Return of the Grail King

by Theresa Crater

  He looked back at the priest. “Where am I going?”

  “It is not so much a matter of where,” the man said. “Now, if you please.”

  How had he learned English, Michael wondered? Or maybe it was being translated in his head.

  Michael took the man’s outstretched hand and used it to push himself up to the side of the box where he perched.

  “In you go. Do not cross your arms or legs.”

  Michael did as he was instructed, all objection driven from his mind by the strangeness of it all. The Druid sang another series of tones and the lid of the chamber slid back into place, but instead of darkness, the box filled with light. Startled, Michael reached out his hand and felt the light flow between his fingers, a little thicker than water. Panicking, he sat up and pushed against the lid, but the Druid’s voice sounded in his mind. “Lay down and relax. You are in no danger.”

  The substance soaked into the backs of his legs, soothing his muscles. The back of his body felt lighter. Currents of light swirled through the fluid. Michael eased himself back down. The liquid light filled his ears and he heard a hum, faint at first, growing stronger. The hum differentiated, becoming a celestial choir, complex layerings of what could only be angelic voices, he thought, soothing, reaching into every nook and cranny of his being, singing him awake to his higher existence. The frequency called to a memory, and he found his body lightening, matching the vibration.

  He dissolved into light.

  His mind blanked.

  Time stopped.

  A voice spoke softly in his ear.

  “Sir Lancelot?”

  He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a green slope dotted with small violet flowers. A black stallion nosed through the grass nearby.

  A squire squatted over him, blotting out the sun.

  “We should go, sir, if we mean to be in Camelot before nightfall.”

  Anne discovered she was leaning out of a mullioned window, looking across a field dotted with early bluebells and the splash of wine-stained buds on the heather. A faint track wound down from a dark fringe of wood in the distance, tan against the spring green. The sound of swordplay rose from the yard below her. Geese honked a protest as a gangly girl herded them away from the feet of the practicing men. The smell of horse manure, human sweat, and venison stew mixed in the air. Two soldiers stood guard at the gates of the yard dressed in a livery that plucked at Anne’s memory. Three golden crowns.

  Camelot. She must be in Camelot. Then who—

  “It should only take the summer months, Gwen. I must see to the lands and see that the peace is secure.”

  And just like that Anne slid to the back of the mind of her hostess and remembered.

  Yes, I was Guinevere. Arthur called me Gwen.

  She turned away from the window to find Arthur’s expression a mix of sadness, anxiety—probably for her—and almost concealed excitement. Complain as he might of the hardships of campaigning, sleeping on the hard ground, his head on the flank of his favorite hound when there was no time to pitch camp, riding in a drizzle that gradually worked its way through his thick wool cloak into his tunic and linen shirt, and finally down to his skin, she knew he still loved the crisp morning air, the feel of the horse’s haunches gathered beneath him ready to charge, and yes, the cheering for the high king when he rode into a town where he’d be feasted before the political talk the next morning.

  “It’s just that I’d hoped to be carrying before you left this time,” Guinevere said. “I’ve gone to the healers for a potion.”

  Arthur covered the distance between them in three large strides. He swung her up and carried her to their bed, managing to wrap them both in the bed curtains and just catching himself from stumbling. “We still have a few days before the preparations are complete, my love. I mean to stay for the sacred day.”

  A ting of guilt tightened Guinevere in the stomach. My love. He always calls me that. I do not love him like that, although I like him well enough. Arthur’s eyes were as clear and open as one of his favorite hounds when it looked up at him. She shook her head against that image.

  “What?” he asked, finally managing to free his feet from the gauzy material. “You aren’t—”

  Guinevere smiled at this. Still squeamish about naming a woman’s cycles, even after he’d won the hard wars against the Saxons, then the Picts when they’d joined forces with the invaders.

  “No, love. In fact, the timing is promising. But we are dressed and expected downstairs for dinner. I will take the potion and perhaps you will return to me with a nicely rounded belly.”

  He leaned down and kissed her tenderly, then pulled back. “As you say. To business, then.” Arthur straightened his tunic and donned a slender circlet of gold, then banged out the door before she could straighten it.

  Guinevere laid back on the pillows, thinking back to her girlhood dreams of a love match, the perfect cottage in the woods. Well, as the daughter of a lord, she would have had a slightly larger house, but still, a cozy home, children playing on the floor at her feet, a spindle in her hands. Her beloved coming in of an evening from the fields, worn-out, but not too tired to give his young ones a ride on his shoulders before a kiss from her, and then supper filled with laughter and stories of the day. But they had chosen her to cement the peace, to seal the court of the High King of Britain in the old ways, for she carried the old maternal blood. It was an honor she’d never dreamed of as a child, but a duty she’d accepted when her father had spoken to her. She did love Arthur in her way. Her mother had told her that love comes with time. She could still hear her voice.

  “The love that grows with knowing lasts, dearest child. The quick spark of a spring lust too often fades in the autumn.”

  But a girl blooming into her womanhood does not wish to hear such advice. Guinevere pulled herself up. She must go to supper, sit at the king’s side, laugh at the jokes of the various lords gathered there tonight. Then tomorrow she had the household to look after.

  They expected her to bless the seed before the planting. The young men would try their hand at plowing tomorrow. Soon the festival to mark the onset of summer would be on them. The people would pick the Spring Maid. The household must host the countryside and she needed to see to their stores, talk to the cooks, see to cleaning out the vegetable and herb gardens. She worked almost as hard as the farm wife she’d dreamed of being.

  With a sigh, she stood, but instead of going downstairs, she found herself drawn to the window again. Purple shadows crept across the meadow now and the cool of late afternoon settled on the shoulders of the doves cooing in the eaves. Far out to her right she could make out the small figure of a shepherd and his two dogs going out to call in the cattle for the night. Her eyes followed the slope of the land back toward the woods, and there two figures emerged, the first riding a majestic black stallion, the second a dun two hands smaller.

  Even though the shadows of evening were gathering in the corners and whispering together, conspiring to take over the day, as the knight drew closer, the sun came out from behind a cloud and cast a bright ray directly across the field that fell on him. Light flared from his armor. His shield was a yellow that shone like a sun-flower, and as he drew closer, Guinevere could make out the device, a red-cross knight kneeling to a lady.

  Bells jangled merrily as his warhorse pranced on burnished hooves before the man leaned down to sooth the beast, his coal-black curls falling from beneath his helmet. His bridle caught the last ray of sunlight and flickered like the gem-toned windows of the chapel. A great silver horn hung from his baldric. The knight sat straight again, the feather in his helmet catching a breeze and flashing out like a flame.

  He stopped at the gate, talking out of ear-shot with the guards, who leapt to attention once they heard his name, a name Guinevere couldn’t make out. They waved him inside. The great stallion snorted at the sound of swords clashing, and with a shout from the captain, the men stopped their practice and made way. The horse pranc
ed a few more steps, then came to a halt halfway across the yard, and the knight looked up and spied Guinevere in the window.

  Their eyes locked. Guinevere felt a jolt of recognition, although she was certain they had never met. She would have remembered such a man. Then a wild joy clamored in her chest like church bells after a celebration. Arthur strode out of the door below and the knight dismounted and bowed deeply. “I bring greetings from King Hoel of Llydaw. He bids me make a pact with you, Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain.” His voice carried the accent of the continent, suggesting grape terraces maturing in the summer sun and fine perfumes.

  Arthur started back in surprise. Before he could ask, the man answered the question on everyone’s mind.

  “I am Lancelot du Lac.”

  After the men went inside, Guinevere called her maid into her chambers before going down herself. “Hester, can you please pin my braids again? Did I hear we have company tonight?” She didn’t know why she feigned ignorance of who had come.

  “Yes, m’lady. A knight from across the water come to parlay with our Great Bear.” Many still called Arthur by the name he’d earned on the battlefield.

  She studied herself in the mirror. Her apron had a small stain from earlier work in the gardens and she wore an everyday muslin gown. “Should I wear something more formal?”

  “Perhaps the blue?” Hester’s eyes danced at the prospect. The girl busied herself helping Guinevere into a gown of lapis blue with star-like flashes of tiny gems on the bodice.

  “What about the amber beads? Would that be too much?”

  “On, no.” Hester opened the chest beside Guinevere’s mirror and lifted out the necklace, wrapped in a length of velvet. The amber beads, the size of young hazelnuts, picked up the glow of the candle as the girl picked them up and settled them against Guinevere’s fair décolletage.

  Guinevere donned the matching earrings, stood and shook out her skirts. “How do I look?”

  Hester nodded, circling her and smoothing out the skirts of the gown. She went back to the chest holding Guinevere’s little treasures and picked up something. She unfolded a silk shawl embroidery picking up the lapis blue of her gown and gold of the amber. “It is a special occasion, isn’t it?” the girl asked shyly.

  “Perfect.” Guinevere turned her back and allowed Hester to wrap the shawl around her. They both studied her reflection in the mirror. The blue darkened her cornflower eyes to the mysterious depth of a lake. The gold reflected the highlights of her hair.

  “You look beautiful, m’lady.”

  Guinevere squeezed Hester’s hand and made her way down to the feasting hall, trying to school her steps to the sedate pace becoming the matron she was.

  When she arrived in the hall, she found Sir Lancelot seated to Arthur’s right. The two had their heads bent together, one golden, the other dark as a raven’s wing. Arthur noticed her when she stepped up onto the platform that held their table and got to his feet to pull out her chair.

  “You have changed your dress,” he whispered.

  “I heard we had royal company,” she explained. “I thought I looked too plain for such a guest.”

  “You plain? Never.”

  Once settled, the servant filled her glass with mead and Arthur held his up. “We are honored tonight with a visit from our cousin, Sir Lancelot du Lac.”

  Guinevere smiled. The great families always called a distant relation “cousin.”

  Arthur continued. “He comes at the behest of King Hoel to parlay with us and keep the great peace.”

  A hearty cheer went up from the men and the knights close to the royal table nodded their approval.

  “To Lancelot,” Sir Kay shouted out.

  Geraint cried, “To King Hoel.”

  And they drank.

  Chapter 12

  “We need to figure out who stole our money,” Gerald said to his hacker team. Or at least to Dana. Preston hadn’t stopped coding. At least, that’s what he thought he was doing.

  “I may have a lead,” Preston mumbled.

  Gerald rolled Susan’s desk chair up behind him and sat.

  “Dude, like I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll stay here. I’m sure my presence will not deter someone with your skill.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  Gerald marveled at the speed at which Preston turned out lines of code. He sat back in the chair, going through his muscle groups, tensing and relaxing them. He badly needed to punch something, but he was getting a bit old for that. Maybe he’d ask Leo to spot him in the gym.

  His mind wandered to Anne. He wanted to be with her, with Elizabeth, but she had told him she needed to have a private consultation with the Opener. That meant she would ask Anubis why he’d blocked their banishing spell. He knew better than to interrupt her. Or his hacker. They’d both report their results when as they had them, but his experience with Preston so far suggested that could be soon.

  “Yes!” Preston yelled.

  Gerald jumped to his feet. “What?”

  “I think your money was stolen by a Mr. Valentin Knight, owner of Knight Corporation. Clever name,” he smirked.

  “I don’t believe it,” Gerald said.

  “Dude, believe it or not, the IP address is located in this neighborhood in Potomac, Maryland.” He squinted at the screen “That’s where Knight lives, right? Nobody else on this list corresponds to this area.”

  Gerald nodded his head slowly. “I’d have to double check, but it sounds about right. Could someone have rerouted the signal from there?”

  “No way. Look.” Preston pointed to the monitor slightly to his right with a series of lines bouncing around the world. “Look at all the different routes the packets are taking through the proxies. Every single one is coming from this point. It's gotta be the source.”

  “And there’s no way to fake that?”

  “I’d bet the family money on it.” Preston realized what he’d said and blanched. “Um, sorry dude.

  Gerald shrugged it off. He still couldn’t believe that Valentin had been involved in this theft. Valentin Knight headed the most elite mystical lodge in the country, the one that led the rest of them. He was the lead spiritual authority in Western Metaphysics. You could say Valentin was the Merlin of America.

  “Maybe it was someone on his staff,” Gerald suggested. “His personal secretary. Or somebody might have broken in.”

  Preston shrugged. “Whatever, man, but the hack originated from a computer at this address. I’m sure of it.”

  “And the money? Where did it get moved to?”

  “It’s probably been converted to crypto currency, like BitCoin or Etereum. But this Knight guy is an old dude, right? He probably stashed it in the Caymans. Where else do old crooks hide their money?”

  Gerald could think of several other places, but a rush of relief made him too light-headed to list them. He sat heavily in his chair. “Can we get it back?”

  Preston’s smile reminded him of a pirate. The kid rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Dude, hold my beer.”

  Gerald decided it was time to check on Elizabeth.

  After last night’s failure, Elizabeth had forced herself to sleep in her own room, not next to Anne in some make-shift arrangement, to clear her psychic palate so to speak. This morning she went into the temple with renewed determination.

  “How’s our patient,” she asked Emma.

  “She’s fine. You’d think this was a natural sleep. The baby’s vitals are strong and normal.”

  “Mary stayed last night?” Elizabeth confirmed.

  “She did. She reported the same. A quiet night.”

  “Has Winston come in yet?”

  “He went to his office to clear his schedule until we can get this resolved. He’s seeing a few critical cases, then reassigning them. Said he’d be here in the early afternoon.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Good.”

  Emma went back to a chair near the east wall of the sanctuary, and Elizabeth walked to
ward the crystal in the middle of the temple, palms out, feeling for Mordred. A wave of hatred swept through her awareness. She smelled horse sweat, heard the jingle of a bridle, then all that faded and the man’s face formed deep inside the stone. But she didn’t engage him. Not after last night. Instead, she turned back to Anne and Arthur.

  Arthur? She shook her head against the name that had spontaneously come into her mind.

  Elizabeth leaned over the cold metal railing on the hospital bed. She ran her fingers gently over Anne’s forehead, then settled her left hand there. “We’re here, love. We’ll figure this out.”

  Anne lay slightly on her right side so the baby would not be resting directly on her spine, pillows supporting her back and one between her knees. Her blond hair fell over her face. Elizabeth smoothed the strands back, stroking her cheek. Then she placed her right hand gently on the dome of Anne’s belly, closed her eyes and hummed, creating a link between herself and the baby. She searched for a spark of awareness that was the child and was rewarded with a return wave of energy that warmed her palm. Now she’d established a link with them both.

  “Good.”

  “What is it?” Emma half rose.

  “I’m going to do a couple of specific workings. Just keep an eye on her and touch my shoulder if her condition worsens.”

  “Should I stay here?”

  “You won’t disturb me. Can you pull that chair in so I can sit and keep my hands where they are now?”

  “Sure.” Emma pushed down the side railing of the bed, then lifted the chair and moved it closer, not making a sound. She placed it directly under Elizabeth, then guided her to a sitting position.

  “Thank you.”

  Emma retreated to her lookout post.

  Elizabeth went through her routine of preparation, relaxing all her muscles, breathing, clearing her energy field. She forced herself to take her time, being thorough, almost methodical. Once she’d achieved a fairly deep trance, she went in search of Anne. The gray mists of the astral swirled around her, thickening at first. She wondered if Mordred was interfering, but only felt him as a watchful, brooding presence nearby.