The Knight

by Kim Dragoner

  They giggled and then fell silent again. Naida stared at her newly idle hands; she was wringing them over and over. Minerva noticed and cleared her throat to speak.

  “What is bothering you, friend? You have been distracted and very introverted these past days. Everyone is wondering if you are ill.” She paused before continuing. “Tell me what the matter is; maybe I can be of assistance.”

  “Oh Minnie, there is a rock in the pit of my stomach that I cannot get rid of. It is heavy and causes my heart to ache. I do not know if I am sick, because I do not seem to have any other symptoms, but the pain gets worse every day.”

  Minerva put her hand to her lips and laughed a small chuckle.

  “What is so comical? I am in pain and hurt.”

  “No, my dear, you are in love.”

  “Do not be so silly, Minerva,” she replied, a little anger coming through in her voice. “That is utter rubbish. Love is supposed to be beautiful, wonderful. Not feel as if I had swallowed a Samhain pie whole and had it turn to stone in my belly.”

  Minerva laughed again, out loud this time. The scowl developing on Naida’s face made her laugh harder.

  “Enough!” Naida screamed and got to her feet. Minerva grabbed her hand to stop her and pulled until she returned to her seat in the grass.

  “Answer me this Naida, do you feel this pain in your stomach when you visit with Rhys at the Everlasting Pool?”

  “Not exactly; when we are together, it is more a dull ache like that which one feels when one is anxious.”

  “I see,” Minerva said, nodding her head slowly. “And do you feel the pain reaching into your chest when you see him?”

  “No, but that might be because my heart is beating too fast to hurt.”

  “You are in love, Naida,” she summarized. “With Rhys. Not bad, in my opinion. If you could not find a faery boy, why not find the best looking human on Earth, and in Avalon to boot!”

  “I love him?” Naida whispered.

  “Yes, you do and I think you will find it out for yourself soon enough.”

  Naida was silent as her eyes fell to her lap inspecting the wringing hands that were there.

  “Naida, do not fret.” Minerva reassured her. “I do not know quite what it was, but when I saw you together in the glen on Earth, there was a shimmering about his face that was almost magnetic. I am not an expert in these things, but I think I am safe in saying that there is something more to your boy, something more than meets the eyes.”

  “What are you talking about?” Naida demanded.

  “Naida,” Minerva said sternly, “I think he may be the Nestaron.”

  “Are you sure, Minerva?”

  “I truly think that I am right. How is it that he found you and the Everlasting pool so easily? It is a protected place. And he sees you as well; only the gifted, those touched by the fae, can see us on Earth.”

  Naida stared at her, jaw slightly dropped. “But that is just a legend. Isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Not at all. The Lifetree is real, is it not?” she demanded.

  “Yes, Minerva, yes it is real. Without it we all die,” Naida stuttered.

  “Nestaron must make his way to us every few centuries and with him comes the silver branch needed to revitalize the Lifetree and keep it flourishing and sustaining us with life and magic.”

  “Why does he always bring it?”

  “Without the branch, he may not cross over into Eon. The crux of it is that the mystical silver apple tree grows in a place of tempus incognitum which is guarded by the last neutral warrior faery left in the Four Worlds. She is a fierce barbarian whose work is to cast the spells which make the orchard impenetrable. Only Nestaron may enter and if he answers her riddle correctly, he may cut the branch and be transported over by ringing the silver apples on it.”

  “It’s just a bedtime story for babies, Minerva,” Naida insisted.

  “It is history. He comes to you for love, but he comes to us with purpose. He carries the same blood within his veins as Morgana le Fae, does he not? He could just as easily be touched with the same magic as she is,” she replied soothingly. “You should be happy, Naida. He will be easily accepted here and when he asks, whatever he wishes will be granted freely.”

  As Naida rolled her eyes at Minerva’s hopeful expression, a long horn blast could be heard in the distance.

  “Come along, storyteller, it seems our free time has expired for the day.”

  They stood and walked briskly up to Galasriniel and in to the breakfast hall.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lady Nottingham and her son were standing at the gates of Hoveringham House when the sortie rode up from the road. The men vaulted from their horses and bowed to them out of respect as the stable boys took the reins from their hands. The tall woman and her equally tall son returned the greeting gracefully. He bowed low to the men and she curtsied to the ground.

  “Lady Nottingham. Owen. So good to see you both.” Caradoc’s voice boomed as he stepped forward.

  “It is good to see you as well,” she replied in a gentle voice. “Come inside. There’s rain coming.”

  Rhys sent Celyn off to the stables to ensure their horses were taken care of, while the others followed the woman and her son into the entrance hall. The house was magnificent. Rhys would never have guessed that it was so splendidly furnished, judging from its outward appearance. Tapestries depicting the Knights of Nottingham for five generations hung along the main hallway. Opposite them the wall was covered in a single enormous piece of weave work bearing the family sigil; a rampant stag surrounded by the house motto:

  Vivit Post Funera Virtus.

  Virtue Outlives Death.

  She led them into an antechamber where two maids stood beside a table ready with basins and jugs of warm water to wash their hands. A little boy offered each of them a small towel to dry with.

  “This is my last born, Roland. He insisted on helping to greet you in some way, even if it meant drying the hands of the great warriors of Dumnonia,” she teased, ruffling the little boy’s golden curls.

  “There is nothing wrong with that, Roland,” Rhys said, taking his hand and leading him into the dining hall after the other men. “I, myself, am a steward to Morgana la Fae at Avalon. The lessons I have learned in my time in service to her have been many and quite incomparable.”

  Roland looked up at Rhys in awe.

  “You come from Avalon?”

  Rhys smiled and nodded, watching the boy’s eyes widen further as they took their seats at the end of the table.

  Dishes were already being brought in and placed before them. Food like they had not seen since their departure from Kenilwurt. It was a hurricane to their road-weary senses. They ate heartily and were served wine and ale and fresh, creamy milk. After the meal, Lady Nottingham dismissed the servants and her younger children from the hall and kept Rhys and his sortie back to talk.

  “My brothers will not arrive here for two more days, my lords,” she started. “It seems that they have already met the poor weather and have lamed several of their horses. They have held up at Bottesford but will continue their journey tomorrow.”

  “So, we are to follow your suggested plan then, my lady?” Gwallawc inquired.

  “Yes, my lords,” she replied. “We will house you and supply you and your men for your travel onwards to Sheffield when the weather clears tomorrow. Lord Grantham and Owen will meet you there in three days’ time.”

  “Lady Nottingham,” Caradoc interjected, “it is as I said to your man, Aleric, while we were on the road; it is an excellent plan.” He turned from her to her son and continued, “Owen must turn over the protection of his family and his land to his uncle in person before he leaves on this journey. It is the right thing to do and I will not deny him his proper rights.”

  Earth

  Rhys gathered his things and went out in silence. He ate a sparse breakfast and joined the men in the corral. They would be departing for home, but he would spend the re
st of the day with the friars in the library at Sheffield’s Abbey and ride on to Leeds the next morning. He put Emrys’ halter on and tied a feed bag with oats and barley over his mouth. He led the horse over to Celyn and handed him the leads.

  “Take him safely back to Kenilwurt for me Celyn, I would prefer to continue with Broderick.”

  “But sir, the distance is long and the hard riding may be too much for a charger to manage.”

  “It does not make sense, I know, but I will need to hunt and I feel that I may require Broderick’s speed to survive this journey. Take Emrys back with you.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Rhys said his goodbyes to his father, Celyn and the men of Nottingham’s household, then watched as they rode out of the yard and onto the road. His uncle stood beside him until they were out of sight then turned to the boy and gave him a fierce hug.

  “I am off to Camelot, Rhys.”

  “I know, Uncle. Ride safely and I will see you at Kenilwurt when I return from the north.”

  “Aye, Rhys.” He mounted his black destrier stallion and looked down at the boy. “You will be victorious. You are a dragon already.”

  “Would you take a letter with you, Uncle?” Rhys asked. “It is for Erasmus.”

  “Surely, I will,” he responded. “I will take it myself as far as Gloucester, then on with a rider to Avalon.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. Godspeed.”

  The day passed quickly with the friars as they gave him lessons about the history of his family. They had come from western pagans, but their traditions, being from royal roots, were maintained by the Sheffield Abbey monks. The Abbey had been supported by the Wledig of Dumnonia for generations and half Anlawdd’s wealth had been given to the abbey to keep them funded when Cunedda had inherited. They kept the oral history alive year after year so that they could pass it on to the next Ddraig boy making the pilgrimage.

  When their lectures were finally at an end, Rhys lingered in the vast library of the monastery with only one thing on his mind: the story of Calamity. He stood and walked around the outer shelves in hopes of locating the appropriate section when he came upon a door. Over the lintel, hung a sign that read, ‘Ancient Historie.’

  Creeping in through the large door unnoticed was easier than Rhys had thought possible. He had watched from a dark alcove outside the room for a long time before he was finally sure that all the monks had departed from the library. He observed the last man as he descended the main staircase and turned toward the courtyard exit. From the window, Rhys saw him cross the open yard and disappear toward the stables.

  There was no one else reading there that day and the day’s lessons were all completed. He scanned the shelves quickly and found several books referring to Babylonian lore. Running his finger over the spines, he chose one at random, retrieved the huge volume and carried it up into the third level corridor. He went directly to the reading alcove at the back which was hidden from the entire library and lit the candelabra there. No one would know he was even here. He placed the book carefully on the table and rested both his palms on top of the book. He closed his eyes and raised his face toward the ceiling whispering to himself. “Please, please, please,” he pleaded. “Let me find something.”

  He opened the book and sat marveling at the detailed pictures of the different scenes in history. He traced his finger over a drawing of a beautiful woman in strange clothing being crowned by a winged man in equally strange garb. It was so beautiful. He turned the pages ardently trying to see if there was a record of the story but he found none. Even as the last few pages were turned, he sat back and heaved a sigh.

  Then a thought came to him; he reopened the giant book and turned to a picture of a terraced stone structure in the midst of what appeared to be a desert oasis. It was made of cut and carved stone walls but it was not a building. The walkways had no coverings and only sections of the top levels had roofs. Each angled pathway was lined by gardens in elevated terraces. Everywhere plants overhung the walls and vibrant flowers bloomed. Pillars lifted each level of the structure creating another elevated patio which resembled open verandahs with planters on every border. A wheel lifted water from the river and deposited it into an aqueduct at the top of the structure. The water followed canals delivering irrigation to every flower bed and planter within the gardens. Birds nested in the taller trees while butterflies, bees and other insects were abundant. Statues and relief carvings portraying Lamassu, the winged lion-man of Assyria, were set throughout the gardens.

  He read the pages depicting the tragedy of Calamity and her lost lover, Zarek. The details were magnificent but one particular passage caught Rhys’ attention:

  “Calamity knelt before the dais in the Throne room of the Ernil Vuin.

  “The Queen and her Prince were tearful as she rent her skirts and pleaded with them.

  “Her love for Zarek was plain and the maiden was not embarrassed by it.

  “Mab and Oberon rose from their thrones. They moved as if they were moons orbiting the same sun. Together they brought her to her feet and embraced her.”

  Rhys’ eyes widened as he read the story further:

  “Mab stroked Calamity’s hair and whispered her questions to the girl.

  “‘Is your love for Zarek true?’ ‘Is his love true for you?’ ‘Will you survive without him, or him without you?’ ‘Are you willingly choosing to give up your immortality?’ ‘Will he accept you in your human form?’

  “Calamity answered sincerely and Mab knew it was so through the Truth of Touch.

  “She asked Oberon to summon Titania and the Priestess’s Council so they could set the task for Zarek.

  “To Calamity she said, ‘Take heart, dear one, for I send you into the realm of Earth to wait for your true love. When you arrive on Earth, you must send Zarek into the desert to seek out the Silver Orchard and the Keeper. He must heed her words for without the instructions he will not meet success. She will pose the riddle to him and if he is successful she will ring the silver bells and transport him to us here in Eon. Your task is to find and retrieve the Cup of Truth from the line of King Cormac ua Cuinn and bring it to us here. Remember to be swift child, time passes for us differently on Earth than it does for humans who are in Eon. If you are too slow you might come back to us in your old age. With the tasks completed, he will belong to you and you to him. You will both be free to seek your destiny together on Earth.’”

  Rhys read the pages over and over until he had memorized every phrase.

  He went to the shelves and found parchment which he used to make a copy of the page for Naida. He selected a scrap piece from the rubbish pile and scratched the phrases “Touch of Truth”, “Priestess’s Council”, “the Keeper”, “Cup of Truth” and “Silver Orchard” on it, folding it and stuffing it into his jerkin. Heaving a long sigh, he closed the book and returned it to the shelf. He rolled the parchment and put away the quill and ink. As he closed the door behind him, Rhys realized that another quest was beginning. It would be a daunting voyage but maybe if he could finally put all the puzzle’s pieces together, he would have everything his heart desired.

  ***

  That night, Rhys slept, but he was disturbed by strange dreams.

  Repeatedly, he saw the shadow of a man in a long, hooded cloak moving like a ghost through a house. The figure stopped to touch people in the room, but took nothing from them. Rhys called out to him, “Ho, there.” And the man stopped. He turned and looked directly at Rhys. His eyes shone red and bright and then he vanished from the spot.

  Book Three: Creatures of Acadia

  “Dreams that come when the moon is dark are messages from the cosmos. They are not to be ignored.

  -Queen Mab, Fae of Eon

  511 A.D. - The Twelfth Age of the Glastenning Sisterhood

  Chapter One

  Glastonbury Tor, Somerset, England

  The messenger’s blood boiled in his veins, frothed at his lips and mingled with the tears of terror on his cheeks.<
br />
  Anebos watched curiously as he died. Humans. So fragile, so weak. Anebos loathed them more than he did the Fae; immortal scoundrels that they were. Beyond life and death, he had stalked the worlds of Eon and Earth and several more that bore no name and existed only as the dreaming nightmares of fanged, winged, nameless creatures beyond size and comprehension. The messenger fell to his knees, dropping the letter he clutched in his death grip. Anebos waved his hand and the parchment caught fire, curling and twisting, smoke rising from the paper as it combusted, describing swirled patterns in the air, that the cambion read like runes. They spelled out his future; they revealed the nature of things that no human could conceive without losing his grasp on sanity.

  “It is done, Lord Oberon,” he hissed into the air, although there was no being near to him to hear. He was in a clearing in a forest far to the south from where he had been spying on the upstart whelp, Rhys of Gascogne. Knowing the back doors between the worlds was useful, although Anebos was growing tired of following orders in the service of an outcast fae. What cared he for kings, or petty wars? He was a cambion. An ancient nightmare, a terror, the death beyond death and the only one of his kind left; as far as he knew. Oberon asked too much—and offered too little—for his service; of that he was sure. Perhaps Oberon himself would feel the burning death soon enough. It was almost like being free, slaying like this. Almost free again, away from the shackles of the Unseelie Court. Soon, the war would be done, Mordred would be victorious, and the barriers between worlds would fall. The Lifetree will wither and rot. Anebos smacked his lips, tongue lolling. The scent of the blood pooling at his feet was almost irresistible, but he could not allow himself to feed. Not yet.

  Anebos cast his mind into the aether, to the invisible shade of himself he left watching the sleeping Rhys of Gascogne. The boy was tossing fitfully. Did his dreaming self somehow know that his uncle, the man known as Owain, now laid dead, the life choked out of him? Perhaps. Anebos hoped that somehow he did. He tapped the corpse of Owain with his clawed foot. The man looked surprised in death, as if he had expected life to end another way. They all did. The wind rustled in the treetops, and Oberon’s voice came with it. It came as the hustle and bustle of high leaves, in the creak of branches, in the patter of scuttling animals. He’d intercepted Owain just outside of Glastonbury. Too close to his destination for Anebos’ liking, but that had not stopped him from annihilating the threat of the message being delivered.