Return of the Grail King

by Theresa Crater

  Everybody had an opinion on how deeply Cagliostro had dipped into black magic and even more theories about why he never seemed to face repercussions from his misdeeds. Perhaps his actions had finally come back three times three, Nina thought, although she’d stopped believing in such things. Light and dark—just two sides of the coin of the universe. That’s what she’d finally realized.

  “He was at Black Thorn in Wick last I heard,” Maisie said in a quiet voice.

  “Black Thorn?” Callum asked.

  “His ancestral house. Wick is just northeast of Glastonbury, right behind the Tor.” Maisie waved her hand over her shoulder vaguely. “But what Angus says is true. Nobody’s seen him or heard from him in months.”

  A member of Valentin Knight’s lodge in the States had connected Nina to Maisie. Apparently they were young members of a lodge Cagliostro had worked with. Why he still took students was a mystery to Nina, but they idealized him and would likely keep up with his whereabouts. Maisie was proving to be the most mature of this group of neophyte magicians.

  “What does his family say?” Nina asked.

  Callum snorted. “They won’t talk to plebeians like us.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Jessamy said.

  Nina had done research on this group of friends before meeting them at the pub. Jessamy’s family was of the peerage, although sitting here in torn jeans, a wrinkled blue tunic, and smudged mascara, she didn’t look the part.

  She spoke up. “I saw his cousin Nigel Ravenscroft at my father’s New Year’s party. We didn’t talk about Cagliostro though.”

  “Cousin? How old is this guy?” Angus asked.

  “Well, they’re second cousins, I guess. I suppose I could ask Nigel, although it might be awkward since we only see each other at social functions.” She took out her phone and scrolled through an app. “I don’t see any events scheduled for the next couple of months.

  “What ever happened to Paul Marchant?” Nina asked.

  Blank faces stared back at her.

  “You know, tall, gangly guy. Gives lectures on sacred geometry. Said the poles were supposed to shift.”

  “Why?” Callum finished his beer and looked back at the bar.

  “I heard he was in Egypt with Cagliostro a while back,” Nina said.

  “Oh, yeah? I don’t really follow his work,” Callum said.

  “Haven’t seen him in about a year,” Maisie added.

  “Another round,” Nina shouted to the barkeep.

  “Coming right up.”

  Angus pushed his empty glass away and smiled, warming up to Nina now that she’d bought him another beer. “Didn’t you hear? He died in Egypt after some mysterious ritual.”

  “Died?” Nina knew this was true, but she wanted to see how much this group knew. “Are you sure?”

  “Went to a memorial service for him. Apparently his mother was senile. In some home. Marchant’s friends arranged the funeral.” At the incredulous looks, Angus added, “What? I have family in New York. I go there pretty often.”

  Callum leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I heard Cagliostro went into Paul’s apartment and took all this research and magical tools.”

  Maisie frowned. “What would he want with those?”

  “No, Cagliostro was involved in the same ritual that killed Marchant,” Angus said. “I heard he walked up to his dead body and stole something right off it.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Jessamy made a face.

  “What did he take?” Nina asked.

  “I heard it was a crystal or something. Don’t know what somebody as powerful as Cagliostro would want with a pendant from that guy. He was all intellect. No real power.” Angus seemed well informed.

  So Cagliostro had taken the Orion crystal key, Nina thought. But what had become of him?

  “You’re sure Cagliostro survived the event in Egypt?” she asked.

  “I saw him in Glastonbury right before that big to-do about White Spring running dry. Months after the Egypt thing,” Maisie said. “Seemed a bit off his head, if you ask me. My uncle said he confronted some guy right outside the Wellhouse.”

  “Has anyone seen him since?” Nina asked.

  Angus shrugged, looked around the table. A few people shook their heads. “I guess not, but you know Alex. He’ll show up. He always does.”

  Their beers arrived and Nina held hers up. “To the old rascal.”

  Maisie looked rather scandalized, but the rest laughed good-naturedly. “To Alex.”

  Nina sat back and let the conversation swell around her. After a decent interval, she slapped her glass on the table and pushed her chair back. “Nice chatting with you all. I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

  “You’ve moved here?” Callum asked, his eyes sparkling.

  Nina kept her face neutral. Let him dream. “I’ll be around for a while. Got a temporary assignment from my firm in London. Thanks for helping me find a place to celebrate the holidays.”

  “See you around, then,” Callum said. The others lifted their glasses to her in farewell.

  Nina paid the bill at the bar, then waved and left the pub. The chill outside crept up from the sidewalk. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, then pulled out the Tube map. She was closest to King’s Cross Station. She could catch a train out toward Glastonbury from there.

  Chapter 6

  A wave of dizziness swept over Anne as the scene changed abruptly from the audience hall where she’d been sitting between Osiris and Nephthys. To steady herself, she pressed a hand against the warm sandstone wall she found herself standing next to. She sensed she was still inside Isis, who observed a two-year-old boy squatting in the dust drawing crude figures with a stick.

  His parents argued just out of earshot, gesticulating wildly, mouths open in what must be shouts. The child always placed himself so he could not hear their arguments. Set’s jealousy had grown worse since the boy’s birth and their fights were now an almost daily event. Set quarreled as vehemently with Osiris, cultivating his own band of followers at court and among the leaders of the nomes.

  “Anubis,” Isis called softly.

  The boy looked up and Isis caught her breath. He was the picture of Osiris, dark umber eyes, the look in them older than any child had a right to. Damp curls lined his high forehead above his nose, high and straight. The child’s skin glowed bronze in the late afternoon sun.

  Those eyes sparked joy when he spotted his aunt. He jumped up and ran to her, pudgy arms raised to be picked up. She obliged him, the sudden weight surprising her. “Oh, my. You’re getting too heavy for me.”

  He giggled, then batted at her dangling earring.

  Isis captured his hand. “Want to come stay with me and your uncle for a while?”

  “Can I?”

  “Yes, you can stay as long as you want.”

  He looked back at the still-arguing couple. “But Daddy will get mad.”

  When would they tell him, Isis wondered. It didn’t really matter. Not in Egypt. The child was the akh, the shadow of his mother. Children belonged to the mother’s family. Sometimes the father lived with the matriarchal clan. Other times not. But here in the royal household, they were all family.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Isis said. “We’ll let Osiris handle him. Now, what toys do you need from your room?”

  Anubis frowned. Isis realized to go to his room they would have to pass in view of Set and Nephthys. “We can come back later if you want something. What do you want for dinner?”

  “Fish,” the child shouted, then flinched and looked over his shoulder to see if his parents had heard him.

  Nephthys had stalked away down the golden-toned hallway and Set was following her.

  “I think we can find you some fish. Fresh caught from the Nile. And mangos.”

  “I love mangos.” The little boy slid down to the floor and took her hand.

  Isis’s eyes teared up and Anne felt the heaviness in her heart. Too young. He wa
s too young to live around such strife. He needed a cousin, someone his own age to play with, and yet she had not conceived.

  Shaking off her sadness, Isis led the boy out of Nephthys' apartments across a courtyard toward her own rooms.

  Michael walked down the slope of the Tor, his host Uther still contemplating all the news the Lady had given him. With his next step came the rustle of leaves against his boots. The wind swirled a few up and away. He squinted into the sudden dark and thought he saw movement. The sway of tree limbs. Pinpoints of light winked in and out above the crowns of the trees. He was in a thick wood at night. It had just been close to noon.

  Then came the sound of hooves and heavy breathing. The pounding feet grew into a thundering, then the heavy snort of an animal desperate to escape. A few seconds later he picked up another noise beyond—the galloping of horses and faint cries of men. Torches pricked the darkness, then lit the tree limbs. A great mass flew at Michael, hot breath and desperate squeals. He jumped out of the way just in time. The torches were bright enough to light up a huge boar. The eyes burned red as the animal ran past.

  “He’s just ahead,” came a shout.

  “We can corner him against the rocks.”

  Then the horses surged into view, a sorrel, then a bay followed by two blacks, their nostrils wide, eyes flashing in the torchlight. One young man, gleaming sword in his hand, saw Michael and his eyes lit with joy. “We’ve got him, your majesty. The court will eat well tonight.”

  And then they thundered past.

  Michael stood in the darkness, grasping his own sword, his breath coming in gasps.

  What’s going on?

  But before he could take another breath, he was sitting in a gilded chair at a round table in a stone room filled with laughter and the jests of comrades. Long tapestries hung behind each man—scarlets, azure and royal blue, forest greens, and dandelion yellow, depicting the family crest of each knight. Torches smoked, darkening the ceiling. Serving maidens carried pitchers of mead and platters of cooked meat and vegetables.

  One man stood and lifted his cup. “To Arthur, for a good hunt. May Moccus bless our company.”

  Gareth, Michael remembered, Sir Gareth Beaumains. Michael sat back and lifted his own cup, brimming over with the honeyed drink. “To Arthur,” he shouted.

  The boy stood at the other end of the table, his face flushed, his blonde curls darkened with water from a recent bath, beaming with pride. He caught the Pendragon’s eye and raised his pewter mug. And Uther Pendragon, whose eyes Michael watched from, surged to his feet, raising his flagon into the air. To my son, he thought. He dared not say it aloud. Not yet. Merlin and the Lady had forbidden it.

  Nina rented a Mercedes in Salisbury, something to suit her cover as a rich girl looking for an old beau, and drove the rest of the way to Glastonbury. She picked a small bed and breakfast a few streets west of High Street, avoiding the spiritual landmarks next to the Tor, not wanting to attract attention or be recognized. The next morning, she added a few layers of paint to her face, dressed in an expensive blue dress with Italian leather boots and a cashmere coat, then drove out to Black Thorn.

  The place was well named. Hawthorns outlined the property boundaries, an open invitation to the fae of the Tor. The main structure was brown stone, with a layer of darker brick dividing the ground floor from the upper stories. The upper windows were small, but numerous, and a gray slate roof topped the large house. She parked on the side of the circular drive and walked to the portico, gravel crunching beneath her boots. The knocker was a brass skull.

  “Cute,” she mumbled, then pounded on the door. The house was big and she wanted to be heard. After a minute, she pounded again.

  Soon she heard footsteps and the door swung open to reveal a proper English butler, dressed in muted gray trousers and vest, topped with a black tailcoat. He’d finished off his ensemble with a red tie and white gloves. Nina wondered if he’d gotten dressed while she waited, but the delay hadn’t been long enough for all this.

  “Hargreaves, at last. I was beginning to fear no one was at home.” She’d researched the family online and hoped they still had the same butler.

  The man gave a slight bow. “How may I help you, madam?”

  “I’ve simply been searching everywhere for Alex.” Nina had decided mimicking her sister would strike the right tone, her voice high and lilting even higher at the end of each sentence. “I haven’t heard from him in ages. I do miss the old chap.” Maybe that was too much.

  “Mr. Cagliostro is not at home at present.” Hargreaves reached out his white gloved hand. “I will give him your card.”

  Nina forced herself to giggle. “Oh, Hargreaves, you’re such a perfect relic. I mean that as a compliment, of course. Nobody carries cards anymore.”

  The butler looked up at her. Something swirled in his gray, green eyes that made her uneasy. “Whom may I say has called?”

  “Isn’t anyone else at home? I saw Nigel recently and he mentioned he might come out for a visit.”

  This was a bald-faced lie and it seemed Hargreaves knew it. His face closed. “The family is not receiving at present.”

  “I see.” She gave a fake name and number. “Please tell him I’d simply love to see him. I’ll be in London for a couple of months.”

  “As you wish, madam.” Hargreaves gave another slight bow and closed the door.

  Nina sat in her car, pretending to search for her keys in a capacious purse, studying the windows. She saw the curtains flip back on the second floor and a pale face look out for a moment. A female face. Not Cagliostro. She closed her eyes briefly and sent out a psychic probe, but came up against a firm wall. If his wards were still in place, maybe he was still alive.

  She decided to check out White Spring.

  Chapter 7

  The ground dropped out from under Michael and darkness engulfed him, but before he could yell, he found the earth beneath his feet again. He stood in bright sunlight in front of a crowd of people, Merlin at this side. The old wizard’s eyes twinkled, if such a word could be used to describe this formidable old man, venerable as an ancient oak, his white beard flowing over his blue robe set with astrological and magical symbols.

  Why was Merlin so dressed up? Michael wondered, then looked down at himself and jumped when he found breasts beneath an equally fancy robe of dark blue. A familiar crystal hung around his neck, but this one was not his own. He could tell by the little song it sang, detectable only by certain finely tuned ears. This one belonged to Anne. He reached his hand up to grasp it and the contact brought him fully into focus.

  A laugh escaped the lips of his hostess. “You’d think he’d never been a woman before,” the Lady of Avalon commented to Merlin.

  “He needs to see,” the wizard said in a whisper, but before he could say more, a roar rose from the crowd.

  A young man stood before a large, sunburned stone in the midst of a clearing. From its center rose a steel blade. Celtic knots wound their way around the black and gold cross-guard. A red jewel crowned each end of the pommel, sending out shafts of crimson.

  They were choosing the High King, Michael realized. Uther’s successor. He must have died. A stab of grief cut Michael, surprising him. He missed Uther in an odd way. He’d shared some of his most intimate and important moments and grown rather fond of the old letch.

  The beam of light from the jewel in Excalibur’s pommel seemed to point to a man who stood glowering in the background. But he seemed insubstantial somehow. Perhaps he was an astral visitor, like Michael.

  In a flash, Michael saw the future laid out, the marriage, then the betrayal. The other child born from the ritual with Morgan, the snake in the grass at the final confrontation. Arthur carried back to Avalon accompanied by the chanting of the Sisters of the Isle. He shook his head against the visions.

  The jeering of the crowd, good-natured but loud, snapped him away from that prescience. The Lady gently pushed Michael to the back of her consciousness where he coul
d watch, but not make any movement.

  “Excalibur is not for you, Sir Kay,” said a young man with already burly shoulders and a patchy red beard moved in front of the stone, pushing the younger Kay aside. They both laughed.

  The crowd cheered again. Sir Kay’s friends patted him on the shoulder as he moved back into the crowd. Some jostled against him in a jovial way.

  “Step up, Sir Gareth, and try your hand.” The silvery voice of the lady surprised Michael.

  The crowd quieted as Gareth took his stance, planting his feet a bit apart. He took two deep breaths. With the third, he grasped the handle of Excalibur and pulled, the tendons in his neck standing out with the strain. But the sword did not budge. Gareth gathered his strength and tried again, grunting with effort. He stepped back at last, wiped the sweat from his brow, and shook his head.

  “Are there more contenders?” Merlin called out.

  The young men searched each other’s faces, shaking their heads, frowns and worried looks all around. A gust of wind blew the dried grass around the stone.

  “All the sons of the provincial rulers have had a turn,” Gawain said, his head hanging low.

  Apparently Michael had arrived late in the contest.

  “What shall we do, Merlin?” Gawain asked.

  The Lady of Avalon was anything but dejected. Michael could feel glee bubbling up like the springs she oversaw. She’d been waiting for this moment, but he felt her tighten her cheeks to school her face. She must appear solemn.

  The men spoke quietly among themselves, some shaking their heads, others standing, hands on hips. At last, an elderly man stepped forward into the middle of the field. He walked around with his back to the sword in the stone, looking each man in the eye. He turned to Merlin, his cloak billowing with the sudden movement. “There is one other who could make the attempt.”

  “Surely you cannot pull the sword out, father,” Sir Kay said.

  So this was Sir Ector, Michael thought.