“A beautiful place, that is for sure,” Arthur said.
“When it comes to faeries—the more beautiful they seem, the more dangerous they are,” Galahad quietly commented.
“What a remarkable sentiment,” a melodic female voice said. “Is the same true of mortal men?”
Arthur’s and Galahad’s hands flew to their sword hilts as a female emerged onto the path before them. She wore a draping dress of the deepest purple, and her hair, through light like Fionna’s, was a shade of violet Galahad had never seen on any creature, human or fae. She was exquisitely beautiful, her face round and perfectly symmetrical, her figure generously proportioned. Dangerous, he reminded himself.
“I am King Arthur Pendragon and this is my sworn knight, Sir Galahad of Swansea. We seek the regent, Elathia,” Arthur said, dropping his hands to his sides.
“You have found her,” Elathia said, a secret smile curving on her face. She stepped closer to Galahad, her bright violet eyes examining him from toe to nose. He stood his ground against the obvious attentions. Vivien had said the faerie enjoyed the company of mortals. That was why he was here. Bait. He tried to ignore the fact that it never ended well for the bait.
“Come. Let us speak,” she purred.
They followed Elathia down the path to a clearing. Before them, a massive rock face rose up amongst the trees, the stone’s surface encrusted with glowing crystals in a rainbow of hues. Rivulets of water, shimmering in a prism of light, dripped down the face, gathering in a sparkling pool that fed the river they had passed. It was an impressive backdrop to the throne of vines and branches that sat below on a gentle mound of grass and moss.
As Elathia settled herself onto the throne, white blossoms—bright with vibrant magic—burst open around her, silhouetting her form. Galahad swallowed thickly. This faerie was not one to trifle with. The casual display of such magic demonstrated that as much as Vivien’s warnings.
Other faeries drifted into the clearing, females with dresses of mesmerizing fabrics, handsome males with swords at their sides. Goblins and hobgoblins, brownies, and red caps. Even a monstrous creature with grey mottled skin and tentacles for arms that Galahad couldn’t even begin to identify. It was as if it had crawled out of a sea abyss or deep crevices of the earth—like a Fomorian. But he knew that was ridiculous. Fomorians were mortal enemies of the Túatha dé Danann. Such a creature wouldn’t peacefully grace this court. Still, Galahad shifted uncomfortably as the fae-born crowd silently filled in the ranks around Elathia. There was no way they could fight all these faeries, if things turned ugly.
“What brings you here, mortals?” Elathia asked.
“My land is ailing under a curse. My people begin to die of starvation. They cannot drink from the streams,” Arthur said. “We seek the Cauldron of Plenty to feed them. If you could just loan this relic to me for a time, I would return it to you when the business is done. You have my word.”
Elathia laughed, a sweet sound. “The Cauldron is one of the four relics of the Túatha dé Danann. It is not ‘loaned’ out for use. Danu did not appoint me as regent over her kingdom to simply allow mortal kings to walk out with our most precious treasures.”
Arthur ground his teeth. “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind? I am trustworthy. Appointed as king over all of Briton by the Lady of the Lake herself.”
“Your mortal kingship means little here,” Elathia scoffed.
“Perhaps a feat of strength, to prove my worth—”
“My answer is no,” she snapped.
Arthur inclined his head stiffly. “I apologize for wasting your time. Thank you for your hospitality.” He turned on his heel, motioning to Galahad. Arthur’s shoulders were hunched. His king was clearly furious, but Galahad saw little that they could do. If the faerie wasn’t inclined to help them—
Galahad’s feet stuck in the ground, and he fell forward onto his knees.
Arthur spun around too. Excalibur pointed out straight behind him, as if pinned by thin air.
“I did not excuse you,” Elathia’s voice cracked like a whip, and then she stood, stalking across the grass toward them.
“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur asked, his voice low and hard. “We came here in good faith. We have not wronged you.”
“But you have something that belongs to us . . .” Elathia said, halting at their side. She reached out and stroked the length of Excalibur’s sheath with one graceful violet-hued fingernail. Then she stroked that same finger down Galahad’s arm, tracing the ripples of his muscles. He held back a shiver. Her sharp nail felt more like a claw. “. . . And something we want.”
“Explain yourself,” Arthur barked, drawing himself up to his full height.
“You’re free to go, Little Dragon King,” she said with glee, “but the sword and the knight stay.”
THE HEAT OF anger burst through Arthur like greedy flames through dry tinder. How dare this faerie think to hold them here against their wills. They had done nothing to earn her ire, save the misfortune of being born mortal. He turned to her, wanting nothing more than to lay Excalibur’s sweet edge across her milky-white throat. To make her listen.
“Excalibur is my blade,” he practically growled, “given to me by the Lady of the Lake, appointing me with the blessing of your sovereign, the goddess Danu. The sword stays with me. And as for my knight Galahad, he is a free man, belonging only to himself. But he has sworn himself into my service. He stays with me too.”
Galahad crossed his arms over his chest.
Elathia grinned, licking the points of her fangs. “You do not seem so impressive to be crowned king over all Briton. Indeed, you cannot even defeat a simple holding spell. Perhaps Danu made a mistake.”
“Perhaps we should ask her,” Arthur countered.
“Alas, she has not been seen for many years.” Elathia didn’t even appear upset over this. Rather, a secret smile curved her face.
“I’m not leaving here without my sword and my fellow,” Arthur insisted.
“Then it seems we are at an impasse,” she snapped back, stepping forward, and draping one hand over Galahad’s shoulder. The other reached up to lift a tendril of his golden hair, examining the strands with interest.
Galahad stiffened beneath her touch, his mouth fixed in a firm line.
“We shall have to find a way to while away the hours,” she murmured, her eyes making a leisurely assessment of Galahad’s form and profile. Then she giggled, a sound of malicious joy that seemed innate to all faeries. The one that always sent crawling fingers of ice up Arthur’s spine. He pressed his resolve further.
“Your actions here go against the will of your goddess,” Arthur said, trying to draw her attention away from Galahad. “They will not be without consequence.”
Elathia scoffed, and the faeries who had gathered around laughed, a harsh and raucous sound. “If you are the darling of Danu, perhaps you should prove yourself so.” She cocked her head and locked her predatory violet gaze onto him.
“What do you propose?” Arthur asked carefully.
“If you are sovereign-blessed as you say, then you should pull the sword from the Stone of Knowledge. For surely, if the Sword of Light belongs to you, Excalibur will yield to your touch like an eager lover.” She stepped close to Arthur now, running her finger along Excalibur’s cross-guard. She smelled of berries and nightshade, of the lusciousness of death. “Prove your worth, Little Dragon King.”
Galahad’s deep blue eyes rounded with concern. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice low and careful, ripe with words unspoken. Arthur knew the thoughts racing through Galahad’s mind, for they raged through his as well. Do not make a deal with faeries. It is a trick. They cannot be trusted. All of these cautions were true, but what better choice did he have? He and Galahad had no magic. They had only their convictions and the courage to face these mad creatures head on.
Arthur nodded. “If I allow you to drive Excalibur into this stone you speak of, and if I pull my blade back out
, you will allow us to freely leave? With the sword?”
“I will allow you to leave with the sword.” She smiled. “Your friend however—”
“I cannot abide by these terms,” Arthur barked.
But Galahad held up a hand. “Free my feet, and I would offer my own wager, fair Elathia.”
Arthur’s eyes widened, but Elathia appeared intrigued. She waved her hand, and Galahad stepped forward.
“I do not find the company of a beautiful faerie to be distasteful,” Galahad purred, taking her hand, and laying a soft kiss upon her long, delicate fingers. “To the contrary. Think of the pleasures we could enjoy together, if I were to stay of my own free will.”
What the hell was Galahad doing? Arthur wanted to protest, to order him to silence, but the warning flash in Galahad’s eye told him to stay steady. To trust him.
“Go on,” Elathia said, her gleaming eyes fixed on Galahad.
“If Arthur pulls the sword from the stone, we leave with Excalibur and the Cauldron of Plenty.” Her face darkened but Galahad pulled the female toward him, twisting her body so her back hit his broad chest. One of his arms snaked around her waist, the other splaying across her ribcage just below her breasts. He murmured into her ear, “If Arthur fails, then I stay behind of my own free will, and I will devote myself to your desires.” He lay a soft kiss on the crook of her neck and her tongue flicked out, dampening her lips.
“An intriguing wager.” Elathia pulled herself from Galahad’s grasp and spun on her heel to face them both. She threw back her shoulders, haughtiness falling over her like a heavy rain. But the heaving of her bosom revealed the truth—she was affected by Galahad’s seduction. Gods, Arthur himself had practically been moved by the display. Galahad was masterful.
“Your offer is one I accept,” she said. To Arthur, she held out her hand and said, “The sword.”
Arthur ground his teeth as he turned the jeweled hilt toward the faerie, offering her his beloved blade. Every fiber of his being shouted against the action, shouted at the wrongness. He was not supposed to be parted from the sword.
Elathia took Excalibur from him, a smirk on her face. “Follow me, mortals.”
“What the hell was that,” Arthur hissed as they joined the silent train of faeries who gathered in Elathia’s wake.
“If you don’t retrieve that sword from the stone, we’re both stuck here,” Galahad whispered back. “So, I figured I had better make it mean something when you do.”
Arthur pressed his lips together. “A fool thing, to freely bind yourself to her. A brave thing, but a fool thing.”
“Only if you don’t pull the sword,” Galahad countered. “And you’ll pull the sword, right?”
“I had bloody better,” Arthur muttered. Doubt reared its head, a monster dark and vicious. Vivien had granted him Excalibur, but so much had gone wrong since then. Morgana, the curses, a stolen Excalibur, now an invasion from Ireland. What if Danu was rethinking her blessing? What if all he had proven in the last years of his kingship was that he wasn’t worthy?
“Watch for tricks,” Galahad said. “With faeries, things are never as they seem.”
Arthur nodded, swallowing back his nerves. He was either worthy or he wasn’t. Today he would find out the truth, whether he was ready for the answer or not.
They climbed a harrowing path up the rock face to the left of the waterfall, following Elathia and the others. When they summited the craggy steps, they found themselves in a grotto aside a crystalline pool. Tall trees bowed around the clearing, their leaves the blues and greens of gemstones, glittering with dew. A white owl swept across the space of the lake, alighting on another tree branch. The bird, known as the bride of death, drew Arthur’s eye for a moment, but his gaze and his thoughts—his very future—quickly came to rest on the boulder perched in the center of the lake. Glowing toadstools floated along the surface of the lake in a path leading to the stone—a path Elathia now walked, graceful as a queen. She took the two steps up to the top of the boulder, and then, with a movement of her lips, raised Excalibur and plunged the tip into the granite below. The sword’s blade was buried halfway to the hilt, its red ruby pommel winking at him in the low light.
Elathia turned, her eyes bright with delight. “Come Little Dragon King, show us what you are made of.”
Galahad squeezed Arthur’s arm as Arthur pushed forward, past the prying faerie eyes. Arthur kept his gaze straight forward, his features impassive. He could do this. Claim his birthright. His kingship. The honor was his already. The familiar weight of Excalibur had hung at his hip for years. This sacred blade belonged to him, and he belonged to it.
Arthur balanced across the strange toadstools and took a step onto the boulder. The stone shivered beneath him, and then a deep voice called out, “Whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone shall be king born of all Briton.” Arthur’s heart raced in his chest at the words. He looked back at Elathia—had the stone’s magic been her doing? He could not be certain. She clutched her hands before her chest, a smile on her face as though she were giddy about the day’s turn of events.
Anger roared within Arthur once again. It was time to end this. He took a steadying breath and reached for the sword. And—his hands passed right through the pommel.
He lurched forward as the unexpected absence of the sword unbalanced him. He caught himself on the rough rock, sweeping his hand at Excalibur’s hilt. His fingers passed straight through the pommel again, as if the sword were a ghost.
“Uh oh, looks like the sword is playing hide and seek,” Elathia crooned behind him, giggling. Her faerie court laughed, the sound mocking and harsh to his ears.
He looked back at Galahad and noted how his knight’s face had drained of blood. His stomach churning, Arthur turned back to the sword, his anger shifting to fear. A faerie trick. Why had he expected Elathia to fight fair? How could he pull the sword out, if he couldn’t even touch it?
Arthur’s mind raced for a solution, even as another part of him spun horrible scenarios out like cloth from a loom. Him and Galahad, stuck here indefinitely. Caerleon—a sick and blackened land. Fionna, Lancelot, and Percival, speared on Uí Tuírtri blades. No, gods, this future could not be. But what could he do, when he couldn’t even see what was real?
A thought blazed bright and clear through him, and he plunged his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around the adder stone, Percival’s bloody magic rock. Instantly, the scene before him transformed. Excalibur’s hilt stuck out from the stone, but a foot behind where he had been reaching. She had cast a simple glamor over the stone, making it look as if she had plunged Excalibur into the stone somewhere else.
Arthur smiled grimly as he reached out and seized the real sword’s hilt. And began to pull.
A KNOCK ECHOED against Percival’s chamber door, and he flew across the wooden floor. He paused for a moment with his hand on the iron ring handle, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He pulled the door open, schooling his face into what he hoped was an expression of suave nonchalance. “Come in, lass.”
Fionna strode into the room like she owned the place, spinning on her heel to face him. When she saw him, a burst of laughter escaped her rosy lips. “What are ye wearing?”
Percival looked down at himself, at the black tunic and dark breeches he had donned. “What? Are we not infiltrating an enemy camp? I wanted to look the part.”
She crossed her arms before her. “Ye know it’s near high noon. Don’t you think someone might get a wee bit suspicious if you walk out into the sunshine like yer off to the god of the Underworld’s own funeral? Change.”
Percival’s cheeks heated, but he covered his embarrassment with a grin. “Lass, if ye wanted to get me naked, there was no need to come up with such a contrivance. Ye need only ask, ye ken?”
Now it was her turn to flush. “We don’t know how long Arthur and Galahad will be gone.” She strode to the window, turning her back to provide him privacy. “We must be quick.”
�
�Understood,” Percival said, unbuckling his sword belt and pulling off his tunic. He grabbed another from the chest at the end of his bed, one boasting a deep green hue, and then pulled the garment over his head. He caught Fionna’s silver eyes, peering over her shoulder, before she whipped her gaze back toward the window. He hardened at the reality of her—here in his room. “Why dove,” he crossed to stand beside her, brushing a few of her braids over her shoulder. “Did I catch ye peeking?”
“I don’t know what yer talking about,” she said, though her neck arched as if she appreciated the soft brush of his fingers on her neck. “My eyes are firmly affixed on our task. We must find the enemy camp and acquaint ourselves with its layout.”
“So, we can rescue yer father,” Percival finished.
She nodded, her lush lips set in a thin line of determination.
“Fionna, ye know what we attempt is likely a dangerous folly that could get one or both of us killed. If the others discovered our—”
“Which is why they won’t,” Fionna said. “Not until we return with my father safely in hand. And the answers he holds. I know what Arthur would say . . . Lancelot . . . it’s why I only trust ye with this.”
“I will do everything in my power to prove that trust is not misplaced.” He nodded. “Lead the way, My Lady.”
Their clandestine mission painted the palace in a new light. Every servant they passed made his heart leap into his chest, as if they could see his very thoughts, discern his secret purpose. “I feel as if I might jump out of my own skin at the slightest surprise,” Percival murmured. “Is this what it was like for ye those first days, when ye were set upon your mission to take Excalibur?”
“This, and a thousand times worse,” she replied. “I only hope that I see the chance to drive my sword through O’Lynn’s gut before this is all done.”
“Och, I hope ye get that chance too,” Percival said, as they crossed the open space to the stable. And caught sight of Lancelot coming toward them. “Dark and stormy, headed our way,” Percival murmured.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 46