by J A Cummings
Arthur threw his hands in the air and walked away a few paces. “It’s not as if he could have hidden a weapon under his tunic…”
“Or anything else, as it happened.”
He turned on his companion. “You’re jealous.”
Griflet looked aghast, as if Arthur had slapped him. “I am no such thing! Why would… how can… what makes you say that?”’
Arthur knew he was right. He laughed sharply. “Listen to you! Look at the way you’re acting!” He turned and walked up to Griflet until their noses nearly touched. “You said you don’t even want me that way. Why should it matter to you if he sucked my cock?”
The knight pushed him back with both fists against his chest. Arthur grabbed his wrists and held on, pulling Griflet with him as he lost his balance and had to step backward to keep from falling.
“He’s not good enough for you,” the knight complained. “And you should never accept presents like that from strangers.”
“You didn’t think that way about Diseta.”
“That was different.”
“Why?”
“Because I was there, too!”
Arthur stared into his eyes. “So if you’d been able to be there while Lindos serviced me, that would have been all right?”
Griflet looked away. “No.” He pulled back, and Arthur released his grip. He paced a few feet away, then said without turning, “I don’t want other men to touch you.”
He said it so quietly that Arthur could barely hear him, but he heard enough. He crossed the floor to Griflet, crushing petals beneath his feet. “Why don’t you want other men touching me?” he asked. “This isn’t really about my safety, is it?”
“I…” He shook his head. “I just don’t like it. That’s all. You don’t know where he’s been. He’s probably been fucked by half of the palace, and the other half is just waiting their turn.”
Arthur turned Griflet around and made him meet his gaze. “I think you’re jealous, and you don’t like that I let Lindos touch me because you’ve changed your mind.”
The look in his friend’s eyes was all the affirmation that Arthur needed, and he kissed him hard. Griflet hesitated, then returned that kiss, wrapping his arms around his king’s neck and drawing him in closer. When their lips parted, they leaned their foreheads against one another, still embracing.
“Don’t let him suck you again.” Griflet’s voice was little more than a whisper. “That should be my job, not his.”
Arthur cupped Griflet’s face in his hands and ran his thumbs over his flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be. Slut.”
The king chuckled and kissed him, more gently this time, and Griflet yielded beneath the touch. Arthur asked in a whisper, “Did we just have our first lovers’ spat?”
He nodded. “Won’t be the last, either.”
“Is that a prediction?”
“A promise.” Griflet walked him back slowly, almost as if they were dancing, until Arthur’s legs collided with the bed. He pushed him down and looked into his eyes. “Now lay there and stop talking.”
“Just lay here?”
“Jesus, did I not just say to stop talking?” He knelt at his king’s feet and pushed his robe away, revealing his muscular form. “I’ve got a job to do, and I’m going to do it.”
He took him in his hand, and Arthur’s flesh responded immediately, apparently insatiable. He tipped his head back and sighed, “We’re going to be late for supper.”
Griflet paused in what he was doing long enough to ask, “Do you care?”
He had to tell the truth. “Not in the least.”
A servant came for them an hour later, politely inquiring at the door whether the High King would be joining King Gurgurest for the evening meal. Arthur and Griflet, now clad in the borrowed finery their host had provided, joined the rest of their companions in the great hall.
The king’s table was stretched across the back of the room, protected by the walls and guarded by a massive crucifix that made the place feel more like a church than a royal hall. Arthur was taken aback by the religious icon, which he had not seen when they’d first arrived. King Gurgurest saw his look and smiled.
“The crucifix is a constant reminder of our Lord’s passion and suffering, which we must emulate in this mortal world. He reminds us to be grateful for our bounty.”
Gurgurest rose and gestured to the central chair at the royal table, and Arthur accepted the proffered seat. Gurgurest sat again at Arthur’s right, and the queen sat quietly at his left. He thought it was strange that she was not sitting with her husband, but he said nothing, both to avoid awkwardness for the lady and to keep from seeming too ignorant, himself.
Lindos served Arthur’s meal and saw to it that his cup stayed full throughout the meal, much to Griflet’s annoyance. The dinner conversation revolved around Gurgurest boasting about the wonders of Eboracum. Some of the knights told war stories and were rewarded with the rapt attention and adoring looks of the ladies of the court. Arthur found himself disinterested in the talk and bored with politics. His mind wandered back to the battlefield, and he wondered when and from where the next attack would arise.
Merlin slipped through the streets of Lindum, disguised as a nondescript peasant. None of the people he passed gave him so much as a second glance, which suited his purposes completely. The last thing that he wanted was attention.
Ahead of him, winding through the streets under the concealment of a magical disguise of her own, was Ganile. It had taken him some time and not inconsiderable effort to find her, but when he saw that she was in the city, he knew why she had come.
He followed her as she made her way to the castle. She was able to enter through the kitchen garden, and he shadowed her all the way inside. He knew that she could sense him and his magic, just as he could sense hers, but he was more powerful than she. When she turned to look over her shoulder, it was a simple thing to make himself invisible to her eyes. A demon would always be more powerful than a human being, no matter what that human being had sold.
There was a demonic taint to Ganile’s magic, and he knew the scent. He had dealt with Murduus in the past, and he knew his particular sulphurous stench. It followed the Saxon enchantress like a bitter perfume, and it had helped him to find her in the first place. She must have made quite a handsome deal with the demon to obtain the sort of power she commanded. Now he wondered what a devotee of a dark lord wanted with the Red Temple.
He had known about the temple for a very long time. Rumors said that it contained the Book of Saul, the grimoire that had belonged to the Witch of Endor. It had allegedly been brought to Britannia along with the Holy Grail by Joseph of Arimathea. Merlin knew that the Grail existed, because it was one of the things Vivienne had set her mind upon acquiring, and one of the things that Arthur was destined to achieve. He supposed that it was possible that the Book of Saul existed, too, but he had his doubts. The Red Temple predated the Judean tin merchant by several centuries, and it was probably even older than the Giant’s Dance. In his opinion, it had not even been built by humans. It had the feeling of the First Folk to him.
He wasn’t certain what Ganile hoped to find there. She was said to have a fondness for magical tomes, so perhaps she was hoping for the grimoire. Perhaps she had heard some Saxon rumor that Merlin had not yet heard. Whatever she was after, it was driving her down into the dungeon beneath Lindum Castle.
The dungeon, like most dungeons, stank of feces, stale sweat, urine, blood and desperation. There were men here, chained to the walls like dogs, coated with their own filth. He could sense the fluctuating life forces in the prisoners as he crept past the cells. He might stop and help some of them, or perhaps he might help himself. He hadn’t decided yet. It all depended upon what Ganile was up to.
She got to a corner of the dungeon, back by the torturer’s tools, and crouched. He watched as she outlined a thick square stone in the floor with one fingertip, then twitched that finger to make t
he stone levitate out of her way. A gust of fetid air rushed up through the hole her magic created, blowing her blonde hair back from her face and rustling Merlin’s cloak. He was still invisible, but the flapping fabric must have made some sound, for she turned and looked in his direction. He had seen her do this trick with Illtyd, and he hoped for a better outcome for himself.
Look away, he ordered her mind. He met little resistance. There is nothing here.
Ganile, satisfied that she was alone, crouched and peered into the hole in the floor, but she had no light source to help her see in the darkness. She picked up a stray piece of straw and whispered over it, setting it ablaze with eldritch fire that did not consume its fuel. Merlin had to admit that he was impressed by the confident way she wielded her magic.
She dropped the burning straw into the hole, and light flickered up to illuminate the chamber below. Ganile smiled to herself and removed a coiled rope from her belt. She tied one end to an iron ring in the wall intended for the chains of prisoners and dropped the other end after the straw. Once she was sure the rope was secure, she began to climb down.
As far as Merlin knew, there were no other entrances or exits from the Red Temple. The place had been sealed off with cave-ins years ago. He was tempted just to cut her rope and seal her in, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. He had to see what was really there. He followed her down.
The air was stale and difficult to breathe, and the dust was thick. As Ganile moved, and as he followed, clouds of it eddied up and tried to choke them. The Saxon enchantress coughed as quietly as she could, but she was struggling. Merlin was uncomfortable, but as a demon, he could manage better than a human. He continued to follow her, stepping in her footprints to conceal his passage.
The hole she had made opened up into a long, rough-hewn corridor with tool marks on the walls, floor and ceiling where someone had chiseled the rock away. It was all limestone here, and farther down the corridor, water was seeping in, creating a miniature rivulet that helped to cut the dust. Ganile had picked up the straw and was holding it before her like a torch, her fingers in the magical flame but not burning. He knew that spell; it was a simple trick, and very impressive to the simple-minded, but in the right place, it was extremely useful. He silently applauded her ingenuity.
The corridor led to a larger chamber, again made of limestone but this time painted red with ochre. In the center of the room was a stone chest, the lid precariously balanced. Ganile approached it cautiously, as if she was afraid that it would bite. She looked over her shoulder again, clearly nervous, and hesitated. He held still and waited. When she was once again satisfied that she was alone, she knelt by the box and pushed the lid aside.
He couldn’t see what the box contained as she leaned over and reached inside, but when she sat back, she had a bundle of scroll cases in her hands. He watched with interest as she cracked open the seal on the first one and let the scroll inside tumble out. The papyrus was fragile and by rights should have crumbled to dust the moment it touched her hand. The fact that it didn’t was proof to him that it was magically imbued.
She unrolled the scroll, and he saw the symbol written at the top. It was the Book of Saul.
He smiled and hung back while she pulled a canvas bag out of her belt at the small of her back. She unfurled it and filled it with the scroll cases, then carefully checked the box for any other items of interest. She came up with a golden ring in the form of two dragons holding a sapphire. It was a ring clearly meant for the hand of a man, and when she put it on her own finger it fell off immediately, sliding away from her. She caught it and put it into a pocket.
Merlin held back and let her inspect the rest of the chamber and come up empty. She slung the bag over her shoulder and returned to the entrance. Ganile climbed up and out of the ancient temple, then swiftly gathered up the dangling rope and untied it. Merlin used his own magic to shift from the temple to the dungeon floor, where he stood back and let her pass him. She brushed by, scurrying with her stolen treasure, and for a moment her elbow brushed through the aura of his power. She stopped stock still.
“Merlin,” she said. “I know you’re here.”
He appeared behind her and wrapped an arm around her neck, his fingers and thumb on opposite sides of her windpipe. She stayed rooted in place as he whispered in her ear, “Yes, I am.”
“You want the Grimoire?”
“No, I’m here for the scenery. Of course I want the Grimoire.” He took the bag away from her. “You wouldn’t know how to handle the magic in this thing. It would burn you alive.”
“I am more powerful than you believe I am.”
He chuckled. “You are as powerful as your master allows you to be, and that is less powerful than him. And I have already triumphed in a battle or two with Murduus over the centuries.”
Ganile’s mouth fell open, but she closed it again. “How did you know?”
He pressed his cheek against her ear. “I can smell him on you. Didn’t you say that once to Morgana, before you abandoned her? That you could smell the spunk of the man she betrayed you with? Well, I can smell your master’s spunk all over you. Must be horrible for a woman who exclusively prefers other women.”
She elbowed him in the stomach, and although the air left him in a rush, he closed his grip on her throat and squeezed. Now neither of them could breathe. She gagged and gasped for air. Livid bruises bloomed around his fingertips, and Ganile’s eyes began rolling up in her head.
He could have killed her there and then. Instead, he tasted her soul, taking just a tiny morsel of her immortal spirit into himself. It was sour with the taint of Murduus, but it was still delicious. She moaned as he swallowed that part of her down.
“Your master will only be getting a portion of his payment. I don’t think he’ll enjoy collecting a partial soul, do you?” he asked her conversationally. “I wonder what he’ll do? I for one am dying to know. You’ll have to let me know how he reacts when he comes for you.”
He released her, and she collapsed on the floor, coughing and hauling air into her lungs in great gulps. Merlin reached into her pocket and retrieved the ring, then, laughing, vanished into thin air.
The campfire crackled. It was the only sound in the clearing, apart from the slow, steady breathing of the others and the shick-shick sound of Ysmon’s whittling. Lancelot lay with his back to the fire, facing away from the satyrs and the nymphs, his head pillowed on his hands. It had been a hard day, and he suspected the next day would be harder. This new life was difficult to bear, but if he wanted to prove himself to Nyneve, he had to endure it. He could never complain.
His body ached in places that had never felt pain before. He had experienced more in the last two days than he had ever believed possible, and although they had taught him a great deal about combat, they had also taught him other things he wasn’t sure he’d wanted to know. They had given him a sword, and he had briefly considered falling upon it, but he knew that to do so would dishonor the Lady of the Lake who had fostered him. He would allow no shame to come to her, no matter how he was covered in it now.
Ysmon hummed softly, and it sounded so innocent and innocuous that Lancelot could almost be fooled into thinking they were just a band of travelers, friends and brothers on the road between two places. He tried to pretend that was all they were, but the pain in his hips and between his legs reminded him very pointedly that pretending was for children, and he was a child no longer.
He could not escape. The fey could travel through underbrush as if it wasn’t there, and he would be fouled up by the thick greenery in seconds. He was a long way from water, where he might hope to lose the terrestrial fey, but the sea nymphs and river nymphs would catch him and return him, since this was where Nyneve wanted him to be. He was well and truly trapped.
He didn’t understand why Nyneve had wanted this for him. He couldn’t think of what she wanted him to learn, or what he had done to so displease her that she was willing to let them hurt him so badly.
He had thought of her as his mother, and believed that she loved him as a son. Now he was uncertain, and nothing made sense. He suddenly knew that he did not belong in this place, and it had never been his home, and that the people he loved had never loved him and had never been his family. He realized now that he was alone and had always been alone.
He tried to stay silent, although tears were running from his eyes. He tried to keep from moving so much as a muscle. The last thing he wanted was for the fey creatures in this clearing to know that he was awake.
If only he could sleep. If only he could never wake again.
The sun was just beginning to rise when Merlin entered his mother’s bedchamber. She was sitting before her mirror, combing her lustrous red hair, when he came in. As soon as she turned to look at him, Vivienne’s eyes fixed on the bag in his hands.
“What’s this?” she asked.
He smiled. “I have a gift for you.” Merlin handed her the bag, and she pulled the scroll cases out one by one, lining them up on her dressing table. “One has been opened, but the contents are in good shape,” he told her eagerly, reverting to a little boy seeking his mother’s praise. “They’re all magical.”
“So I see.” She rested her hand atop one of the cases and smiled. “The Grimoire!” she said, delighted. “My darling boy, thank you. You’ve done very well.”
Vivienne rose and embraced her son, kissing him on the lips. He basked in the glow of her happiness.
She stepped back and sat down again. “How is our High King?”
“I am about to rejoin him to find out.” He paused, then said, “I took these from the Saxon sorceress Ganile.”
Vivienne raised one slender eyebrow. “Indeed.”
“I followed her into the Red Temple. I don’t know how she had heard of it, but I do know that she serves Murduus.”
