In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy)

by Sarah Zettel

  Arthur peered at him searchingly. Believe I know what I am saying, uncle. Believe that there is none who will be better than she. You know about Pen Marhas. You know how she conducted herself there, and not even Agravain can contradict that. Believe that I have thought of all the lost chances for alliance and treaty because of what I do now. Believe that my love and my lady are true.

  What Arthur saw in his eyes, Gawain did not know, but slowly, he nodded, and a smile spread itself from his mouth to his eyes. He too knew love, this man. It was he and Guinevere who had taught Gawain what it truly was to be husband and wife.

  “Very well, Gawain. We will make the betrothal.”

  Relief fell heavily against Gawain and he knelt, in thanks and fealty, and because for a moment he was not sure he could remain standing. He seized his uncle’s hand, his love and pride shining in his eyes, and saw the king return it all. There was no need for words.

  At last, Gawain said, “With your permission, Majesty, may I …”

  Arthur cuffed him on the shoulder. “Go to it, lad, if Guinevere will let you past that is. She too has taken a liking to the lady.”

  Gawain leapt to his feet. He bowed hastily. Arthur laughed, turned him around and pushed him to the door. Once out in the corridor under the eyes of the waiting guards and servitors, Gawain remembered his dignity and slowed his pace to a quick walk, forcing himself to take the stairs up to the guesting quarters one at a time.

  As Arthur had predicted, Gawain met the queen and a small covey of ladies in the hall.

  “Gawain,” said Guinevere sternly. “Where are you going?”

  Gawain hesitated, trying to direct his attention toward the queen, as courtesy dictated, but his gaze drifted, looking over her shoulder and down the rush-lit corridor, where he knew Risa waited behind a closed door, and God alone knew what she was thinking. “I need to speak with the Lady Risa,” he said.

  The queen set her jaw sternly. “It’s late, Gawain. Between Kai and Agravain, the lady has been through enough this night.”

  Gawain bowed, acknowledging the truth of what was said. “But I have good news for her, majesty. Such as she will be glad to hear.”

  Guinevere studied his eyes for a long moment, observing, Gawain knew, the impatience there, and, although it was painful to admit it, the fear. He thought he knew Risa’s heart, but did he in truth? He had seen her hurt this night. What was in her mind now? Would she be disposed to hear his suit, or even to see him?

  But Guinevere smiled and Gawain realized she saw precisely what news he meant to carry to Risa. She gave a short sigh. “Be sure you ask her, Gawain. Let it be her choice. Try to tell her what her future must be and you may find that although you gain her hand, you will lose her true heart, where you might easily have won her completely.”

  Gawain thought to answer the remark with a small jest, but then he saw the flash of steel in the queen’s grey eyes and realized for all her light tone she spoke the weightiest counsel.

  He bowed his head humbly. “As ever, Majesty, your words are most wise. I shall do exactly as you say.”

  “Then I wish that the blessings of Lady Venus may attend you on this errand, Sir.” Guinevere stepped aside, drawing in her skirts with exaggerated care so that he might pass easily.

  “Madame.” Gawain bowed. Then, as quickly as courtesy allowed, he hurried down the corridor. He was certain the queen’s soft laughter followed behind him.

  Risa was ready to proclaim that of all the luxuries of Camelot, the best was to have a fire in one’s own room. Still in her borrowed finery, she sat before the gentle blaze, delighting in the warmth, and, she had to admit to herself, the feeling of the elegant clothes she wore. The queen had come to assure herself as to the state of Risa’s spirits, and Risa had been able to satisfy her that she was little more than tired and overwhelmed. She had sent Lady Marie and Jana away to enjoy the last of the feasting, saying she wished to sit up for awhile. In truth, she was determined to drink this night to the dregs, for the morning would surely bring something quite different.

  Risa closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to drive away the memory of Kai’s pointed jibes and Agravain’s smirks. Gawain had been unfailingly courteous, of course, and their Majesties had treated her like an honored guest, and she had looked well, she saw that in the eyes of the knights and nobles. It meant little, however. Gawain would have to turn from her now that he was home and must again be Arthur’s nephew and heir, rather than a simple knight errant who might dally with a lady and speak pretty words to her. Still, whatever was to come, she could remember their days together and the heat of their kiss beside the high way. She would have the memory of love to keep her warm, however cold the days would be without him.

  She would learn to love again, in some measure, at least. She would. She must.

  A tear escaped her eye and traced a cool line down her cheek. After a time, she reached up and brushed at it. Her hand fell back into her lap as if the life were gone from it.

  Think on the feast, on the smiles and the kindness. Think on the music and the light in Gawain’s eyes, all for you, if only for this moment. Do not think on the morrow. I is not yet come. When it does, you will find your heart again.

  Despite all this wise advice, another tear followed the trail of the first.

  A soft knock sounded on the door. Jana. Risa wiped the fresh tear quickly away. She did not wish the maid to find her sitting and weeping like a foolish child.

  “Come in.”

  “Lady Risa.”

  The sound of the man’s soft voice froze Risa’s heart. Trembling, she rose and turned. There stood Gawain, his amber eyes shining gently in the firelight as they regarded her with all the great tenderness she knew him capable of.

  She swallowed, trying to find her voice. She had not expected to see him before the dreaded morning. To have him here now robbed her of what little composure she had held onto.

  “My Lord Gawain,” she managed to stammer out his name and remember to curtsey. “I … I’m sorry … I …” she could not think of what to say and fell silent, her cheeks heating up from shame.

  Gawain closed the door behind him and bowed low to her. “Lady. Of your courtesy, I would speak with you.”

  The blush burned Risa’s cheeks. You could not wait? You could not give me the whole of the night before you must tell me Arthur has reminded you of your duty and how I must be given to someone of more appropriate rank and station?

  Those thoughts must have showed themselves plainly in her face. Gawain looked stunned, as if he had been struck a blow.

  “Oh, Risa, no.” He crossed the room swiftly and took her hand, which had gone cold. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the strength of his touch. “Do you think I come with sorrowful news?”

  Emotion closed Risa’s throat. When she was finally able to speak, she could only note that at least her weary voice stayed steady and clear. “What else could it be, Gawain? You must take up your duties again. I have no rightful claim to make on you.”

  Gawain reached out and with his fingertips traced the line of her cheek down which her tears had fallen. “That is not true. You have the strongest of all claims on me, Lady Risa, for you may lay claim to my heart.”

  With those words, he lowered himself onto one knee, holding her hand between both of his. “Will you marry me, Risa? Will you be my second self and the wife of my heart?”

  She stared at him, feeling his palm warm and rough against hers. Her mind was suddenly unable to understand what was happening. “Gawain, we cannot marry.”

  “Risa.” Gawain’s gaze was steady. The dark amber of his eyes was as warm as all of summer. “Do not think of what can and cannot be. Tell me now, what is the wish of your heart? If you had the whole of the world before you and you could choose your destiny from all of it, what would be your choice?”

  The world Gawain spoke of seemed to have gone utterly still. Even the fire fell silent, its flames seeming as steady as sunbeams. Risa reached out.
Her fingers brushed Gawain’s cheek and touched, for just a heartbeat, the straight line of his jaw. His eyes closed, as if he wanted to concentrate completely on her touch, and his hand pressed hers, oh-so-gently, but with a warmth that went instantly to Risa’s heart and opened it wide.

  “If I could choose?” Now it was her voice that trembled. “Gawain, I would choose to be at your side and never leave you. I would choose to give myself and all I have freely to you, and think nothing of it.”

  His eyes opened and they shone with joy. “Then choose that, Risa. Let me be your champion, your lover, your husband for as long as life is in me.”

  “Gawain, we cannot be … The king …”

  He stood, pulling her hand close to his breast. Her heart hammered hard in the base of her throat. “My uncle Arthur has already given his consent, Risa. There is no bar between us.”

  “But Euberacon, my father … what of this curse on me?”

  Now Gawain smiled, and his whole attitude filled with the confidence she had seen in him when he stood before Bannain in his hall and issued his orders. “I have slain dragons, remember, Risa? I am the champion of the Round Table and there is no knight here who has not fallen before my spear, not even that braggart Lancelot. Arthur and Merlin are my kin and my brave friends. No sorcerer, no matter if they come from the farthest shores of Hell, can touch you now, for whatever answer you give me, I have sworn you shall not be harmed.

  “Risa, my lady, I love you above all others and I shall strive with all my strength to make you happy. It is only the thought you might refuse that makes me weak. I beg of you, give me your answer. Will you be my wife?”

  She could not speak, for she could not hear herself think. Her blood was singing too loudly in her ears. She could only stare up at Gawain’s beloved face, at his wide eyes and red mouth. His black hair gleamed in the flickering light of the fire. She had never seen a man so fair. She never would again. But it was not the sight of his fine face that robbed her of her wits. It was the sure and sudden knowledge that all he said, all he had ever said, was true. His love was true. His question was honest, as were his promise and all his gentle words. He loved her. Gawain loved her.

  At that same moment, she knew that she had been lying to herself. There would be no other love for her. There could only be Gawain for as long as she drew breath in the world.

  With that, all fear left her. Voice and limbs grew strong again, her sight and mind became clear.

  “Then, Gawain,” she said, her voice firm with purpose and filled with love. “This is my choice. I choose to marry you. If God so wills, I will stand beside you for the rest of my life.”

  He kissed her then. She knew he would, but that knowledge robbed the act of none of its sweetness. His strong arms pulled her close, pressing her against his chest. His mouth opened against hers and drank her in, leaving her dizzy with a passion she had never before known.

  He lifted his head at last, giving her just room enough to breathe and the air was filled with his warmth and his scent. Slowly, she became once more aware that there was a world beyond him, a room with a fire and flickering tapers, and that someone was knocking at the door.

  Slowly, smiling, his eyes shining with a light that came only from within him, Gawain let go of her and stepped backwards far enough that propriety was observed once more. But he did not take his gaze from her, and his gaze seared.

  The knocking continued.

  “Come in.” Risa was amazed at how calm she sounded. The air felt chill against her skin now that Gawain’s warmth no longer enveloped her. She could no more look away from him than she could have taken Atlas’s burden from his shoulders.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the door open. Jana stepped into the room.

  “My lady,” Jana began, and then she saw Gawain, and stopped. “My lord.” Jana curtsied deeply. Her eyes flickered from Risa to Gawain, and back again. “I came to see what my lady might require.” There was a note in her voice that was offended, as if she was annoyed that she had not been informed of this rendezvous.

  “Ah.” Gawain did not move. His gaze did not falter. “Is there anything you require of your servant, Lady Risa?”

  He was giving her another choice, she realized. This one too was hers, to accept or reject. His eyes told her what he wished, and what he understood. With one word, she could send him away, and he would go gallantly and wait patiently. With another word though, she could bid him stay.

  “No,” she said. “There is nothing I require, Jana. You may go.”

  She saw the maid hesitate. Risa watched thoughts of propriety, of her duty to Risa, and to the queen cross through Jana’s mind. The maid had doubtless seen Gawain with other ladies, had perhaps even witnessed such a scene before. Perhaps she even thought to warn Risa — whom she surely saw as an innocent from the outlands — of the reputation of the man who stood in front of her.

  The man who filled her heart with such love. The man who would be her champion, her husband, her lover.

  Her lover.

  “You may go, Jana” she repeated.

  Jana reached her own decision. She curtsied and turned away. The door opened and closed again, and Risa was alone with Gawain.

  He walked toward her, his smallest movement filled with grace and strength. He stood before her, and once again she could breathe in the scents of earth and smoke, spice and warmth, that hung all about him. She could not move. Her heart fluttered in her breast, torn between wonder and fear. Her whole being was taut as a harp string, waiting for what might come.

  Gawain lifted his hands to the sides of her head and gently removed the gold and garnet band that circled her brow. He laid it on the small table beside the chair. One by one, he removed the pearl-and-silver pins that held her veil in place over her hair. He drew the glimmering tissue away, and she stood bareheaded before him, her hair flowing freely down her shoulders. Still she did not move. It seemed to be all she could do to remember to breathe and each breath drew more of Gawain into her blood.

  He was smiling and his mouth was wide and perfect. The light in his gaze had grown deep and smoldered within the dark amber of his eyes.

  “Risa.”

  And she was in his arms, kissing him again, and there was no hesitation, no fear, no sadness in the whole world. There was only Gawain and the love they brought to each other, and that was all there ever would be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The night the ancient priests named Beltane found Kerra in the depths of the oldest forest the isle had ever grown. The trees towered overhead higher than the arch of any king’s hall, their trunks making crooked pillars three and four times the width of a man’s body.

  She had wanted to come alone, but Euberacon was not in a mood to humor such a request. That worried her. If she were straining his trust, things could go badly. There was enough that must be done tonight without having to prove herself over again to the one who thought he was her master.

  The trees here were so old that their branches had long ago laced together to form a solid canopy. No moonlight could penetrate to the forest floor. Shadows hung all about them like curtains of sable. The lantern in her hand bobbed like a will o’ the wisp, illuminating an area that was barely large enough to stand in.

  It did not matter. It was not her eyes that led her. It was the host of other senses Morgaine had taught her of, it was heart and mind, the pricking of her skin and soul.

  Eyes gleamed yellow and green, watching their passage. An owl hooted overhead. In the distance, a wolf howled, and another answered. The wind blew hard and cold, carrying the scents of fresh greening and dew. Old leaves and pine needles rustled beneath their feet. Euberacon drew closer and Kerra smiled to herself. Could it be the mighty eastern sorcerer was afraid of this untamed forest? Perhaps he was not such a fool after all.

  In the center of this ancient forest rose a mound, a round hill covered with moss and leaves. No tree grew there, no track of any beast disturbed its skin. A springlet trickled
down its side, as bright and clear as a river of moonlight. Kerra’s dry throat itched to drink that pure water, but she knew better. That water might be a gift to the beasts who lived in these woods, but the giver would not take kindly to such as her helping themselves.

  “What now?” inquired Euberacon.

  “We wait. When the time comes, the master of this place will show himself.”

  Euberacon grunted wordlessly. This was not something he understood easily. That did not matter, as long as he stayed, and stayed quiet. Kerra blew out the light.

  Darkness descended around them so completely, Kerra could not see the lantern in her hand, let alone the mound before them. Fear, unexpected and distasteful, speeded up her heartbeat.

  Patience, patience. It is only darkness.

  Darkness in the wild, where they were the intruders, where wolf or bear might come upon them, and they would be dead with the swiftness of thought, and her companions would feast on her remains and wonder where Kerra had gone. This was not her place. She belonged in the stone halls, huddled by her fire, not in the greenwood, not among the beasts who saw her as nothing more than their prey.

  “Old power indeed,” murmured Euberacon. “With very old tricks to call upon.”

  Kerra swallowed, and tried not to feel how grateful she was for that reminder.

  It seemed the darkness lightened a little. She could make out the curve of the mound, the rough shape of the nearest tree. She wondered if her eyes had finally begun to detect the faintest sliver of moonlight, but no. The master of the Green Temple had arrived.

  Where he was, it was daylight. Where he was, it was summer and warm. He was as tall, as strong as the trees that surrounded him. Oak leaves crowned his flowing, green locks. Leaves and vines draped his body, reminding Kerra of her own cloak of feathers. In his hand he held the living branch of a hawthorn tree bright with white blossoms. He looked at them with eyes that were all the shades of green the wildwood could hold, and Kerra felt suddenly as small and fragile as a mayfly.

  She knelt. Beside her, reluctantly, Euberacon did the same.