Best Knight Ever (A Kinda Fairytale Book 4)

by Cassandra Gannon

  Galahad winced, because that question had been weird even for him. “Sorry.”

  “Hearing about the workings of your mind does not bother me. Even when you use your ideas to distract and confuse and not answer my questions. It is when you don’t speak of your thoughts that I brace for trouble.”

  “I tell you everything.” He paused. “…Mostly.”

  Trystan gave a derisive snort. “No, you don’t. You show the world what they want to see, even if it is not entirely truthful. This includes me.”

  Galahad was hurt by that claim. “I don’t lie to you, Trystan.”

  “No. But you share nothing that you don’t choose to share. And you do not choose to share most of the core of you. Trying to catch hold of you is like grasping mist.”

  It was hard for Galahad to connect to people. It always had been. He tried to give them what they wanted, but they always seemed to slip away. This one time, it was vital that Galahad keep someone with him, though. Without Trystan, he would be lost.

  He thought for a beat, figuring out what to do next. “What do you want me to share?”

  “Do you still intend to have dinner with your ‘fan’ in St. Ives?” Trystan asked from out of nowhere.

  “Yes.” Galahad frowned, surprised by the question. What was going on in his head, now?

  Trystan’s finger jabbed down on the remote key with unnecessary force. “Fine.”

  Galahad’s eyebrows shot up, interpreting what that surly “fine” really meant. Trystan was jealous. That was so cute! “Trys, I have no interest in Mordy.” He made the words very clear. “I’ve never met the guy and he already has a husband. He’s mentioned that before.”

  “This Mordy person wants to have sex with you. I guarantee it.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Galahad scoffed. “Even if he did, I’d just politely decline. Mordy seems like a nice guy, but I’m only meeting him so we can get into St. Ives. He can open the gate.” He arched a brow. “That’s why you’re even here with me, in the first place, isn’t it? Because your goal is to go kill some guy who lives there and I’m your ticket into the town.”

  “Of course you try to make this lunacy seem like a favor for me.”

  “It’s not a favor. We had a deal.”

  Trystan shook his head like Galahad was being ridiculous and clicked to another channel without even stopping to see what was on the last one. “Fine.” It didn’t sound fine.

  “You’re worried over nothing.” Galahad persisted, wanting to reassure him.

  “Gryphons do not worry. We simply foresee likely disasters.” Trystan muttered. “Do not discuss your treasure map with Mordy, either. You remember I told you it isn’t safe, yes?”

  “Mordy’s already rich. I doubt he’s going to steal it.”

  “If you think any of your kind is ever rich enough, you do not understand them.”

  “I’m rich enough.”

  “You have no money, at all. What wasn’t confiscated, you spent on unicorns or gave away so hellhounds in pet shelters could have new rubber balls.”

  “Oh, that’s because hellhounds love playing catch. They’re very playful animals, but their six rows of fangs are hard on toys. If I don’t get them replacements every day, it will break their little hearts. I had to set up a trust for it, before I was banished.”

  No one could sigh like Trystan. It was deep, and extended, and theatrically long-suffering. The man really should be an actor. “Anyway, since you bring up this mission of yours…”

  “Wait what? I brought it up? Jesus, are we back to that?”

  He ignored the interruption. “Why have you not spoken of your map recently?”

  Galahad hesitated, wary now. “You said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. But I also don’t want you silently plotting about it.”

  “I’m not ‘plotting.’ You always say I’m plotting.”

  “And I am always right. It is a burden, at times.”

  “I’ve just been keeping the planning to myself. That’s not plotting. It’s what I’m supposed to do, according to our agreement.” Galahad wasn’t sure where this was coming from, but now he felt attacked for following the rules. “We agreed that we wouldn’t interfere with each other’s missions, remember?”

  Trystan didn’t seem to like the indisputable facts of that argument. His jaw ticked, his eyes on the television. “Fine.” This time the “fine” was brooding and unconvinced.

  “Look, I get you into a lot of crazy shit.” Galahad assured him, still trying to fix whatever was bothering the man. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to help me, either.”

  And that was probably for the best. At first, Galahad had liked the idea of becoming allies. Honestly, he still wanted that. Trystan was smart and capable and a gryphon. All of that would be a big help. But, now that he knew Trystan better, Galahad also worried what Trystan might uncover if he joined the quest. He asked Galahad questions with only terrible answers, his brown eyes seeing far too much. Galahad couldn’t lie to him, but there were things that he preferred Trystan never, ever know.

  “I did not say that I wouldn’t help you.” Trystan muttered.

  Galahad arched a brow at that revisionist history. “You didn’t?”

  “No. I will always offer you assistance. It is my duty.” Trystan nodded righteously, as if he’d been begging to be included this whole time and Galahad was cruelly excluding him.

  “You specifically said you didn’t want to help! Multiple times, Trystan.”

  “Well, I have changed my mind.” Trystan shot back. “If you require assistance, I will do it. Not Mordy.” He sounded legitimately angry, now. “It is my duty to care for you, Galahad. No one else’s. Mine. Gwen gave you into my keeping, until we return to Camelot. I told you this.”

  Galahad ran all that through the Trystan-translator he was developing in his head. Trystan defined himself through caring for others. He didn’t use the word “duty” like most people did. For him, it was more like a calling. Trystan had apparently decided that “caring” for Galahad was some right that he’d earned. He saw it as a rejection when Galahad didn’t accept his gryphon-y, overbearing-ish, usually begrudging help.

  It hurt all the feelings that Trystan wasn’t supposed to have.

  That was the last thing Galahad wanted. He would sooner refight the War than make this man unhappy. He sighed and gave up being annoyed at Trystan’s stubbornness. “You’ve already caught hold of me, Trys.” It was the stark truth. “I know that, even if you don’t.”

  Trystan’s gaze flicked over to him and stayed there.

  “I would like for us to trust each other.” Galahad pressed. “For each of us to trust in the other’s abilities and choices. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Trystan considered that idea for a long moment. “Fine.”

  “Good.” Galahad marked that cautious “fine” as agreement. “Now, there’s a mural I have to see. My map says it’s in the Pellinore Mountains. I’m going up there to find it.”

  Trystan sat up straighter. “And you just mention this intention now?” He demanded, ready to get angry all over again. “How did you plan to hide the fact we were diverting north for three days, into the depths of the Wilds?”

  “I planned to ride off and do it alone, obviously. I would’ve been back, though.”

  “I knew you were plotting.”

  “Do you want to argue about this some more?” Galahad challenged. “Or do you just want to skip to the part where you come see the mural with me?”

  Trystan forestalled his brewing rant, looking surprised. “You are inviting me on this futile side-trip?”

  “Yes. So long as you promise to let me handle the important part, where we get into the cave and see the mural, you and I can do this together.”

  Trystan considered that idea for an even longer moment.

  Galahad waited.

  “Fine.” This time the “fine” was mollified, like Trystan’s n
on-worries had been soothed. “I suppose we can spare a few days.”

  Trystan’s tension relaxed, now that he was being included. Galahad was satisfied. This trip was going to be complicated, but what else could he do? Making Trystan feel better was worth the headache. The man was worth everything.

  Trystan stretched out in a more territorial way. Taking up space, like everything in the room --from the carpet, to the lamps, to Galahad-- belonged to him. “This map of yours is probably a fake. You know this, yes? I would not like to see you disappointed when you reach the end of your mission and find nothing.”

  “It’s real. I’m sure of it.”

  “And your surety is based on what, exactly?”

  “Somebody told me. Somebody I believe.”

  “You would believe a witch offering you a poisoned apple.” Trystan switched to a new station. The television only got so many channels, so it wasn’t going to do him much good. “When this treasure is revealed to be the fantasy of some depraved liar, I will not say I told you so. But,” he shrugged again, “I told you so.”

  “I appreciate your restraint.” Galahad told him straight-faced.

  Trystan nodded, like he was being the soul of consideration. “And I think trees know more of the world than we do.” He decided, like he’d been mulling Galahad’s strange question over and had finally settled on an answer. “They sleep, and dream, and see all paths, which is why they are so patient in their growing.”

  Galahad’s mood lightened. God, he was just insanely attracted to every single part of Trystan. Even his eyelashes were perfect. “You really can lie on the bed, you know. If you’re not ready for us to have sex, I can wait. Honestly. I promise not to touch you.”

  “It’s not you touching me that I’m worried about.” Trystan grumbled.

  “Yeah?” Galahad grinned at the admission. “Well, you have incredible self-control around me, so I’m sure that won’t be a problem, either. I bet you can last at least ten minutes, before I talk you out of your pants.”

  Trystan’s eyes stayed fixed on the TV. “You would lose that bet.”

  Galahad blinked at the dry remark and then laughed in delight. Trystan’s mouth absolutely, one hundred percent, no-mistake-about-it curved into a tiny smile at the happy sound. It was impossible and beautiful and real. Trystan could smile. Trystan could do anything.

  “I am crazy about you.” Galahad said sincerely, dazzled by the man.

  Brown eyes glowed warm, even as Trystan shook his head in frustration. “None of this is helping me to stay down here and…” He trailed off suddenly, his attention fixed on the screen. “Is that man supposed to be you?”

  Galahad glanced at the television and felt his heart drop. That goddamn unauthorized, completely fictitious, made-for-TV account of the Battle of Legion was on. The one he would have sued every goddamn person involved for making, had he not worried that it would draw more attention to the goddamn thing. It was a goddamn lie from the opening title screen to the end credit crawl.

  “Turn it off.” He said, his amusement gone.

  Trystan ignored that, watching the horror show play out in badly-scripted detail.

  “We must save our men!” The jackass who played King Uther cried to the troops. He was thinner and younger than King Uther had been, with a cheap-looking crown on his head. “Don’t let the savages win! Push them back for Camelot!”

  A screaming mass of gryphons descended on the knights. Hundreds of extras, all with fake wings attached to their backs and raging with out-of-control hatred. The smaller force of King’s Men was eviscerated, the ruthless gryphons hacking them apart in grisly close-ups.

  Trystan’s head tilted, taking it all in.

  “Sire!” The son of a bitch portraying Galahad bellowed. “They are overtaking our lines!” Real-Galahad tried to be a positive person, but there was simply nothing Good to say about the dyed-blond asshole playing him. Nothing at all. “Bedivere has already perished, bravely trying to save young ones from this hoard!”

  “Bedivere!” Fake-Uther screamed into the sky. “Noooooo! He was the best of us all!”

  The music swelled and misty flashbacks of fake-Bedivere glistened across the screen. The fake-warfare paused for some reaction shots of fake-knights weeping over the fake-hero. They weren’t alone. Back in reality, all of Camelot had mourned the Martyr of Legion.

  Galahad’s lips flattened together.

  “The barbarians will destroy us all, if we don’t do something drastic.” Phony-Galahad continued, dramatically resting a hand on his forehead. He was a terrible actor. Utterly talentless. Galahad detested him.

  “Turn it off, Trys.” He said again, unable to look away from the abysmal spectacle.

  Trystan didn’t seem to hear him, just as mesmerized by the dishonesty and bad production values.

  “You’ll never defeat us, knight!” The scenery-chewing, scantily-clad villainess meant to be Lyrssa Highstorm shrieked with maniacal glee. The actress shook the bars of her rickety prop cage and was lucky when the cardboard sides held together. “It’s too late for your wingless kind! We will destroy Camelot and all of you with it!”

  “Never!” Fake-Galahad roared. “We knights shall triumph, for we follow a code of true justice!” He raised his plastic sword over his head and the shaky camera captured the heroic set of his jaw. The grandeur of his cause. The rightness of his mission. “Fire the Rath!”

  “Turn it off!” Galahad reached down to grab the remote from Trystan’s hand. “Turn the fucking thing off!” He slammed his finger down on the power button and the TV went blessedly silent. He closed his eyes, breathing hard.

  For a long moment they sat in silence.

  “That shit is even worse than your singing puppet show.” Trystan said thoughtfully.

  Galahad’s eyes popped open, looking down at him in surprise.

  “Did you not wish to be in this program, knight? Is that why they hired such an ill-favored man to portray you?”

  “I would never be in that movie.” It was a snarl. “My shows were all focused on teaching children about compassion and truth. That,” he pointed to the screen, “is a goddamn travesty.”

  “Lyrssa was there, though. That part was truthful. Did you truly see her?”

  Galahad blew out a long breath, trying to calm down. He wanted to be a peaceful man, but some days it was hard to remember why he bothered. “Yes.”

  “I never met the Queen. I have not even met anyone who met her. All she fought beside are gone.”

  “That’s because we killed them all.”

  Trystan didn’t respond to that bleak comment. He seemed fascinated by the idea of Galahad interacting with the gryphon queen. “You are one of the few who would recall her, now. What was she like? Was she as fearsome a warrior as they say?”

  Galahad looked back at the blank TV screen, remembering everything as it had truly been and wishing he didn’t. “You followed the right leader, Trystan. You were on the right side, with the right leader, and the right warriors. The gryphons were so brave. The better fighters, by far.”

  “I do not think anyone is a better fighter than you, knight.”

  Galahad slowly shook his head. “The warriors could have escaped, but they stayed and faced us, because of the children and the elderly. They were protecting the innocent.” Galahad’s sense of justice had never recovered from Legion and the unfairness of it all. The fact that Good didn’t triumph. “I should have lost. I was the one on the wrong side.”

  “Yes.” Trystan agreed quietly. “Perhaps, though, for some men, it’s easier to lose on the right side, than win on the wrong one.”

  Galahad rubbed his eyes, refocusing on the original question. “Lyrssa was at Legion, but that damned movie was right about her being in a cage, for most of it. Perceval had captured her days before, while I was on reconnaissance.” Yellow Boots had helped him, under direct orders from Uther. Galahad had not been involved in that, which had no doubt been the king’s intention. “She didn’t pa
rticipate in the fighting. Nearly everyone was dead within minutes, so I doubt she could have done much. In the end, she got free and flew off with Uther and…” He trailed off with a shrug. “I never saw her, again.”

  No one had.

  “Oh.” Trystan seemed disappointed not to hear stories of his lost queen, but he nodded. “This makes sense.”

  The conversation could’ve ended right there.

  Galahad knew it was smarter to let the topic drop. Legion was a poison, threatening to infect everything he was trying to build with Trystan. There was no need to tell Trystan anything he didn’t need to know. The man had plans of his own in St. Ives, that didn’t include Galahad. Since no one in the history of creation had ever changed their plans for Galahad, it was a really lousy sign for their future. He knew that and he was a typically optimistic guy. It would be better to work on that problem, rather than creating new ones.

  But he also wanted to make Trystan happy and tell him about his queen. Wanted to give him more than just that surface answer, because Trystan had had a point before: Galahad kept a lot of his deepest thoughts to himself. That wasn’t how a true relationship worked. If he ever wanted Trystan to open up with him, he needed to open up to Trystan. At least a little.

  He had to give Trystan some trust.

  “I spoke to Lyrssa.” Galahad said before he could talk himself out of it.

  Trystan looked at him in astonishment, shocked by that news and the fact that Galahad had offered it. “You did? When?”

  Galahad shifted, still wary of this whole topic. “During the massacre. I spoke to her, through the bars of her cage.”

  Trystan sat up straighter, again. “What did she say?” He was engrossed, now.

  “She screamed at us that there were children in the village. She begged the knights to stop firing.” Galahad handed the remote back to him, not meeting his eyes. “They didn’t listen.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She tried to decide if I was a lunatic.”

  “A debate I regularly engage in, as well.”

  Galahad paused. “And she told me that darkness wasn’t the path.”

  Trystan’s eyebrows soared. “She talked of your path?” He echoed incredulously. “That is a very important thing to speak of, knight. I told you, it is vital to our beliefs. What did she say exactly?”