Mordred rose, a look of savage victory on his face. “One traitor has fled. The other stands here bold faced in her shame.”
Arthur just shook his head.
Mordred pointed his finger at Guinevere. “I accuse you of adultery. You have lain with the king’s best knight while he was away. You and Lancelot are traitors.”
“Do you have proof of this?” Arthur asked.
Agravain stood. “I myself saw them in wonton display in a meadow, thinking themselves undetected. Lancelot snuck into my lord’s own bed in his absence, such was his villainy.”
“I confess I have been disloyal, my lord,” came Guinevere’s quiet voice. “I am ready to be set aside.”
Arthur stood and motioned her to stand beside him. He controlled his face, but his eyes spoke his grief. “You have broken your vows of marriage and lain with another man. I reject you and send you to the nunnery in Caredegion where you will live out your life.”
Not there, Guinevere thought. She tried to speak, but could only nod her head. Tears flooded her eyes. Lancelot had deserted her. Arthur was sending her to Caredegion, a prison to her. A deep pain tore through her abdomen and she groaned, grabbing at the air. Leigh’s hand grasped hers.
“I’m here,” she said. “Your horse is ready. I will ride with you.”
“I will send a few soldiers to accompany you, Gwen.” Arthur stood staring at her with yearning in his eyes. Then he moved to her and whispered in her ear. “Please forgive me.”
Suddenly, Anne’s body jerked and her hands reached for her rounded belly. A moan came from her lips. Then she raised one hand and groped in the air for support.
Elizabeth rushed over and grabbed her hand. “I’m here.”
The nurse probed Anne’s abdomen. Anne cried out and tried to push the nurse’s hands away.
Emma looked up at Elizabeth. “We’ve got a contraction.”
Elizabeth stroked Anne’s cheek, calling her name. “Time to come back now,” she crooned.
Anne’s eyes fluttered open, but remained unfocused. Then she closed them again and remained quiet.
Emma noted the time of the first contraction and checked Anne’s vitals. Anne seemed to have settled back into her trance.
Elizabeth gathered herself and returned to finish the ritual. They were making headway, but they still had to stop Mordred from trying to enter the baby.
Chapter 21
Elizabeth nodded to Abernathy for him to continue. He took a deep breath and resumed his part of the Isis ritual.
“In the dark cave, Horus gradually regained his sight and when he did, he set out to avenge himself on Set. The Neter was so overjoyed at his clear vision again that both sides of the Nile burst into spring as he made his way down it.
“He gathered those loyal to him until his army stretched across the sands and they fought many battles with Set, but the final one took place at Edfu. In their boats, the forces of Horus and Set drew near to each other among the rapids of the First Cataract of the Nile. Seeing the greatness of Horus’ army, Set took the form of a giant red hippopotamus and appeared over the hill of Elephantine Island.
“Cursing Horus and his mother, he called up a raging tempest. The thunder rolled across the heavens and fell in sheets over the boats of Horus and his army. The wind whipped their sails and beat the water into huge waves that rose over their boats and threatened to swamp them. But Horus held against the tempest, the prow of his craft gleaming like a ray of sun.
“Enraged, Set straddled the Nile and opened his great jaws to devour Horus and his host in one gulp, but Horus, calling upon the magic that was his birthright, expanded into a twelve-foot warrior, holding a harpoon twice his height with a blade as wide as a man. Taking a strong stance, he hurled the harpoon at the hippopotamus just as he opened his jaws the widest, and the blade flew through his mouth and imbedded itself deep into Set’s brain. So did Set, Son of Nut, mate to Nephthys, pass into spirit.
“But even death did not stop him. Once Set stepped over the threshold of this world, he took his grievance to Thoth, who prophesied Horus would defeat Set once and for all, and on that day, his father Osiris would rise from the dead and return to earth, bringing with him his illumined followers and returning the Earth to paradise.”
That day has come, came a voice from the center of the temple.
Caught in a swirling vortex, Michael was buffeted by what felt like strong winds. He spiraled around in tighter circles as if he were going down through a funnel. At last, he fell heavily to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. He lay there, gasping, grateful the earth stayed put.
After a minute, he pushed up on his elbows. A tall sycamore tree rose above him, sheltering him from the sun. Where was he?
He’d been riding a horse, desperate to escape Mordred and his supporters. He’d planned on reaching the coast, finding a hiding place. Then he’d search out Guinevere. Arthur would not sentence her to die, surely. He’d send her away somewhere. Perhaps to Avalon. That would be best. He, Lancelot, would find her. They would run away and hide somewhere. Live out a life together.
But where was his horse? He looked around and found himself alone on a high hill. Reaching for his sword, he found nothing. His hands brushed unfamiliar garments. Thick blue leggings that hung loose and a tunic that seemed to button up the front. He’d never seen such clothes before.
A realization rose in his mind like a jousting knight stampeding toward him. He threw his hands in front of his face to stop it, but the thought overtook him.
Michael. My name is Michael.
Lancelot, a second voice replied. My name is Lancelot.
Then Anne’s face swam up into his memory. Anne laughing. Anne listening. Anne covered in dust sitting under the paw of the Sphinx.
He shook his head against such an improbability.
Anne, my love.
Guinevere, will I ever see you again?
This second voice seemed to think Anne was that famous queen.
What of Guinevere? Where was she? He still yearned for her. Yet Anne had the same honeyed hair, the same fire in her heart. But Anne was his wife, not centuries dead like the famous queen. She laid at home unconscious.
Because of Mordred.
Rage filled him. He had lost these two women because of that bastard. He would find him and kill him. Tear him limb from limb.
Then another memory came. He reached under the collar of his shirt—yes, now he remembered what it was called—and searched wildly for a silver chain. The chain should hold a crystal key, much more powerful than its size suggested. But it was gone.
Stolen by Mordred.
He’d come here to get the crystal key back to save Guinevere.
He shook his head. No, Anne. He’d come to save Anne.
He remembered a huge granite box. A tall Druid telling him to get in. Tahir nodding, telling him everything would be fine. He’d been in Egypt. But he wasn’t back there. That must mean his mission wasn’t finished. He remembered jumping around in time before getting in the box at the Serapeum—yes, that was where he’d gone. Before that he’d seen through the eyes of Uther, then the Lady of Avalon. His time as Lancelot, however, had been different. More immediate. He’d not been separate from Lancelot. They had been one person.
Michael pushed up from the grass and walked out from under the sycamore tree. He gazed down into the valley. Two armies faced each other. They wore medieval armor and rode courser horses. He crept closer to the edge of the hill.
Two knights rode forward. Michael’s vision telescoped, as if he were still partially in the swirling magic of the vortex that moved him through time. He could see them clearly. One sat astride a magnificent white destrier stallion and held a green shield with two golden gryphons back to back on it. Another rode a bay destrier and carried a shield with a purple background and a golden two-headed eagle.
Arthur and Mordred.
The final battle.
Michael had to get down there and recapture the cryst
al key. Mordred was channeling its power to win this battle and control Anne. Mordred planned on replacing the soul of their child and be reborn instead. He had to stop him. If he was going to change history, this was his chance.
Michael ran along a faint deer path, hugging the hill closely, running low. He came level with the rear of Mordred’s group of men and hid behind a cluster of purple willow. Arthur and Mordred had dismounted and moved together in the center of the field. Behind them, far enough to give their lieges privacy, stood two knights on each side, one holding the horses, the other with his hand hovering over his sword ready to defend his leader.
A line of privet bushes jutted into the field farther down. Michael moved toward them, then worked his way out as close to the two leaders as he dared. He crouched in the shadow of the last bush.
“—will not step down,” Arthur was saying.
“You have failed the land.” Mordred pitched his voice for all to hear. “You have not produced an heir. Your wife and best knight have betrayed you.”
Arthur ignored this last part. “I have produced offspring, as you have pointed out.”
“In the Beltane ritual. I am the son of the Sun and the Lady.” Mordred puffed his chest out.
“And yet you claim to be my son,” Arthur answered, his voice calm, but somehow carrying through the whole valley. “You cannot have it both ways.”
Mordred glared at him, his eyes so full of a feral rage that Michael’s courage wavered. “If you want me to follow the old ways—”
“Old? Are our traditions old already?”
Mordred smiled like a man who hears the trap he’s laid snap shut. “I’m glad to hear you say this. If you honor our traditions, you agree to submit to them?”
Arthur hesitated. “What are you asking?”
“Give your life to the scythes. When the grain is cut, let it cut you down as well. Give your life’s blood to the fields. Bring fertility and abundance back to Camelot.”
“This requires a young and virile man. You are more suited to it than I.”
“So you admit to being old? To being impotent?”
Jeers and laughter erupted from Mordred’s followers.
Arthur pitched his voice so only Mordred could hear, but Michael was close enough. “Stop this now, Mordred. Tell me what you want.”
“I want my birthright.”
“Be reasonable. The clans will decide that.”
Mordred’s face flushed a deep red, the cords of his neck stretching as he screamed, “I want to be High King.”
“You are destroying all the good work we have done uniting England. It will come undone—”
“Snake,” one of Mordred’s men yelled out. “It’s an adder.” He drew his sword and swung it at the snake.
But the armies had not heard what the knight had said. They only saw the flash of the sword lit by the sun. Shouts rose all around. The knights drew their swords and galloped in, screaming as they rode. Foot soldiers followed, war cries rising everywhere.
Soon mayhem ruled. The battle had begun.
Elizabeth stared at the large crystal ball, shocked by what she’d just heard.
That day has come, the voice had said. And it hadn’t been Mordred.
All those assembled gaped at what was forming inside the ancient crystal ball. The faceted depths cleared and Set appeared with the face of an ant-eater carrying a was scepter. Mordred stood beside him, his sword drawn.
We have come to finish this war, they shouted in unison.
Abernathy turned to Elizabeth, his face confused, yet he did not voice his question. They both knew this would break the spell of the ritual. This should have been the end of the rite. Traditionally, the story concluded with Thoth’s prophecy that one day Horus would defeat Set once and for all. But tonight, something new was happening.
The armies of Set and Mordred formed behind them, growing louder and more menacing, then all at once, they poured through the crystal onto a battlefield.
Before anyone could react, Elizabeth and Abernathy were pulled through with them. The other Lodge members were caught in the whirlwind and followed.
“No,” Elizabeth screamed, and looking over her shoulder before the veil closed, saw Anne convulse in another contraction. The baby was coming too quickly.
Then she heard a sound that woke up a distant memory of being a warrior. The singing of a sword slicing through the air. She dodged just in time.
Michael moved toward the place he’d last seen Mordred, intent on recapturing the crystal, dodging men locked in combat. A courser reared above his head, mouth open in a scream, and lashed out with his hoof. Michael dropped and rolled beneath the horse, coming to his feet on the other side. He silently thanked Arnold for his martial arts lessons, but wished the skilled fighter and strategist was here with him now. Arnold, Leo, the whole security team.
He looked for the distinctive shield, saw a flash of purple further on, and moved toward it. A foot soldier lashed at him with the business end of a pike. Michael sidestepped, then reached for his sword. He cursed when he found only his belt. Encumbered by the long weapon, the soldier tried to run, but Michael gave him a hard shove and moved on.
The purple shield seemed to stand out in the sea of men, horses, and banners. He moved toward it again. Another foot soldier stepped in front of him, swinging a halberd. Michael let Lancelot’s muscle memory take over, and the man was soon dispatched. Michael pushed down guilt. He picked up the halberd and kept moving forward, dodging horses and grappling men.
A sword swept in front of him, and Lancelot twisted the halberd, hooked the sword, and pulled it from the man’s hand.
Nice move, Lance.
Thank you.
Michael shook his head, surprised by the answer, and kept moving. He cut down a foot soldier who ran at him, but then found himself staring at a blue chariot drawn by two Arabian horses with blue plumed headdresses. The chariot sported a green scarab on the front and blue and gold trim.
“What the hell?” Michael stared.
Two men stood in it, one driving the horses, the second with a bow and arrow pointed straight at him. The man loosed the arrow and Michael dove behind two men locked in combat. The arrow pierced the throat of Arthur’s man. The chariot bowled past.
Michael backed away from the fray and surveyed the battlefield. Medieval warriors grabbled with each other. A knight rode past and swung his sword at the neck of one of Mordred’s men. Then a group of warriors marched by wearing blue and white striped headdresses, gold breastplates, and sandals that laced to the knee. They carried long spears and shields with an emblem that Michael fought to recognize. But it was Egyptian. There was no question.
Then, far in the distance, he saw a tall, golden being, at least seven feet tall if not more, with the body of the man and the head of an ant-eater.
Michael sank to his knees. This was not possible. The Egyptian Neter Set strode across the battle field laying waste with his scepter.
He shook his head. Closed his eyes, then opened them again. But Set remained.
Forget Arnold. They needed Merlin. He looked around wildly for any sign of the wizard.
Chapter 22
Nina watched Valentin Knight rise from in front of a three-foot tall quartz crystal he’d been whispering to and resume pacing. The room she had locked him in was a room ringed with mirrors and lined with large crystals into which she’d whispered spells, spells to confuse the mind, to weaken the will, to ignite in him the overwhelming, irresistible sexual compulsion he’d felt for her so long ago thanks to the spell she’d discovered in her past, a spell coming all the way from the cult of the Goddess Diana. A subliminal tape played into the space, low chanting, whispers and moans, the sounds of lovemaking, all interspersed with Nina’s voice speaking the spell over and over too low to be heard clearly.
She wore a long, diaphanous gown, shimmering with iridescent colors, pulling in the eye, confusing the mind. Revealing flesh at certain moments, concealing it at others.
She vaguely remembered stealing Merlin’s book of spells long ago. Reading it page after illustrated page. Demanding that the trapped wizard explain them all to her. Practicing the spells there until she had perfected them. But somehow it had not been enough. Something had been missing. Because here she was.
Now she was trying again. But this time, she knew that words on a page were not enough. She must have the power of his mind. She would break that beautiful mind, master his will, take his power. This time, with the Le Clair’s money and Knight’s magical power, she would have it all. Wealth, power, invincibility. She would learn to live long like the old prophets in the Bible. Hundreds of years. She would master magic. She would be rich beyond measure.
She opened the door to the room.
Knight turned to her and spoke in a language she did not recognize. She listened and after a moment, something about it tugged at her deep memory. He walked up to her shaking his head, eyes confused, pleading. He repeated what he’d said. Reached his hands out, begging.
The sound of his words reminded her of the first time she drove south on the M5 and suddenly hearing a different language coming from what she thought was the BBC. After a while, the station identified itself as BBC-Wales. Yes, that was it. She almost laughed, but stopped herself. He was speaking Old Welsh. It was plausible Merlin had spoken that language.
Knight was in too deep. She’d have to back off on the spell. Bring him back a bit, but not too far. She made her way to the sophisticated sound system she’d asked Gregor to install. She turned off the track of herself repeating the spell.
She waited.
“This Nina Lockhart is a piece of work,” Arnold said, pushing the bio he’d been reading across the table to Leo. “She’s got another alias—Evelyn Apple. There are warrants out on this name in France, England, and the US. I’d have to show these to Elizabeth or Michael, but I think all these names have something to do with Arthurian legend.”
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