Return of the Grail King

by Theresa Crater

  “Not me, son, but my ward. Your squire for today.”

  Voices erupted in protest. “A squire? But we do not know his parentage,” one man said.

  “The people will only accept one born from royalty,” someone in the back shouted out.

  “Who is this boy?” another asked. Sir Ector’s kingdom lay to the north and visitors were infrequent, although they knew Uther had visited a good deal toward the end of his life.

  The Lady stepped forward. “It has not always been the tradition that the son of a king become High King. The Druids have always chosen,” she said. “Let the boy try.”

  All eyes turned to Merlin, who made a show of weighing her words. Then he addressed the crowd. “What say you?”

  “Where is this ward?” an elder asked.

  A willow-slim youth, his head a mass of blond, his chin sharp, stepped forward and stood next to Sir Ector. The clouds parted again and the young man was lit by a shaft of sunlight.

  The crowd murmured. A few recognized him.

  “He slew the great boar just before the Pendragon died,” one said in an undertone.

  “Arthur, would you try to pull the sword?” Merlin asked, his voice soft, yet easily heard by all the crowd.

  Arthur’s glance darted to Sir Ector, then to the lady as if asking their permission. Sir Ector gestured toward Excalibur gently swaying still from the last attempt. Arthur stepped up to the bronzed stone and took his stance. He looked up at the Lady of Avalon again. She smiled, radiant as the light that had fallen through the clouds to light Arthur. He nodded and grasped the sword, planted a foot on the stone itself, and pulled. Excalibur glided free with a ring of steel.

  It shocked the crowd into silence for a few seconds. Arthur’s surprise was even more profound. He stood, eyes wide, jaw slack, staring at the sword he held in his hands.

  He doesn’t know who he is yet, Michael realized.

  A huge roar erupted, every throat giving voice to welcome the new High King of England. Arthur stood with the royal sword still pointed in the air. He brought the sword down and laid it across his hands. The Lady stepped forward and held out a leather scabbard. He bowed low and took it from her, then turned in a full circle in front of the cheering crowd, holding the sword high for all to see. At last, he slid Excalibur home and buckled the sword around his waist.

  Before the crowd could surge forward, Merlin stepped up next to Arthur and raised his hands for silence. Shushes filled the air. Some poked their neighbors to get their attention, pointing to the tall wizard who was a head above the youth. Merlin waved Sir Ector over to his side.

  “Now is the time to tell you, Arthur, who you really are.”

  The boy’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. He looked to the man he had always known as a father, the question written on his face. Perhaps Arthur had assumed he was a blow-by of this regional king.

  Sir Ector shook his head slightly as if answering this unspoken question.

  The crowd pushed forward, elbowing each other to hear.

  Merlin held his head high. “Arthur, you are the son of the Queen Igraine and the High King of the Land, Uther Pendragon.”

  Arthur stumbled back a step.

  Sir Ector grabbed his arm to steady him. Michael heard Ector say in an undertone, “It’s true, but I have always loved you as a son.”

  Voices rose from the crowd, asking each other what Merlin had said, if it could be true.

  Merlin held out his arms, gesturing for Arthur to step forward. He took the stunned youth by the shoulders and turned him around to face the throng. “I took Arthur away as a baby and hid him in the North to keep him safe. Educated at the side of Sir Kay, he was taught states craft by the honorable Sir Ector—” Merlin paused, waiting for perfect silence “—and magic by me.”

  Shouts of surprise rose from the crowd.

  “Did he say magic?”

  “The King a magician? But that’s unheard of.”

  “In the older time, the King was always a magician as well as the ruler. In fact, this is the source of the family name.”

  “Another Pendragon.”

  And with this, the crowd surged forward, pulling Arthur up on their shoulders, chanting “Pendragon, Pendragon, Arthur Pendragon.”

  In the jubilation and chaos, Michael felt himself separating from the Lady of Avalon. The sight dimmed, but right before he rose above it all, he felt a sharp prick at the back of his neck. Had a bee stung him? He reached behind to feel, but all faded to black.

  “Michael.” Azizi’s voice bounced off the walls of the cavern, echoing twice before falling back into silence. He listened carefully for any sound in the humid dark. He called again, but still Michael didn’t answer.

  Azizi walked back into the main temple space and looked around for Tahir. He spotted his tall form stooping down, his nose close to the wall behind the Sekhmet statue.

  “Tahir,” Azizi called.

  Tahir whirled around, shining his flashlight in Azizi’s eyes. He squinted against the light. “Sorry.” Tahir pointed the bright LED beam down at the dusty travertine floor.

  “Have you seen Michael? The guards only gave us an hour. We need to leave.”

  Tahir glanced back at the wall he’d been examining with regret. “When can we come again?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow night, but only if we leave when we agreed.” Azizi shrugged. “You know how they are.”

  “Where did Michael go?”

  “Last I saw he was heading into the Anubis niche.”

  They walked across the temple, the sound of their footsteps reverberating off the walls. With so many workers moving around, the sand had cleared from the middle of the cavern. The dark jackal-headed god stood behind his father in his own small shrine, gold lining his ears and mouth, the eyes eerie. The lights the workers had rigged didn’t reach into the gloom here. Tahir switched on his flashlight again, pointing the light in every corner of the niche. He stepped away from the shrine and shined his light into the dark beyond. About fifteen meters in, golden limestone walls rose in the back of the cavern.

  “Michael,” Tahir shouted, his voice gruff, long practiced at calling children in from play.

  There was no answer.

  The two walked toward the cave wall, shining the light along the floor. One set of footprints appeared leading away from the shrine.

  “Ah, we’ll find him,” Azizi said.

  But the faint impressions vanished halfway across the space. Azizi crouched down. Taking Tahir’s flashlight, he examined the ground carefully, shining the light parallel to pick up any irregularities. The dust lay even, undisturbed. He pointed the light back toward the center of the temple, studying the ground carefully. There were no returning prints.

  Tahir crouched beside him and took the light, aiming it into the black of the underground cavern. In the distance, a form lay on its side. Tahir shone the light over the ground between the figure and where they crouched. The abiding dust lay even and undisturbed.

  “Michael,” Tahir shouted.

  The form did not stir. Azizi jumped up and ran to the figure, Tahir rising more slowly and following. Azizi reached him and pointed the flashlight into the figure’s face. Michael’s mouth was lax, his eyes closed, as if he were sleeping peacefully at home.

  Tahir bent down, a low grunt escaping his lips as he kneeled on the hard floor. He took Michael’s face between his two palms.

  Azizi leaned back.

  “The light, please.”

  Azizi aimed the flashlight back at Michael’s face, now dwarfed between Tahir’s two rough hands. He kept the light steady as Tahir hummed, gently massaging Michael’s temples. After a few minutes, the hum turned into Michael’s name. Tahir’s low, deep voice called out several times until at last Michael’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened. He squinted against the light, and Azizi directed the flashlight to a spot beside him.

  “Tahir?” Michael sounded surprised. “What—Where am I?”

  “You are in Egypt,”
Tahir’s voice remained steady, not betraying any alarm.

  “Egypt, but I was just in Camelot.”

  “What did he say?” Azizi whispered.

  “You are in Egypt,” Tahir repeated, loud and firm.

  Michael sat up and clutched at his chest.

  “Should I call a doctor?” Azizi asked.

  Michael looked around wildly for a moment, then into Tahir’s face. He panted for air. Soon his breath slowed and he stood up, dusting himself off. “I was just—”

  “Wait until we are at my house,” Tahir said.

  Michael nodded, then again his hand went to his chest, grabbing at his shirt. He felt the back of his neck, then closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “What is it?” Azizi asked.

  “The crystal. I had it on when I came tonight. The crystal key—it’s missing.”

  Chapter 8

  Winston and Arnold had installed a hospital bed in the temple and a comfortable chair for Elizabeth. She sat next to Anne contemplating the situation. Still unconscious, Anne lay beneath white sheets and a thermal blanket, an IV drip in her arm. A bank of monitors stood in the corner, Anne’s pulse registered by soft, steady beeps. A second monitor displayed the baby’s vitals, its heart rate much higher. Elizabeth had asked it be muted except for the alarm because the rapid beeping had made her uneasy.

  The new nurse, Emma Gallen, stood by the machines, her blond hair streaked with gray captured under a white nurse’s cap. She made hourly notations on the clipboard in her hand. The woman had come highly recommended by Mary Shak, a member of the lodge whose family affiliation with the Le Clairs stretched back at least two hundred years. Probably more. Elizabeth and Winston had vetted her psychically, and Arnold had done a thorough background check. All rushed, yes, but that had been necessary given the circumstances. The woman had a solid metaphysical background and could probably understand Elizabeth’s explanations and perhaps even take part as a support person in ritual. Arnold would probe further, and in the meantime, Elizabeth was keeping an eye on her.

  And Anne.

  Not to mention Mordred, who still hovered, a dark shadow, over the crystal in the middle of the temple.

  Anne’s condition had not changed. Her vitals were strong. The baby seemed fine. But the coma persisted, although Elizabeth wondered if that was the right word for what had happened. A powerful magician had entranced Anne. An unembodied magician at that, who, because of that, could access the energies of the upper realms much more easily.

  Elizabeth paused at this thought. Could he? After all, he was intent on doing harm. Negative magic came at a cost. The more powerful, the steeper the price. Mordred wanted to stop the birth of the child Anne carried. The child who’d almost come to term, due in a week, if not sooner. These things could never be predicted accurately. Her own daughter Katherine had been late by almost two weeks.

  Elizabeth smiled at this thought. It had become a character trait. Katherine was late in everything—finding her favorite subject in school, puberty, getting married. She’d never accepted the family legacy. Still scoffed at metaphysical teachings Elizabeth tried to share, something she’d given up on years ago. Learning this and the family heritage was Katherine’s duty, the duty of all the matriarchs of the Le Clairs. To pass on the knowledge of not just their bloodline, but how to use the abilities that usually came with this inheritance for the guidance of humanity.

  Elizabeth straightened in her chair. Katherine had shirked this duty since she refused to learn how to use her brilliant vision. She still shocked her mother with some of her insights, but they could not be relied on, coming as they did from an untrained and undisciplined mind.

  It had seemed that Anne would follow in her mother’s footsteps until Cynthia died and passed on the crystal key to her niece. Thankfully, Anne had risen to the occasion, much to Elizabeth’s relief. She’d handed off most of Anne’s early training to Roger Abernathy, a man who followed in the Templar tradition of protecting the bloodline. He was not a monk. The Templars had passed their duty on to householders, but the rigor remained. Elizabeth had hoped to polish off Anne’s training with the female mysteries after the baby was born.

  A soft cough got Elizabeth’s attention. Emma stood at the foot of the bed, hands folded, the picture of an old-fashioned nurse in white dress, white stockings, and white comfortable shoes that apparently made no sound at all.

  Elizabeth pulled herself from her reverie. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Levy and the baby’s vitals are all normal, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth reached out and patted Anne’s hand.

  “You mentioned a lodge gathering at eight o’clock. It is now a quarter after seven.” Emma kept her voice low as if she didn’t want to wake her patient.

  If only it were that simple, Elizabeth thought. Suppressing a sigh, she pushed herself up from the new cushioned chair Arnold had provided.

  “May I help you prepare?” Emma asked.

  “If you could keep watch, I’ll go get ready.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me know immediately if there is any change.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Elizabeth stopped by Gerald’s study and found him hard at work. He updated her on the hack.

  She stared at him a full minute before responding. “So, we have no money now?” This idea was beyond her. They came from old money. Very old. She’d never thought a moment about what she would do without funds. It was incomprehensible.

  “Arnold has hired our own hacker.” Gerald explained the plan.

  This shocked her more deeply. Finally, she roused herself. “Arnold, change the codes on the family vaults here. Unless those have been broken into as well.”

  “It’s already done,” he said.

  Tangible goods. That she could wrap her head around. They had some gold bars stored away. The family had always kept gold or diamonds on hand, a tradition that stretched back hundreds of years. A sudden picture of Estelle trying to pay for a loaf of bread with gold bullion flashed in her mind and she almost laughed.

  “Is the attack on Anne and this theft connected?” she asked.

  “We’ll check into that as soon as our computer experts arrive.”

  She shook her head, deciding to leave the business to Gerald.

  In her rooms, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the nozzle to a pulse of hot water. She let the spray beat on her tight shoulders, finally feeling the knots loosen. She dried off methodically, forcing herself to slow down. Applying her favorite lotion, she breathed in its scent of roses, letting it carry her to the garden where she tended the bushes herself in summer, picked and laid the petals out to dry, before blessing them for ritual use. Then she settled before her private altar in her sitting room and allowed all the turmoil and fear to rise. The dark clouds that had hovered on the edges of her awareness moved in and broke. Her throat burned and she wept for her granddaughter, for the child whose birth these malevolent forces were fighting to stop.

  Her grief widened to include her grandson Thomas, lost in the Indian Ocean during his search for the crystal key in Tibet. She wept for Cynthia, her bright child who grew to be such a powerful woman both magically and in her life, who had fully embraced the family legacy and taken their knowledge to new heights. For her brother, George, cut down in his prime by an assassin’s bullet, the man whose administration the American people still called Camelot, never realizing how close they came to the truth.

  “Why not me?” she whispered.

  Then the spiritual being who guided her, who oversaw their family, the real head of their Lodge, rose within her. Isis spread her blue cloak over Elizabeth’s shoulders, comforting her, murmuring of her search for Osiris, sharing her grief at the loss of her lover. They wept together.

  She allowed her feelings full reign, knowing it was the only way to clear them, knowing the storm would play itself out and leave her washed clean like a beach after a heavy storm, but with a tre
asure deposited somewhere on the sand.

  Anne listened to the silence around her. Gradually, she noticed a sound, a faint, regular beeping in the distance, slow and steady, far above her head. The weight of something stirring inside her, a small form readjusting itself.

  The baby, she thought. That’s right. We’re having a baby.

  She kicked her legs as if to surface from deep water, trying to move toward the sound, but ran into a murky haze that thickened as she struggled to push through it. She strained to fight her way free, but a voice murmured indistinctly, just below the threshold of hearing, sending a numbness through her limbs. The weight within her went still. Too still. She wrapped her arms around her jutting belly protectively. Her throat burned with grief.

  But the baby is still alive, she thought. Why do I feel like I’ve lost my one, best love?

  The darkness lightened. She sensed air currents. In a few moments, she squinted against a tropical sun and found herself sitting in a gilded wooden chair, bent over, holding her stomach as if her guts would spill out, howling with grief.

  A man stood in the middle of the room, his face streaked with tears, waiting. The woman in the chair gasped for breath. She gripped the table beside her for support. “Take me to his body.”

  Whose body? Anne wondered.

  She studied the man before her. He wore a white linen kilt, pleated in front. His chest was bare, but around his neck hung three strands of obsidian, carnelian, and crystal supporting a lapis scarab at his breastbone.

  Egypt again. Why do I keep traveling back here?

  “I’m sorry, Lady Isis, I can’t . . .” His jaw quivered. He wiped tears away with a square hand. “There is—”

  “You can’t?” Isis surged to her feet, anger replacing grief. “I command you to take me to his body.”

  “While you were away, Set made a beautiful box, and at the feast he held at Osiris’ return, he offered it to the person who fit it most exactly. The coffin was beautiful, made of rare cedar from Lebanon, and inlaid with ebony from Punt, and ivory, gold and silver, and painted inside with the figures of Neters, birds and animals. Osiris desired it and when he tried it out—”