One Knight Only

by Peter David

  And he was healed.

  SUNLIGHT fiLTERING THROUGH high windows caused Percival to awaken.

  He had the usual feeling of disorientation one experiences upon waking in a strange place. Still, Percival was too experienced the warrior to tip off anything, even the fact that he was awake. So just as he had the inclination to sit up, he promptly kept himself prone, lying there with his eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to take in as much as he could of his surroundings.

  Staring straight up, he saw a mosaic upon the ceiling. It appeared to be a man and some sort of large animal, fighting a mammoth bull. But it was done in a very primitive style, and therefore hard for Percival to be absolutely certain.

  Trying not to turn his head and thus betray his wakefulness, Percival glanced right and left as far as his peripheral vision would allow. The room had glistening marble walls and tiled floors, and vases upon pedestals that appeared to be centuries old. He felt as if he’d awoken in a museum; he fully expected that, at the far end of the room, there would be a hanging rope partitioning it off, allowing gawkers to pass by and stare in at him.

  He listened carefully for any sign of movement, but there was nothing. He still wasn’t entirely certain whether he was unobserved, but he had no intention of just lying there all day. That would hardly do him any good in any circumstance. Finally he rose to a seated position, looking around carefully to get a fuller appreciation of where he was. He glanced down to discover that he was wearing some sort of elaborate robes, made of what appeared to be silk. His guns were gone, as was his blade. He was defenseless, a situation of which he did not approve.

  Percival rolled his mind back as he got to his feet, trying to retrace the events in his mind of the night before. Slowly it began to come back to him, and a flush of abashment crept across his face. What in the world had he done? What had he allowed to happen to him? How utterly humiliating; he could only pray that Arthur never found out about it, because most assuredly Percival would never, ever hear the end of it.

  Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching him. He took a step back, glancing toward the window that opened up onto a bright, verdant yard. Percival considered bolting for the window, leaping through it, and escaping . . . but to what end? He had come here for a purpose; running away from that wasn’t going to accomplish a damned thing. Better simply to remain right where he was and try to deal with whatever was being thrown at him, even though he was essentially weaponless.

  The footsteps drew nearer. It seemed to be a single set, but the footfall was heavy. Whoever was coming was of some considerable build, and then a large figure filled the door. He was bronzed and bald, and quite serious of mien. Straps crisscrossed his sculpted chest, and he wore light armor covering his loins and stomach, as well as the outside of his arms. He was holding, of all things, a large spear. Yet despite the primitiveness of the weapon, Percival had little doubt that it could be employed in most lethal fashion, and further had no doubt that this behemoth was schooled in its use.

  He said nothing for a time, and then gestured for Percival to follow him. Then he turned and walked away. Percival followed him, not saying a word since there didn’t particularly seem to be anything for him to say.

  Walking through the stately corridors of what he had now come to think of as a palace, Percival saw more statuary and pottery of the type that had been in his room, plus more frescos and such depicting heroic deeds from throughout the ages. Whoever was master of the palace was certainly schooled in derring-do from days gone by.

  The hallways abruptly opened up in front of them, and Percival found himself entering what he knew instantly to be a great hall belonging to the master of the palace. From a stylistic point of view there was simply no mistaking it; Lord knew that Percival had been in enough places similar to it in his lengthy career . . . although more in the earlier days of that career than recently.

  Sure enough, there was a throne. And seated upon the throne was one of the largest, most massive, most instantly dominant individuals Percival had ever met. In the days of Arthur, there had been any number of times when Percival had encountered brave warriors, warlords, soldiers of fortune, free lances, and the like. To engage in any of those professions, one had to be physically of a build and determination to be able to endure the rugged requirements of the endeavor. For the most part, they had been, and Percival had oftentimes been quite impressed by these invariably commanding examples of manhood.

  But they were as nothing compared to the nearly naked personage facing him now. The individual on the throne sported what appeared to be a simple cotton kilt encircling his waist, trimmed with gold lace. Aside from the sandals on his feet and various glittering baubles and bangles around his arms, his neck, his legs . . . aside from those, he was unclad. He did not, however, seem the least bit self-conscious of his state of undress. He was probably rather proud of the unclothed body he possessed . . . and, truthfully, Percival could not entirely blame him.

  The servant, or soldier, or whoever he was who had escorted Percival there, bowed deeply in response to a gesture from the man on the throne that Percival readily comprehended: a shooing “go away” gesture, dismissing the man from his presence. The servant/soldier then proceeded to back up, bowing and scraping, even as he vanished from the room.

  Percival and the strange man in the chair were alone.

  The man began speaking to him, but Percival didn’t understand a damned thing he was saying. However, as the man spoke, he did so with a slightly tentative air, head cocked, and Percival quickly realized that the bronzed giant was trying out a tongue to see if Percival spoke it. Percival simply shrugged in response after a sentence or two. Without blinking an eye the man switched to another language, and then another. The latter had faint hints of familiarity, causing Percival to frown in concentration at first as he tried to pick up on where he might have heard it before. But it wasn’t the language as a whole that he understood; just bits and pieces, a word or two here, a guttural sound there.

  And then, to Percival’s utter astonishment, the man began speaking to him in Arabic, asking him his name, where he came from . . . all the obvious questions one would ask, except that Percival had not been expecting to hear that language.

  Consequently, Percival—trying to deal with the shock his mind was experiencing, and absorb the utter unreality of the situation—said nothing at all. The man on the throne frowned momentarily and then, obviously assuming that it was yet another language Percival did not speak, moved on to conversational Spanish. But it was very formalized, even archaic in many of its word choices.

  Realizing what had happened, Percival quickly replied in Spanish, which seemed to please the throned man. Then, because his Spanish was rustier than his Arabic, Percival promptly switched back to Arabic, speaking quickly and confidently enough to convince this strange man of his veritas. The man on the throne was clearly confused, asking in Arabic, “Why did you not respond before?”

  “Because you caught me by surprise,” Percival responded.

  “Now if you’d like,” he suddenly switched languages yet again, “I also know German . . . and English—”

  “You know English!” said the man on the throne, looking most interested. “Are you fluent?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Excellent,” said the throned man in English, slapping his thighs briskly in a manner that indicated that the decision had been made, everything settled. “So . . . let us engage in a bit of deductive logic. You speak Arabic and Spanish. I should have known you earlier, simply from the look of you. You are, I take it, a Berber? Or a subset of that race known as—”

  “Moors. Yes.”

  The throned man’s eyes glittered with cold amusement. “The Moors. The Berbers who chose to try and ‘civilize’ themselves by invading France. That came a cropper for you rather badly, didn’t it. So . . . you are centuries old, I take it.”

  Percival should have been taken aback by the effortless estimating of his exceedingly adva
nced age, and yet for some reason he wasn’t. He didn’t know why, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world that this charismatic individual would have been able to discern something of Percival’s true nature. Nor did he make any effort to lie in response. Lying was not his strong suit, and besides, it would have seemed . . . insulting somehow. “You take it correctly, yes. But how—?”

  The man waved dismissively. “One learns what to look for. When a man is unnaturally long-lived, he frequently develops a sadness in his eyes that is like none other. The sadness of one for whom loss is as routine an experience as breathing. One who has lost countless loved ones, or else deprives himself of love so that he need not endure loss. One who looks upon humanity for century piled upon century and sees the same mistakes, the same wars, the same foolishness, over and over, just cloaked in different guises and levels of sophistication. Yes, there are little signs, dark one, but to one experienced in reading them, they’re as conspicuous as marked exits on a highway. Still, I am no mind reader, and need answers to the more elementary questions. In that spirit: What is your name, sir?”

  “Percival. And you?”

  “You,” said the man on the throne, one eyebrow raised mockingly, “may simply address me as ‘High King.’ Or ‘Highness,’ if you are so inclined.”

  Percival draped his arms behind his back. He did not take his eyes off the High King for a moment. Something within him warned him that it would be most unwise to do so. Despite the High King’s genial attitude, he nevertheless had an air of danger about him. “Very well, Highness. I notice that my clothes, and my possessions are gone—”

  “You mean your weapons. Those are the possessions about which you are truly concerned, I take it?” He smiled thinly, and didn’t wait for Percival to nod in response. “You will not need them. On this isle, weapons are not a necessity.”

  “The fellow who fetched me from my room seemed well-armed enough.”

  “Yes, well . . . guards will be guards. Although speak true, Percival . . . do I look as if I need a guard?” He rose then, seeming to uncoil from his throne, and Percival felt as if there was simply no end to the man. He tried not to appear daunted at the sight, but daunted he very much was. With slight impatience, the High King added, “That was not a rhetorical question, Percival.”

  “No. No, you do not look like you need a guard.”

  The High King smiled approvingly. There was a small mirror standing on a table nearby. The High King looked into it, checking his hair. Vain son of a bitch, Percival thought with no trace of amusement. “So . . . how did you find our little paradise?” asked the High King. “Did you come upon us by happenstance?”

  Percival studied the High King carefully, looking for a sign of reaction as he said, “Actually . . . Joshua told me.”

  The High King’s back was to him, but now he turned to Percival with a faintly sad air. “Joshua did that, did he?” He shook his head. “A pity. I knew that Joshua was unhappy here, but I foolishly took that as a simple phase that would pass. Obviously it did not. You encountered him, did you?” Upon Percival’s nod, he continued, “And he told you where we were?”

  “Not precisely. But he mentioned the Skeleton Keys . . . and Pus. Incomprehensible to me as clues at first, but I did some checking around, realized what he was talking about, and came here.”

  “I see. And did he mention anything else?” His voice was very cold, his expression one of great formality.

  “Yes,” said Percival, his gaze level. He knew he was potentially making things far worse for himself, but he wasn’t about to back down. “He told me that people’s souls were dying here. And he said what I now understand was, ‘Beware High King.’ ”

  “Which would be me,” said the High King.

  Percival nodded gamely. “Which would be you.”

  The High King slowly walked toward him, so that he was towering over the smaller Percival. “And are you, Percival of the Moors? Are you being wary? Of me?” When Percival didn’t respond, the High King simply shrugged and said, “Well, if you aren’t being wary of me . . . then that would be most foolish.” But then he smiled broadly, extended his arms from side to side, and said, “Am I not magnificent, Percival of the Moors? Do you not think so? I certainly think I am magnificent. And you?”

  Percival could scarcely believe the naked arrogance of the man. It was so ludicrous, so utterly over the top, that it was genuinely funny. Bowing politely, Percival said, “I doubt, Highness, that anyone could possibly think as highly of you as you do yourself.”

  The sarcasm in Percival’s tone went right past the High King. Perhaps he simply agreed with the sentiment. “And the one you now serve . . . he is not remotely as magnificent, is he?”

  The question brought Percival up short. His eyes narrowing suspiciously, Percival asked, “What makes you think I serve anyone?”

  The High King’s eyes grew colder still, even though the smile remained fixed in place. He had no weapons upon him, so theoretically he and Percival would be evenly matched, should something happen. But Percival wasn’t kidding himself; he knew he could put up a fight, but in short order this High King would doubtlessly break him in half. “Do me the courtesy, Percival, of not playing word games with me. I know what I know. The one you serve . . . is he as magnificent as I?”

  “No,” said Percival, feeling that any further discussion along these lines would amount to nothing but foolishness.

  Instantly the High King’s face warmed up. “Well! It’s settled, then!” He smacked his hands together briskly, with enough force that it sounded like a thunderclap in the room. “You will forget your foolish quest, and you will remain here and serve me instead! We will get along magnificently, you and I! You may join my hunting party, you may—”

  “My quest?” Percival said, and then quickly amended, “Apologies, Highness, but . . . you assume I have a quest ...”

  The High King had returned to his throne, but he did not sit. Instead he leaned against the high back and smiled in a matter-of-fact fashion. “The Grail. You seek it.”

  Percival said nothing.

  “I am curious, though,” continued the High King, ignoring the fact that Percival had not spoken. It was as if nothing that Percival could possibly have to say would be of any interest to him, because he had already considered everything Percival might respond with. “You are a Moor. A Muslim. Follower of Allah. So you should not accept the notion of the cup of Christ as being especially significant, for you would not see the spawn of Nazareth as a holy figure. Unless . . . are you a Morisco?”

  Percival had to smile at that. This High King certainly knew his history. Granada had been the last Moorish kingdom, and it had been conquered by the Spanish in the late fifteenth century. Several years after its conquest, Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain had given the conquered Moors a choice: Convert to Christianity or leave the region altogether. Those who had remained, and converted, were known as Moriscos.

  “No,” Percival said softly. “But just because I do not believe in the origin of the Cup’s properties . . . does not mean that I do not believe in the power of the Cup itself.” He did not bother to add that his drinking from the Grail had been what had given him his own despised immortality.

  “You are wise,” said the High King. “For the power of the Grail predates the Christian Messiah by centuries.”

  “What?” Percival could scarcely believe what he was being told. “But . . . but how would you know this? How—?”

  “I am the High King,” he reminded him. “There is very little I do not know, and that which falls under that category is not really worth knowing to begin with.”

  Percival shook his head. “But . . . if you know the true origin of the Grail, then tell me . . .”

  But the High King didn’t seem particularly inclined to share his knowledge. In fact, he was beginning to look bored with the entire discussion. “Percival, I weary of this. I have been candid with you simply because I have no reason to fear the truth, for
there is none who can gainsay me. The truth is this: Joshua was an interesting man, and we had many lively discussions. Had I known, though, that he would intend to leave, I would have taken steps to make certain he did not. That same option, however, remains a viable one for you. You wish to find the Grail. Need I make clear for you where it is?”

  “No,” Percival said slowly. “I know.” And it was true, he did.

  The High King stepped forward, and for a moment Percival thought the behemoth was going to reach over and try to snap his neck. Instead, he placed his hands on Percival’s shoulders and said firmly, “Percival . . . you strike me as the sort who is a man of his word. I will give you the opportunity to prove that now. Renounce your previous master, swear undying fealty to me, and I will accept your promise as true. You will live here forever, and you will serve me, and live better than you could possibly have hoped to in the outer world. What say you? If you require time to consider it ...”

  “That will not be necessary, High King,” Percival told him. “My loyalty is to another. I give you my word that I will not attempt to leave here with the Grail, even though I feel some proprietary interest, considering it literally vanished from my grasp ten centuries ago. But beyond that, I cannot guarantee.”

  “Vanished from your grasp?” The High King seemed most interested in this. “Tell me, if you would not mind . . . when was the last time you beheld it.”

  For a moment, Percival considered telling only part of the truth, or even saying that it was none of this person’s damned business (which it wasn’t, really). But then he decided that they’d very likely only wind up going around and around about it, plus he was too thoroughly in this person’s home ground. Lack of candor was not only useless, but potentially deadly.

  “As I told you: ten centuries ago it was. I had . . . obtained it for my liege,” he said slowly. Despite the fact that fifty score years had passed, the events were as clear and fresh to him as if they had happened the previous day. “Its miraculous powers had cured him, and I had been told to replace it from whence I had obtained it . . . from the tree at the end of the world. I was told not to drink from it, under any circumstance.” Even after all this time, the chagrin on his face was quite evident, the pounding embarrassment clear to any who might have observed him. “And I, like a fool . . . did. I wanted to see what it was like to drink from a vessel that had been sought by so many.”