Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “The sea god who delivers souls to the afterlife?” Fionna asked, mouth parted in horror.

  “Yes, Princess.” The Grail Maiden tilted her head prettily. “He may care for the dead, but he does not usher in death like The Morrígan. I assure you, his tree of life shall heal your king. The Lady of the Lake ferried his apples to me, should you have need of them.”

  Fionna studied the Grail Maiden a few wary heartbeats and then did as instructed, hurrying down the long table, her eyes searching for an apple amongst the arrayed bounty. She found one and grabbed the fruit, jogging back to Arthur.

  His head was nodding now as consciousness slipped from him. “Arthur,” she said, her hand stroking his sweaty brow. “Wake up, my love.” She patted his face.

  He jerked to alertness, but his eyes were unfocused. “Fionnabhair?”

  “Eat Arthur, the apple will heal you.”

  She held the apple up to his mouth and he took a tiny bite.

  “Chew,” she encouraged, as if to a young child. “Swallow yer bite completely.”

  He did as instructed—a cooperative patient.

  The effect was instantaneous. Arthur’s color flushed and turned to the rosy pink of health. His back straightened and he let out a shuddering breath, shaking his head as if to clear the fog. He took another bite, chewing. His green eyes flew open, clear and verdant as the rolling grassy hills on a summer’s day.

  Gratitude and relief washed over Percival.

  “Thank ye so much,” Fionna said, tears glimmering in her eyes.

  The Maiden nodded. “The least I can do for the sovereign-blessed king. Today is not his time. He has much left to do. Now, let us discuss your quest at Caer Benic.” She looked meaningfully at Percival.

  “Och!” Percival said. “The Grail.” That’s right. There were words he needed to speak. The very ones drilled into him as a young child. In his excitement of being here, he had completely forgotten. He cleared his throat. “What is the Grail and whom does it serve?”

  The Maiden nodded approvingly. “The Blessed Grail is a sacred bowl, a vessel to grant life, and the Grail serves Arthur Pendragon of Caerleon, the rightful King over all of Briton.” She waved her hand across the table, and a pile of fruit disappeared, revealing a silver bowl with engraved mythical creatures who danced around an orchard. She lifted the dish with both hands, and then offered the vessel to Percival. “I gift you the Blessed Grail.”

  Arthur’s eyes were gleaming. “We must drink. To heal the wicked curse that has befallen Caerleon by Morgana and her sisters.”

  The Maiden peered kindly at Arthur. “To heal the land, you must drink from the land’s life source, the land’s blood. Drinking from the Grail would not be enough. There is a Chalice Well at the foot of Glastonbury Tor. If you dip the Grail into the holy waters of Avalon, and drink from her Red Spring, the Blessed Grail will do what you seek.”

  “Glastonbury Tor?” Arthur said with dismay. For the Tor was days’ travel from here.

  A shadow fell over her face. “But I cannot allow the Blessed Grail to leave Caer Benic. For the sacred vessel may fall into the wrong hands and I would be unprotected. Especially now that the Fisher King has returned and the way to the castle is unlocked.”

  The knights exchanged troubled glances.

  “Perhaps you could come with us?” Lancelot asked.

  “No, my charge is over the castle and the Grail.”

  “Perhaps I could offer you this,” Galahad said, stepping forward. He held the sword out to her. “Would this be sufficient to protect you?”

  “The Grail Sword.” Her eyes glittered with a dancing light. “How did you come upon my blade, kind Sir?”

  He shrugged. “The sword kind of just appeared.”

  She took the blade from him reverently, stroking the handle’s leather. “Yes, I think this would be sufficient enough. I can lend you the Grail for a time. Though the vessel belongs here, in Caer Benic. As does the Fisher King,” she said, looking meaningfully at Percival.

  “Och, lass. Well, I still have duties to attend to with His Majesty,” Percival said. “But I’ll return. Never fear, fair Maiden.”

  A smile flashed across her face. “As long as you know your place is here, Your Highness.”

  “Of course.”

  “We must depart post haste,” Arthur said. “Glastonbury Tor is in Wessex. A week’s journey to be sure, and a dangerous one at that since we’ll have no choice but to travel through Anglo-Saxon lands. Who knows how bad the curse in Caerleon will be by then.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” the Grail Maiden said. “The paths across the Otherworld are often shorter than their mortal counterparts. I see you are familiar with walking the immortal realms already.”

  The knights looked at each other in mutual confusion. “What do you mean?” Arthur asked.

  “The mist clings to you. You have just arrived from the Otherworld, have you not?” She stepped toward Arthur, a soft smile on her lips. “The ivory you carry? The Bone Key allows you to move in and out of the Otherworld at will, including the In-Between.”

  Percival wanted to smack himself for not thinking of this sooner. “Castellum Puellarum, Eiden’s Burgh. This village wasn’t empty—drained of people. Nae, we weren’t in the real village. We were in its Otherworld shadow.”

  Arthur huffed an irritated sigh. “That explains quite a lot, actually.” To the Grail Maiden, he said, “We are not eager to enter that shadow realm again. However, if the Otherworld shortens our journey, then show us the way, Maiden.”

  She nodded. “I believe I can open a door directly to Avalon. You will hardly need to step foot in the Otherworld.”

  “Avalon?” Arthur asked.

  “Yes, Little Dragon King. Glastonbury Tor is the gateway to Avalon, where the Mother Goddess herself dwells.”

  “Our gratitude to you, Maiden,” Arthur said with a sweeping bow.

  The Grail Maiden crossed to the other side of the room, to a bare stretch of stone wall. She passed her hand across the stones and the wall shimmered into a door.

  Percival’s mouth fell open. He wasn’t sure he would ever grow familiar with magical sightings every day. As if the unnatural were as common as stewed figs.

  Arthur stepped up first, opening the door before them. Through the opening lay a dim field of dead, brown grass. Oh gods. Was that Wessex?

  “Once more, I thank you for your aid,” Arthur said. “Caerleon is in your debt.”

  “You are welcome, Arthur Pendragon. I had wondered if you were indeed the king that Briton needs. But now I know that Excalibur is in capable hands.”

  He dipped his head into a bow and then stepped through.

  Galahad was next. She patted the scabbard, which she buckled around her waist. “Thank you, fair knight. You surely must be brave and selfless, if the sword appeared to you.”

  Galahad stepped through.

  Fionna was next. “Whatever did ye mean? Ye called me a Gwenevere. But I possess no magic. And a Gwenevere is but a faerie tale.”

  The Grail Maiden laid a gentle hand on Fionna’s shoulder. “You have an additional quest to complete, Fionnabhair Allán. You must discover who you are. For I fear without you in all your strength, the Little Dragon King will not be able to do what must be done.”

  “How do I even begin such a quest?”

  “Look into your past. Across the Irish Sea. It is time to look to your home, Princess.”

  Fionna drew in a quiet breath and then stepped through.

  Lancelot was next. A dark look shadowed each handsome feature, an expression Percival knew well. His friend was angry, through Percival wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he was angry over this third curse.

  “Lancelot du Lac,” the Maiden said. “It is time you forgive yourself.”

  Lancelot’s jaw worked back-and-forth and, for a moment, Percival thought he might snap at her. But he curtly nodded and then stepped through.

  “Sir Percival,” she said. She looked at him and reached up to
caress his face with a tender touch. “You remind me so much of your father. But you have the best of your mother as well.”

  A hollow laugh escaped him.

  “I know life has been hard on you, and much of the blame lies with her. But there was indeed good in her, before the loss of your father drove her mad.”

  Percival couldn’t stop himself from springing at the golden-haired faerie and pulling her into an embrace. “Thank ye, Grail Maiden, for standing vigil all these years.”

  “It is my great pleasure. But I shall relish the return of company around here, Your Majesty.”

  He let out another laugh. “I will return, lass. Promise. But first there are things that I must do.”

  I STUMBLED OUT of the Otherworld’s doorway, my stomach heaving. I thought I might vomit. It felt as if my soul had been wrenched from within me.

  I looked back as Lancelot staggered out through the doorway after me, his hands falling to his knees as he let out a hacking cough. Behind him, Percival grew visible within the doorframe, the image like a moving tapestry. He embraced the Grail Maiden before stepping through to join us.

  “Och, that was fun,” Percival said through gritted teeth, stumbling sideways.

  The door winked shut behind us and we surveyed the surrounding land—a sorry sight. The grass had withered and died, the trees grasping skeletons, dry and shriveled leaves piled around their trunks as though fallen Samhain wraiths. Even the sky overhead hung pallid and brown, as if the smoke from a bonfire enveloped us.

  “The curse has progressed so quickly,” Arthur choked out, turning slowly in a circle, his keen eyes absorbing every nightmarish detail.

  It grieved me deeply to see what had become of this beautiful territory. If this is how the Anglo-Saxon lands of Wessex now suffered, I shuddered to think of Caerleon and Briton. I thought fondly of the fertile, green rolling hills and lush, moss-draped forests that had first greeted me when I stepped off the boat from Ulster.

  “How could Morgana do this?” I whispered to myself. “I thought the fae were creatures of earth.”

  Arthur heard me. “What my father did to my half-sisters . . . perverting any goodness they once held. I fear they are only creatures of wrath now. Creatures who desire to bring the downfall of man and whatever land supports him.”

  “I am beyond grieved,” I said, finding his eyes. We held each other’s gaze, the sadness in his tearing through my heart.

  “Let us show them then,” Percival said, pulling me from Arthur’s intensity, “show them that mortals are no easy adversaries and not easily bested.”

  We stood at the foot of a massive terraced hill seeming to rise out of a desiccated marshland. Before the hill, a stone circle peeked out at us, the afternoon sun hitting a central stone in bronzed spears of dingy light. We made our way toward the large menhirs—the ancient stones—unsure of exactly where to locate the waters of Avalon. As we neared the first slope, the sound of a bubbling spring reached our ears.

  Healthy, green yew trees swayed in a gentle breeze. The wind’s fingers cooled my warmed skin and refreshed my spirit. For beyond the lacy boughs, a verdant garden sprawled around the reddest water I had ever seen. So red, in fact, it was as though the land were bleeding out. In a few steps, my feet stepped from golden brown death into a living wildness that rippled through my body in calming waves.

  Arthur halted before what appeared to be a well and wrinkled his brow in distaste. The springs beyond were not just red, but thick. Like blood.

  A chill wended down my spine as I remembered the Grail Maiden’s words. To heal the land, you must drink from the land’s life source, the land’s blood.

  “These are the waters of Avalon?” Lancelot said in dismay, a grimace on his face. He stood to the side, as if he were still in the Otherworld, as if he had never passed through. He was a specter, a mere shadow, his feelings transparent yet distant from us simultaneously. Since the stable in Eiden’s Burgh, he had barely uttered a word. Since Arthur had dressed him down and commanded him as a soldier rather than as a friend.

  The third curse offered two versions of death. Presently, he and Arthur’s withering bonds of brotherhood suffered the same fate as these dying lands. I ached to show Lancelot how he was still welcome here. To show him that he was forgiven, no matter the mistakes or wrongs made. We were five. We were one. Hadn’t these beautiful men shown this very care to me when I had stolen Excalibur? Now it was our turn to rise above betrayal for Lancelot. But first, we needed to absolve another curse.

  Percival was surveying the spring, his brow furrowed. “Hand me the Grail, Yer Majesty?” He said to Arthur, who handed over the ornate bowl. Percival knelt before a stone lion that was carved into an ancient stone, the creature’s mouth wide open. Thick, dark-red water trickled between the beast’s fangs to a small pool below, as though blood dripped from its maw after a kill.

  A delighted laugh escaped from him that was all Percival—joy. His heritage may be tied to the Fisher King line, but the true magic coursing through his veins was a happiness akin to the bluest of skies, sun-drenched meadows, and wildflowers dancing merrily in a melodic breeze. He stood, rays of sunshine on his lips as he brought the Grail back to us reverently. “Look!”

  The water within was crystal clear, as though cupped from a mountain spring. And before any of us could stop him, he downed every last drop. And, as he did so, the land below us, down the hill, shimmered and changed. A sweet-scented wind played with Percival’s copper strands affectionately before ripping through the skeletal trees, arousing the white and pink buds of spring to adorn each naked branch. The marsh grass—brown and dead—dotted with blades of green as new patches speared out from the cracked, earthen crust.

  Arthur whooped like a boy and grabbed the Grail from Percival. He hurried to the spring and knelt, scooping rusted water into the vessel. Eagerly he downed the contents, clear water dribbling over his chin and onto his tunic.

  The land glimmered with change once more. New leaves unfurled along the blossomed branches—bright yellowed-greens—and the blackened bark warmed to umber hues. The glinting green of Arthur’s eyes deepened as he stared about in wonder. A flock of birds alighted from nearby trees—birds, I was certain, that were not roosting there before. Patches of green grass sprang forth, as if emerging from winter’s slumber to the dizzying heights of spring within a few erratic beats of my heart. In the garden around the spring, the ground gently quaked and split. Arthur anchored his feet, though the rest of us cautiously stepped back. Then, to my thundering pulse’s surprise, a mighty oak grew from the small fissure in the enchanted garden. Knotted branches sprawled out in protection over the well, long limbs leafing out in seemingly endless shades of green. Arthur peered over his shoulder with a boyish grin, though his back remained straight as a king, his legs firmly planted as a warrior.

  Galahad drank from the spring next and, again, the land transformed. Spring dawned much lighter now. Wildflowers in a rainbow of colors bloomed around the stone circle and carpeted the paths snaking around the marsh. Golden light pierced through the dingy sky and spilled honeyed rays across the land. And, I swore, the sun painted the very landscape from the palette of gold brushing Galahad’s mane of wavy hair and skin. Even the deep blues saturating the sky reflected in Galahad’s eyes.

  Galahad handed the sacred dish to Lancelot, who hesitated.

  “Go on,” Arthur encouraged.

  “You’re one of us,” I said softly.

  Lancelot shot me a dark look, but he obeyed.

  As he drank from the Blessed Grail, the land came alive as fireflies burst from the reeds as though cooling their wings in the gentle caress of an evening breeze. The flickering green and purple lights frolicked from stone to stone, sponging velvety moss in cracks and crevices. Yellow and sea-green lichen flowered on trunks, limbs, and dotted rocks. Ferns curled out from the ground and shadowed the newly sprouted grass as though a mother hen protecting her chicks. When the land rested once more, he lifted his granite
-carved eyes to mine, his posture as rigid as the menhirs guarding his back.

  “Fionna, you’re next.” Lancelot handed me the bowl. Our fingers touched, and a muscle along his jaw jumped.

  “Thank ye,” I whispered in reply, but he ignored me.

  Drawing in a shaky breath, I knelt beside the spring, dipping the Grail into the red-tinged water. I drank deeply, the surprisingly sweet water sliding down my throat. When I lowered the bowl, I looked below us, ready to see the last patches of grass and brittle trees healed, the land surrounding the Tor as green and bright as ever.

  But nothing happened. Not even the wind stirred. The land appeared the same as before I drank.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked, looking from the spring to the bowl. “Should I try again?”

  “Yes, try again,” Arthur said.

  So, I did, and though the water was pure on my tongue, the land was unaffected.

  Arthur spun in a slow circle, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t understand. The blessed five . . . should have healed the land. Right Percival?”

  “Aye, that’s what the standing stone declared and Merlin confirmed.” Percival frowned, a strange look on the lad’s face.

  “As much as it pains me to say this,” Arthur began, slowly, meeting each of our expectant gazes. “Let us return to Caerleon when dawn breaks. We have accomplished much. The land has begun to heal, and we now have the Grail. Perhaps Merlin can explain what went wrong and how to completely break the curse.”

  The thought of returning to Caerleon warmed me. I prayed news of my father and sister awaited me there.

  The other knights nodded to Arthur’s suggestion and I handed the bowl back to Arthur, no longer feeling as if I deserved to touch such a sacred relic.