Zephyr screamed in surprise, rearing and pawing the air. Fionna tumbled off her back and landed with a thud on the hard-packed road. She hissed in pain as her shoulder smacked the earth, rolling to her side to protect her own injury.
Arthur. How had his king known?
Galahad had little time to wonder. Arthur threw himself off his mount onto the ground and grabbed Fionna by the buckles of her leather armor, hauling her up to her feet. Blotches of red blossomed from Fionna’s wound.
“Arthur!” Galahad shouted, fearing what his king might do in his rage.
Lancelot’s mount skittered to a stop behind him and he was off his horse in a flash, his sword drawn. He leveled his weapon at Fionna, laying the sharp edge against the nape of her neck. Where was Percival? Galahad thought briefly, but his attention was pulled back to his two murder-bent fellows.
Galahad pulled his sword from its sheath too, not sure if he would have to use his blade on Fionna or to scare sense into the other men. “Easy all,” he bellowed.
Fionna was blinking away her confusion from the fall, one half of her coated in dust from the road. She held up her hands in surrender to the men surrounding her, gritting back in pain.
Arthur pulled a knife from his belt, leveling the razor-sharp edge at the other side of her pale throat, his other hand still twisted in the buckles of her leather armor. And his face contorted with thunderous wrath.
“I yield,” she said with a cough. She closed her eyes, and said with what almost seemed like relief, “I am outmaneuvered. Take the sword. Excalibur is yers.”
PERCIVAL FELT STRANGE. In his mind, he knew his other knights needed him—that there was no more important place to be than at the crossroads waiting for Fionna. He needed to see her again, to gauge the look on her face and try to understand why she had left. But there was an invisible tether pulling him away. The unseen line tied a fisherman’s knot to his stomach, or so it seemed. The tether tugged at him, making the contents of his breakfast lurch skyward. Giving in to the stronger sensation, he spurred his chestnut horse, Kit, to the east—away from Arthur and his brothers and Fionna.
They plunged through silver birch and hemlock trees and soft ferns, the feeling growing ever stronger. He had thought Fionna was the most powerful pull he had ever felt, and he felt her still, but this was more urgent. The sensation commanded him to hurry. It was always unsettling when his Fisher King heritage asserted itself. Years would go by without so much as a twinge, making him question whether hiding in the forest wasn’t all a dreadful joke played by his mother to ruin his childhood, and his adulthood at that. But then the magic would seize him, and he would remember long-lost words from his father. The pull was true. Undeniable. That’s how the invisible tether felt now.
Percival cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to be thinking about the Grail, or his father, or magic. He wanted to be thinking about Fionna, to be there to stop Arthur and Lancelot from doing something they would regret. When Galahad had pointed out the single set of hoof prints in the mud, Percival had felt his heart splinter. Not because he thought Fionna had betrayed them. Somehow, deep down, despite all evidence to the contrary, he knew she hadn’t. He felt the truth in his bones. But he knew what her flight would do to Arthur. What her absence would mean for their future. Everything would change. And Percival wanted nothing to change. For the first time in a long time, with Fionna as their fifth, the world felt right. All of them together. Their quintet band of warriors was how their group was supposed to be.
Kit pushed through a dense patch of underbrush into a circle of trees. Percival reined him in. The hackles rose on the back of his neck, the breath stolen from his lungs.
It was a faerie circle. A single beam of light pierced through the dense tree canopy, spilling like liquid gold across a single pillar of ancient mossy stone. Excitement churned in his veins as he swung down onto the soft loamy soil.
Percival looked about, but he was alone, just him and the stone. He walked toward the large granite boulder slowly. The tumult of forest growth held no dominion here, the ground clear but for a carpet of tiny white flowers. A ring of mushrooms bounded the circle, their creamy white heads glowing in the ethereal light cast from above.
The circle looked as if the magic had not been disturbed in generations. Did anyone alive know that this relic existed? The stone was as tall as him, an oblong of dark gray granite. Though the stone’s venerable form was covered in moss, Percival could see that something was etched onto the surface.
Slowly, with a shaking hand, Percival peeled the moss from the stone’s face, baring the words written there. It was in Ogham, the runic language of the druids. And the faeries. Percival’s mother had made him learn how to read the runes—just another part of her unconventional education. Half the time he believed her touched in the head.
He wiped away a wee bit of moss and squinted his eyes to better read the Ogham marks. His eyes then widened, a disbelieving laugh escaping him as he realized the rune’s meaning.
“Across the wall and atop the rock hill, the blessed five shall drink their fill.”
A riddle. But more than that. The runes were directions. To the Grail. Directions meant for five. Finally, the sídhe took pity on their mortal souls!
I HAD NEVER felt so broken as I did in that moment. The anger and hurt in the eyes of my knights tore at me with savage claws. Ripping away my resolve. Cutting to my core and draining the fight from me. Part of me was relieved they had found me. Excalibur belonged with Arthur. The thought of giving the sword to O’Lynn turned my stomach, no matter the reason.
And my reason—what would become of them now, after Arthur took out his rightful vengeance on me? The thought of my father’s face when O’Lynn gloated about sending me to my death was too much to bear.
“Just kill me,” I said, voice hoarse. Closing my eyes, I leaned forward incrementally, feeling the bite of Arthur’s and Lancelot’s blades against my neck. I relished the feeling. The sting brought me back to myself in some small way, returned my power to me.
“Unstrap the sword from her, Galahad.” Arthur’s tone was foreign—cold. It belonged to a cruel man, a bitter and twisted man. To think this was what I had done to my sweet and sincere king filled me with the hot flush of shame.
I opened my eyes as Galahad stepped in close, reaching around me to unstrap Excalibur from my back. I drank in the sight of his chiseled face so close to mine. I then breathed in his scent of cedarwood and leather, holding back a whimper at the comfort his nearness brought me. Never again. Never again would I feel the burning passion he ignited, nor the bright burst of laughter Percival chiseled out from my hard resolve. Never would I feel the warm sunshine of Arthur’s favor that bolstered my confidence, or the sharp bite of Lancelot’s edge drawing sparks against my own. I had told myself I would be strong, but I was nothing without them. These knights were like my limbs. How I had functioned so well before them, I knew not. But after them, without them, I was no longer whole.
Galahad stepped back, Excalibur held tightly to his chest. I felt the space between us as though it were a physical thing.
“Why?” Lancelot asked. I turned my head slightly in surprise. Of all of them, I expected least from him. But in his face, through the careful shield of his piercing eyes, I saw a hurt just as deep as Arthur’s or Galahad’s. Dear goddess. Was there no bottom to the depths of my betrayal?
“Where is Percival? Is he all right?” I asked, finding myself desperate to know that he was well. I felt his absence keenly. The five of us should all be present, when the five of us ended.
“You have lost your privilege to ask questions.” The ice of Arthur’s tone frosted my bleeding heart. “Or to care about my knights.”
I chanced a glance at Galahad, who gave me a quiet encouraging nod. Relief welled in me. Percival was all right at least.
“I believe Lancelot asked you a question. I would know the reason for your betrayal, before the end,” Arthur said.
Before the
end. Before they killed me. I sighed, weariness settling into every aching bone.
“I was sent here by Donal O’Lynn, chieftain of the Uí Tuírtri clann. The very same clann who raided yer shores and killed Lord Bronn,” I began. I saw the anger blackening their faces and hurried on. “He is my enemy. His clann and mine have fought for generations. In our last battle, he captured my father and sister. I paid him a generous ransom, but he refused any coin. The only price he would accept in exchange for my family’s freedom was the sword of a Welsh king. Excalibur. So, I sailed to Wales to take yer blade. I didn’t know . . .” I stumbled over the words, tears threatening to fall anew. “Didn’t know what I would find here. How I would come to feel for ye.”
The men were silent, the muscles in Arthur’s jaw working furiously.
“How do we know you speak truth?” Arthur asked.
I shrugged helplessly. Lancelot and Arthur’s blades had slackened slightly, but still rested on my collarbones. “Ye could verify my story if ye went to Ulster, but I have no proof on my person.”
“Why does this chieftain want Excalibur?” Lancelot asked, his eyes narrowed to slitted chips of ice.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “He shared that he had a new acquaintance who had told him about the sword’s power, that is all. Not even a name of the acquaintance . . .”
The men exchanged glances. “Could be Morgana, or the Saxons, or another Briton king,” Lancelot said. “You have no shortage of enemies.”
Arthur nodded.
A desperate piece of me wanted to beg for my life, but I didn’t know how I could go on, torn between love and duty. Between my knights and my family. So, I settled for trying to tell them what they had meant to me.
“I know ye have no reason to believe me, but I will say the words anyway. These days with ye have been the strangest and best of my life. I didn’t know when I came to Caerleon how I would come to feel for each of ye. I have never experienced such a powerful connection to any man, let alone . . .”
Let alone four. The confession sounded insane, even in my tumbling thoughts. I plunged ahead, anyway.
“Let . . . Let alone each of ye.” I paused as a tight sob broke free, then choked out, “Taking Excalibur broke my heart. If ye believe nothing else, believe that. The sword belongs with ye, Arthur. The sword belongs in Caerleon. And I think, somehow, I do too. I know I’ve ruined every opportunity, though.” I closed my eyes as more tears squeezed through. Disbelieving. How did it all come to this? “I just couldn’t abandon my family. Without the sword, they’ll be tortured and killed. My sister…” I struggled to keep my voice even. Opening my eyes, I swallowed against the knot in my throat and half-whispered, “Who knows what O’Lynn’s men will do to her. I couldn’t abandon them, no matter what my heart was telling me.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Arthur asked. The anguish in his green eyes twisted me like a knife in my gut. “We could have helped you.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Tell ye that the only reason I had come to Caerleon was to betray ye? I know ye are a generous king, Arthur, but I think even yer generosity doesn’t extend that far.”
“I might have surprised you,” he said softly. “For you, my generosity would have extended to the ends of the earth.”
I closed my eyes again at that. I didn’t want to know that there could have been another way. I didn’t want to hear his heart in his words.
“And now?” I asked, opening them, looking at my knights though blurry, tear-stained eyes. “What now?” Perhaps I asked the question to make the decision easier on them. Because I knew they were stalling. I could sense they didn’t want to do what they must.
Arthur stepped back abruptly, turning from me, sheathing his knife. Lancelot stepped in closer, his blade still strong and sure against my neck. Our eyes met. In some ways, I think Lancelot and I understood each other the best. We knew what it was to make a fool decision, to betray your king. Yet, he was still standing here at Arthur’s side. And I would pay for my mistake with my life.
Arthur turned, nodding, taking Excalibur from Galahad. The big knight laid a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and squeezed.
My heart thundered in my chest as Arthur buckled Excalibur’s scabbard around his waist, as he drew the blade. His movements seemed as slow as a dream, a nightmare that would not end—I wasn’t sure if he was stalling further, or whether the last few moments at one’s end moved more slowly.
I fought the weakness in my knees, the roiling of my gut, drawing myself up proudly. Arthur bowed his head at me, and I dipped mine in return, as much as Lancelot’s blade would allow. I knew Arthur would strike clean and true.
The moment stilled as we all seemed to take in a breath. Centering ourselves. Preparing. It was then that the thundering roll of hoofbeats came into my awareness—so deafening I was shocked I hadn’t noticed the clattering sound before. I supposed facing one’s own death was like that—the moment drowned out all else.
“Arthur!” Percival crashed through the nearby trees, emerging onto the road, reigning his horse to a stop. He launched himself off his chestnut horse, running toward our strange little standoff, pushing away Lancelot’s blade to pull me into a fierce hug.
I collapsed into him, weakened by my freshly bleeding wound. His warmth and smell of sunshine and sage infused me with comfort, soothing the terror and sorrow within me. “I missed ye, dove,” he murmured into my ear, burying his nose into my neck.
I let out an incredulous, sorrow-filled laugh. Percival had returned. And he had brought me a nickname.
ARTHUR WAS NEVER so relieved for Percival to ruin his plans. His terror had felt like riding for a cliff, able to see the horror but unable to pull away, until the young knight startled them out of sure disaster. The thought of killing Fionna was too much to bear, but Arthur couldn’t see another way, no matter how hard he longed for one. When a subject betrays their king, the punishment is death. Great ancestors, how he longed for a better world between kings and men, where mercy was valued over blood sacrifices.
Fionna was crying now, shaking against Percival like a leaf in a gale. Percival was shushing her, stroking her hair.
Arthur turned away. It was one thing when Fionna was standing strong and tall. A warrior. But that facade crumbled to reveal the frightened woman beneath. The woman he loved. And it was he who had caused her such terror. What was wrong with him? Even knowing what she had done, that she had tried to ruin him, he didn’t want to live without her. Her reason for taking Excalibur had been noble—understandable even. His heart told him she wasn’t being false. That she hadn’t wanted to take the sword. That there was something between them, and she felt the connection too. But could his heart be trusted?
“Percival, where in the gods’ name have you been?” Lancelot asked, his sword still hanging loosely in his hand. His knight was on edge, and the guarded tone was a good reminder for him. Fionna may seem harmless right now, but their fifth knight was anything but.
Percival pulled back gently from Fionna, who wiped her eyes and her nose, a rosy blush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. Then the lad’s face grew alive with excitement. “I found a clue to the Grail.”
That startled Arthur back to himself. “What?”
“I was going to go with ye, Arthur, to lay in wait for Fionna. But I felt the tug of magic—so strong I couldn’t ignore the tethering pull. I followed the urge into the wood. Magic led me to a faerie circle where an ancient rock sat, carved with words in Ogham. A clue to the Grail!”
Lancelot narrowed his eyes. “A clue? Here? Why on the Mother Goddess’s green Earth would a fae stone possess a clue to the Grail along the River Dee?”
“Ye doubt magic, crabapple?” Percival shot back, a cheeky grin in place. “Have ye forgotten yerself, oh wise foster son of the faeries?” The young knight tilted his head toward Arthur and added, “Obviously, some fae still favor our king.”
“What did the stone say?” Arthur asked, trying not to let hope overtake him. He
could use a little good news right now, and a touch of favor by the Túatha dé Danann would qualify. But he’d been disappointed before.
Percival cleared his throat and winked at Lancelot. “Across the wall and atop the hill, the blessed five shall drink their fill.”
Arthur processed the words, disbelieving. “Five?” he asked.
Percival nodded meaningfully at him, gently squeezing Fionna’s shoulder. She was still tucked against him. “Five.”
Arthur exchanged glances with Galahad and Lancelot. Galahad looked hopeful, and Lancelot sighed, shoving his sword into his scabbard.
“Can you show us this faerie circle Percival?” Arthur asked.
“Of course!”
THEY RODE THROUGH the woods after Percival, Fionna on Galahad’s horse, leaning against the man. They tied her hands to be safe and had hobbled her lame horse. A stitch or two had snapped open and dark crimson bloomed down the exposed areas of her arm and shoulder where her armor didn’t cover. The wound appeared to have stopped bleeding, thankfully. By bringing her along, she would have no chance of outrunning them, injury and lame horse or no. Arthur didn’t want to take any chances.
The circle was just as Percival shared. The feel of magic was thick in the air like a humid summer day.
Arthur dismounted, nodding to Galahad, who helped Fionna off his horse.
Together they walked to stand before the stone as light streamed from above to illuminate the rough-hewn letters.
Percival pointed to each rune and explained their meaning, since neither Arthur or any other present could read Ogham. Very few could, the runic language of the gods was used only by the druids and the Túatha dé Danann. For all the wrong Percival’s mother wrought—a former druidess in training before she married the Fisher King—at least she served the lad right in this way.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 19