Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  Unease bubbled up within me, as dark as the bloody water of the spring. Why had I failed them? If I were truly one of the blessed five, then why did the curse over Caerleon and her neighboring lands remain?

  Facing Merlin’s gold-ringed cambion eyes unnerved me too. Do you have any faerie blood? The druid’s question, from the day I had visited his cave, rang loud in my mind.

  More memories surfaced. Drinking the faerie wine with no ill effects. The Bone Carver grasping a lock of my hair and asking me about my power. The Grail Maiden, just moments before, voicing a strange comment about unwittingly entertaining a Gwenevere at Caer Benic. Lancelot’s certainty that I was the one tied to the prophesied third curse.

  Suddenly, I was sure of nothing. Even, it seemed, who I was.

  NIGHTFALL’S DEW BLANKETED the magical garden around the Chalice Well and Red Spring. The droplets glistened in the fading moonlight as though a dusting of black diamonds. Lancelot welcomed the remaining darkness. Atop his bedroll, he allowed his unflappable mask to drop—the one he had held before him by sheer will alone. Now he wanted to weep. For he knew what he must do before the sun finally rose to greet the new day.

  They had made camp by the gurgling spring, beneath the boughs of the giant guardian oak and beside blackthorn trees. Soon after, their horses appeared from the northern side of the garden, nickering, vapor puffing angrily from their flaring nostrils. How had they forgotten about their horses? Even more baffling, how did the horses know where to find them and arrive so soon? Faerie magic, Lancelot knew. Another debt owed to the beautiful Grail Maiden of Caer Benic. Still, the excitement of the Grail had wiped away all reason and thought, it seemed.

  Despite much coaxing, they had not been able to convince their horses to drink from the Tor’s bloody waters. So, they took turns offering their mounts clear water from the ornate silver bowl, each knight cringing at the sacrilege.

  Lancelot, then, laid out his bedroll far from the others. He didn’t deserve to be near the fire now that his king regarded him with ice-frosted disapproval. It was fitting that Lancelot’s body grew as numb as his spirit felt. Part of him wanted to rail at the unfairness of Morgana’s vengeance and Arthur’s judgment. He had made one mistake with Morgana. One mistake, and his life, all he had toiled so hard to obtain—family, recognized prestige, restoring a piece of his birthright by becoming second to the king—had been ripped from him. But he couldn’t ignore the quiet voice whispering from the black corner of his mind that he hadn’t made just one mistake. This was simply the “one mistake” exposed to the sunlight. There had been mistakes aplenty before, careless dalliances with nobles’ wives and sons, or virgin maids. He had lived each day as though he were untouchable, following a path of self-indulgence and pleasure—whatever numbed his doubts over his own worthiness. But he had no more lingering doubts. This quest had shown him first-hand how unworthy he truly was.

  Lancelot drank from the Grail and his act had healed the land. But that gift to his king, to the mortal lands he called home, was a thin consolation. He had never felt so useless as he did today in Caer Benic. Percival—the Fisher King—had known the phrase to summon forth the Grail’s acceptance. Fionna, with her strange secrets, gave Arthur Manannán mac Lir’s apple to heal his stab wound and returned Lleu’s spear to the Grail Maiden. Even Galahad, a lowborn Norseman, had gained the Grail Sword through noble and valiant deeds, allowing them to take the Grail from its rightful home.

  What had Lancelot offered? Nothing. Blessed five, my arse, he thought.

  He knew that Arthur was most concerned, and rightfully so, with the remaining tendrils of poison clinging to Caerleon’s waters and earth. But Lancelot’s mind was consumed with the curse on him alone. Whatever good they achieved at Glastonbury Tor, he could undo it all if he gave into his weakness and lay with Fionna. And whether through trickery or magic or weakness, he couldn’t guarantee their joining wouldn’t happen. Not if they remained together.

  Arthur had forbidden him to leave before they secured the Grail. Lancelot had honored this part of the quest. They had the Grail. He drank from the spring. Arthur Pendragon and the Knights of Caerleon didn’t need him anymore.

  And now there was only one solution: he must leave.

  The sound of soft snores and even breathing drifted past the fire’s smoldering embers to his ears—sounds he had listened to for hours while he wobbled with indecision. But now he was resolved. Lancelot’s heart sank, heavy with festering grief, as he crept out of his bedroll, rolling the furs and woolen blankets up quietly. He tiptoed through the trees to where they had tied their horses and, as silently as an overgrown grave, he saddled and bridled his mount.

  He knew where he should go, though he shivered at the very thought. Home. Castle Peel on the Isle of Man—the main residence of Vivien, Lady of the Lake—hadn’t been much of a home compared to his time in Wales. Though distant and fickle, his foster mother was kinder than most—as far as faeries went—understanding that humans had souls and destinies and hearts. She had never once comforted him, and she sometimes forgot he even existed for days on end. But she had taught him how to fit into a world he couldn’t understand. A skill that had seen him through many trials, even today’s.

  Vivien also possessed unnatural wisdom. She was part of the strange tangle of threads that tied Arthur to Excalibur, the Grail, and the Túatha dé Danann. Perhaps she would lend a remnant of knowledge to help Lancelot break this foul curse. Perhaps she would even take pity upon him, if he prostrated himself before her. Maybe she would favor him with help to seize back his wretched life.

  Dread pooled in his stomach as the Isle of Man haunted his bruised memories. Particularly one. His first hunt with his mother’s court. As a lad of ten, Lancelot had begged Vivien for weeks to attend the Great Hunt on Beltane’s eve. Finally, she relented. And when a gorgeous buck came into view, his herd in tow, his foster mother’s faerie retinue had crowed at Lancelot to take the shot. He plucked an arrow from his quiver, drew back the string—and missed. Instead, he hit a mother deer in the flank, wounding her grievously. The faeries, including one named Grastin, a particularly cruel sídhe male, had dragged him forward to finish his kill. Tears had brimmed in Lancelot’s eyes as he regarded the spotted fawn hovering in the distance, bleating for her mother, afraid of the strange scents of man and fae. Grastin had handed a wicked hunting knife to Lancelot and demanded he kill both mother and fawn. For no baby could live without its mother.

  Mocking words, Lancelot knew—even then—that were aimed at more than just the wildlife before them. The faerie courts found his mortal presence unnatural and believed Vivien should have left him for dead rather than accept his life as an offering from a weak woman who had chosen her husband’s killer over her own flesh and blood.

  An exiled prince he remained—not really belonging to anyone but himself.

  Lancelot shook off the memory, thickly swallowing. He wasn’t that boy anymore. He had only ever told one person that story. Arthur. “It was a mercy,” Lancelot had said, still trying to convince himself.

  “A mercy would have been the fae male killing the fawn himself,” Arthur had said softly, those green eyes full of understanding. Arthur was like that. He saw a man’s weakness, his vulnerability, and through a rare beauty only Arthur could possess, counted those failings as strength. And then, by his faith in those who kept his company, those perceived strengths became so. But . . . in Lancelot’s case, Arthur’s faith had been misplaced.

  Lancelot swung into the saddle and then drank in the sight of his companions’ sleeping forms beneath the giant oak, their bodies illuminated by a sliver of moonlight.

  Percival, the male lover he had always wanted, yet never felt he deserved. Headstrong and impetuous and eager. His eternal, cheerful playfulness and ridiculous humor a balm to Lancelot’s shadowed, insecure heart. Lancelot touched his lips in wonderment, closing his eyes and re-imagining the feel of Percival smile as he claimed Lancelot’s mouth in return. The feel of stubble bru
shing against his lower lip. The magic dancing between Percival’s breath and his. Lancelot opened his eyes and forced his gaze to move on before his decision faltered once more.

  Galahad. Simple yet kind and honorable to a fault, and always ready to nurture a hurting soul through his gentle compassion. Protective and rascally like a brother too. The giant of a man was more secure in himself and his abilities than the wealthiest of nobles from the finest breeding. Around Galahad’s strength, Lancelot often felt invincible. So much so, if ever Lancelot was lucky enough to know sons of his own, he wanted to name one Galahad in honor of his valiant sword-brother. Lancelot blinked back the building emotion and focused on a snowfall of swirling braids and flyaway strands strewn across a bed of furs.

  Fionna. His very heart; his soul’s true mate; his equal. Stronger and more beautiful than any woman he had ever known. Formidable in battle, and who loved even more fiercely—a tenacity so enduring, she would be willing to lay down her very life for those her heart claimed. Somehow, despite all his unkind acts to push her away, she still cared for him. And fought for him too. Longing for him to know the completeness of her love, even if their bodies never joined as lovers. Yearning for him to always belong—to her, to them. He thought that final truth might break him the most.

  If not for Arthur.

  His brother.

  Arthur, who had been through more betrayal and sorrow and cruelty in his twenty-two years than most men did in their lifetimes, and yet, still managed to believe the best of people and the world. Arthur was the man that men wished to be. The man Lancelot aspired to be. And the king Lancelot would always fail. His foster brother was truly the most beautiful man Lancelot had ever known and leaving him felt like death. For how could Lancelot live without his dearest friend?

  And yet, he must. If he possessed any love for Arthur, he would leave and not return until he was worthy of the honor and love his brother readily bestowed upon him.

  Lancelot tapped his horse’s flanks and whispered, “Farewell,” as he cantered forward into the gray twilight of dawn.

  This time, there was no fierce Fionna or angry Arthur to stop him.

  This time, there was only the last vestiges of night and the lone caw of a crow.

  THE CROW WATCHED the dark, feather-haired male’s retreating form from the swirling cloud banks rolling over the green land. The rising sun gilded the terraced grass slopes as the first rays peeked over the sacred hill of Avalon. This land belonged to the Mother Goddess and formed a gateway to the Túatha dé Danann courts. Mist began to shroud the surrounding area and the crow sank farther into the streams of both natural and unnatural fog. The crow hopped onto the ground and summoned the shadows and whispers around her, transforming.

  Anger burned within Morgana. Despite staying ten steps ahead of these bumbling mortals, they had almost ruined everything today. All her carefully laid plans, her time grooming that fool O’Lynn, flying back and forth across the Irish Sea. She faulted the Grail Maiden and the old gods. Those meddling creatures had all but delivered the Blessed Grail into her half-brother’s unworthy hands. But despite that unexpected downturn of fortune, two delightful events had taken place. Inexplicable even to her, the Grail had failed, and her sister’s curse over Caerleon remained. And even better, her curse on Lancelot had driven him from the embrace of his sword-brothers and the witch.

  To her faerie ears, she could hear the faint sound of hoofbeats echoing in the air. She smiled in triumph. Lancelot thought he did what was best for his king by abandoning him. How wrong he was. Lancelot’s honor was his downfall; his loyalty sealed his betrayal.

  Morgana observed Arthur’s camp through black unblinking lashes. She pondered the puzzle before her, turning the strange circumstances over in her mind with distaste. She had never liked puzzles or riddles. Wastes of time, childrens’ games. She treasured results.

  But she needed to solve the riddle the witch presented. Could she be wrong, and the white-haired witch wasn’t the foretold Gwenevere whispered among the sídhe? A demi moon goddess of centuries past? It had seemed evident that this witch was a “gwen,” a specimen so beautiful, to look upon her was a form of torture. And, yet, Lancelot had not bedded the witch, even when charmed by the necklace’s enchantment. He had never resisted a beautiful man or woman before.

  A dark tortured thought spasmed within her and kindled a spark of hope. Did he miss his dark fae lover? Did he miss being with a female who understood the black pain he carried deep inside his mortal heart? Who was willing to rage and war beside him until his pain empowered them both to greatness? She shoved the thought aside ruthlessly. Lancelot did not deserve one such as her.

  Morgana focused upon the woman curled up in a nest of furs by the flickering embers of last night’s fire. There was something other that replied to Morgana’s test of magic. A mortal woman did not carry such strength, prowess, or steeled beauty. Nor did she reflect moonshine in her silver gaze. Only fae-born held such elemental traits. But the Blessed Grail had failed to dissolve all curses upon her half-brother and his land. Even fae who drank from the Grail were absolved from their curses and received the Mother Goddess’s blessing.

  The only way the Grail could fail fae or mortal alike is if they were under the protection of a more powerful magic. But what was mightier than the Grail? Perhaps . . . a géis, a powerful spell of protection or prohibition. Could this gwen be protected by such an enchantment? Hidden in plain sight until a Gwenevere was needed?

  If so, then the witch truly did not know of her powers and, thus, did not have access to them. It meant Morgana and her sisters still had free reign to soak in the land’s death and the people’s too. And it gave her time to do all she could to prevent the witch from unlocking her powers as an earth- and sovereignty-goddess.

  Or . . . she could end her right now. The feathers of Morgana’s dress whispered across the grass as she crept toward where the witch slept. Curls of mist clawed the ground where she knelt and unsheathed an obsidian dagger to plunge into the witch’s heart, a heart as pure as the driven snow.

  “Morgana?” a voice slurred from a bedroll across the cold fire. The golden-haired knight sat up and rubbed at his eyes while cracking a roar of a yawn. A sound loud enough to wake the dead, and the remaining warriors around the fire. In a single drawn breath, shadows and the greedy prayers of men tumbled around her in a dark blur.

  The crow hopped away from the witch and met the golden male’s confused stare. Then, she flapped her wings with a warning caw and flew into the mists of Avalon. She would allow the witch to live. For now. She would discover who sired her and the terms of the géis, before joining O’Lynn.

  Satisfied with her new course, the crow cawed once more and then slipped through the mortal veil into the Otherworld.

  ARTHUR WOKE WITH the dawn, feeling stronger and more optimistic than he had in weeks. True, the curse over Caerleon wasn’t completely broken, but they had found the Blessed Grail. A feat his father had strived to achieve for decades but never accomplished. But Arthur had done it. He had found the sacred vessel.

  As he stretched, he felt none of the stiffness he normally did after a night of sleeping on the hard ground. The enchanted apple must have healed even the smallest of ailments. He rolled his shoulders, then covered a yawn as his eyes fell onto Fionna’s stirring form.

  The past few weeks felt akin to a lifetime. They had endured so much. But they had overcome every hardship. Together.

  Arthur swept an appreciative gaze around the fire circle and paused. His brows furrowed. One bedroll was missing. Lancelot. Perhaps he had risen early. Maybe practicing with his blade as he sometimes did when he couldn’t sleep.

  Arthur stood and wove between the trees to where they had tied the horses, his heart in his throat. Lancelot’s charger was gone.

  “Fool man,” Arthur spat.

  “Mmm?” Fionna called out. She pulled on her boots and pushed loose strands of hair out of her eyes.

  Arthur spun and stalked bac
k to their fire pit.

  “What troubles ye?” she asked. When he didn’t reply, she tried again. “Ye seem upset.”

  “Lancelot is gone.”

  The blood drained from her face, each delicate feature paling more than her already fair skin. “Fool man!”

  Arthur loosed a dark laugh. “That’s what I said.”

  “I considered how we needed to talk to him just yesterday. We shouldn’t have let offenses remain as strong as they were in the stables.”

  “You think this my fault?” Arthur asked, the words sounding more defensive than he intended. In truth, Lancelot’s absence probably was his fault. He had let his anger get the better of him. Though he had meant every word he said in the stable, he also understood that Lancelot’s lies were a misguided attempt to protect Arthur. Lancelot may be foolish and headstrong and impulsive at times, but he was always loyal.

  “I don’t blame ye, My King,” Fionna said. “Lancelot is a grown man. He makes his own choices. But I know this quest wore on him differently than the rest of us. He bore a dissimilar burden. And we needed to show him that, despite his failings, he was still welcome.”

  Percival and Galahad began to stir and were now sitting up in their bedrolls.

  Galahad let out a jaw-cracking yawn, then murmured, “Do you see a pesky crow?”

  “Dreaming of birds, chipmunk?” Percival asked, a puckish look on his sleepy face.

  “Wait.” Galahad’s visage scrunched up as he looked at the sky, as if he could see into his head this way. “No, I thought I saw Morgana earlier. But then I realized it was just a crow, so I went back to sleep.”

  “Shit.” Arthur rubbed his brow. “Lancelot is gone. We need to go after him.”

  “Bloody crabapple,” Percival swore. A dark expression flitted across the lad’s eyes before brightening to their normal earthen hue, as though a flickering lightning strike of hurt. Arthur narrowed his eyes curiously. Was his and Lancelot’s kiss more than drunken games?