Baghdad, or the waterfalls of Erbil, or the shrines of Karbala. The current name of Sarras was Mosul, an ISIS stronghold. The site of the military operation led by the United States and Coalition Forces to dislodge and defeat the Islamic State.
“You are not making dating you easy, Dr. Rivers.”
Tres and I had been at each other’s throat for hundreds of years. We were natural enemies. He was a land developer intent on progress. I was a conservationist out to protect every bit of history from being erased.
But before that, we’d been lovers. We may have even been in love? I couldn’t remember. He could remember the details. But he’d decided to keep our past in the past and start anew. So, we were dating. Kinda.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he said, “I’d think you were trying to keep me at arm’s length.”
“I’m not.”
I wasn’t. It was just that something always came between us as we tried to move closer to each other. True, that something was usually put in place by me.
“I’d like to see you again,” I said. “But maybe not with a horde of martial artists trying to mix our bones in a stew or gods raising the dead. You know, something normal.”
“I think we left normal a couple of centuries ago.”
I had no idea what a normal relationship looked like. Dinner and a movie where we watched a historical adaptation and pointed out all the flaws we knew were wrong because we’d seen them with our own eyes? Maybe a walk along a beach hand in hand where we could recount how we’d witnessed the skyline change over the centuries. Or maybe we could just stay in and talk about our shared past.
In any case, I wanted that. I wanted a little normal in my life. A moment to slow down and be a woman with a man who wasn’t lying to me or trying to get something from me.
“I’ll plan something,” he said.
“I look forward to it.”
We got off the line, and I held the warm phone in my palm for a moment. There was a bubbling in my chest and a lightness in my head. Most might call it anticipation. I balled my fists together and pressed them into my chest.
When I looked around, Loren was nowhere to be found. But there was another figure lurking in the shadows.
“Hey,” I said. “How’re you holding up?”
Lance had his eyes locked on a picture of Merlin and Gwin together. Unlike Arthur, Merlin had dark hair crowning his head and no facial hair at his chin. His head looked too big for his body, as though his frame had been made for a warrior but it never quite filled out. The portrait looked like it could be their wedding photo. Merlin had the entitled tilt to his chin. Gwin had the stoic lift of her mouth. Neither of them smiled.
“You know I’ve loved that woman since the first time I laid eyes on her,” Lance said.
“Does she know that?” I asked him.
“She was always so preoccupied saving anyone who was sick or wounded. Merlin took up most of her time. I never needed her like that. Not her magic or her healing. I just wanted her heart.”
“Tell her that,” I said. “Exactly like you just said to me.”
Lance turned to look at me as though he were seeing me for the first time since he began talking. “Why? She’ll go back to him. Even after all he’s done. She’ll rationalize his actions. And she’ll stand by his side, because he needs her. He’s used her all her life, and now I see to what extent. I’m going to kill the bastard. Even if she hates me for it. At least then she’ll be free of him.”
He pushed off the wall and headed down the hall. Intention was in his every step. His fists were balled at his side with what looked like anticipation.
18
Rain pitter-pattered on the castle window the next morning. My sleep had been dreamless since coming from Greece. Tres had yet to show up in a dream. He preferred to find me in reality. Zane hadn’t been back in my dreams since he’d found me in Athens kissing someone else’s lips.
Before that, I’d dreamed nearly every night of my ex. Not sex dreams—well, most of them weren’t. Mainly memories of our time together.
Just the little things. Like the time we’d gone diving in the Coral Reef. I’d spent the day taking samples of plant life while he’d mixed primaries to capture the seascape. I dreamed of the times we’d walked hand in hand on beaches; the white sand of Oahu
, the pink sands of the southern Philippines, and the black sands of Vik in Iceland. I dreamed of us lying on our backs looking up at the Aurora Borealis.
Yeah, the little things.
Zane was an incurable romantic. Even though we’d had to spend most of our time apart due to the allergy, he’d made sure I’d always felt his presence with gifts, letters, and, later, text messages. There were always plans on the horizon. He’d always have a part of my soul. But I couldn’t feel his presence now.
Which was understandable. We weren’t together anymore. Not as lovers, anyway. But he’d always been my friend, even during the in between times when we weren’t together. He was the only family I had.
I lay in this strange bed alone. I spent much of my life in single-occupancy hotel rooms. Spread out alone in a two-man tent on a dig. But for the first time in a long time, in this castle filled with people, I felt alone.
I heard the bustle of the castle above me. A deep male voice barking out unintelligible orders. The delighted squeal of a child. The trilling laugh of a woman, accompanied by the low growl of a man.
The sounds of life drifted down through the walls. I could make out the individual tones of different people laughing in a chorus. Their voices came together like practiced instruments playing a familiar tune. I scrubbed my hand over my face and pushed myself out of the bed.
After getting dressed and strapping on a dagger to each hip, placing a blade in each boot, and then strapping my sais over my shoulders, I made my way up to the throne room. We were headed into a war zone today, and I wanted to be prepared.
Outside the throne room, I saw a cluster of women. I immediately recognized the white hair of Igraine as she tilted her head to the side in concern. Standing beside her was the dark-haired Morgan. Her jaw was clenched as though she was trying to hold her tongue. Between them were two golden-haired beauties—Gwin and Loren.
Gwin’s light eyes looked defeated, but her lips were pressed in a resolute line. Beside her, Loren rubbed her back in a move of solidarity. They looked like a tight-knit unit as they stood outside the knights’ stronghold. They looked like a family of women who had each other’s backs, quite literally.