by J A Cummings
The gates were closed, and a single guard stood watch on the wall. He shouted to them as they approached. “What’s your business?”
Merlin rode forward with Brastias at his side. “I am Merlin of Ynys Môn, and I bring with me High King Arthur Pendragon. He is in need of healing, and I beg the assistance of the Princess Guinevere.”
The guard gaped for a moment, then disappeared. A moment later, the gates opened and they were admitted inside. A squad of four soldiers trotted to their party and escorted them to the castle while a messenger ran to tell King Leodegrance about his visitors.
Sir Brastias spoke to the soldiers. “The High King is badly wounded and cannot walk. Help me carry him into the castle.”
They lifted him, pallet and all, from the cart and carried him into the great hall. King Leodegrance met them, his wizened face wrinkled even further with concern.
“Put him by the fire,” he directed. “Good sir knight, what has happened?”
“A mighty battle,” Sir Bedivere answered. “He was wounded fighting traitors at Vinovia.”
They rested him carefully next to the hearth, settling him as comfortably as they could. King Leodegrance turned to Merlin. “My ward is not here.”
Panic blasted through the druid for the briefest of moments before he was able to rein it back in. “Where is she?”
“Manawydan requested her presence. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”
He was not so certain. Time and the fey were barely nodding acquaintances, and he did not trust Manawydan to release her from his throne room in time to save Arthur. He nodded. “I will leave him in your capable hands, my lord, and return shortly with Princess Guinevere.”
He left through magic as soon as he finished speaking, not giving the venerable king a chance to respond.
Merlin rematerialized on the shores of the Fey King’s lake, where he tapped the top of the water three times. A male sea nymph he did not recognize surfaced with a dour look on his face.
“What do you want, demon?”
“I’m here to return Princess Guinevere to Cameliard.”
“She is not available.”
“Well, then, make her available.”
Male sea nymphs were notoriously violent and prone to attacking interlopers, and for a moment, Merlin thought this specimen would come up out of the water after him. Instead, after a moment’s contemplation, the nymph dove beneath the calm lake surface and disappeared.
He waited for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a set of concentric ripples appeared before him, and then Guinevere was leaving the water in all of her naked glory. He could well believe the old myths of nymphs paralyzing men with fascination from the sheer beauty of their nude bodies alone. The sea nymph before him was easily the most beautiful of her sisters, and everything about her was symmetrical perfection. From her dark hair to her bounteous curves, her perfect and delicate features and the gentle wisdom in her blue eyes, she was everything that a princess should have been and more. He felt his mouth begin to water at the tantalizing scent of her energy. Faery energy was the finest of liquors to demons like him.
She went to a bag that was sitting on the shore and took out a simple dress, which she pulled on over her head. It was almost disappointing to have her clothed, and it was all Merlin could do to remind himself of the reason he was there.
Guinevere turned to him and smiled. “Merlin,” she greeted. Her voice was like sunbaked honey, warm and sweet and rich. “I didn’t expect you.”
“You are needed in Cameliard.”
She frowned. “Is it the king?”
“It’s the High King.”
He could not have predicted her reaction. She went pale and her eyes widened. She pressed a hand to her solar plexus, and he could feel her energy become jagged with fear. Guinevere swallowed hard, then nodded. “All right.”
He held out his hand to her, and she reluctantly accepted it. She closed her eyes just before he cast the traveling spell, her fingers squeezing his tightly. He took her back to the great hall in Leodegrance’s castle. Arthur’s pallet was surrounded by his worried retainers, and Lionors, her blonde hair tied back with a strip of leather, was kneeling at his side, swabbing his forehead with a damp cloth.
“Which one is he?” Guinevere asked.
“The injured one. We need your healing abilities.”
She balked. “I am not the healer you seem to think I am. My full healing ability has not come into being yet. It won’t until I bear a child.”
“Yes, but you still have abilities none of us have. You are still Sovereignty.”
She swallowed, then glided forward, graceful as a doe. She knelt beside Arthur and looked at Lionors.
“Are you his lady?” she asked, sounding almost hopeful.
The princess of Ceredigion shook her head. “No. I am his brother’s lady.”
Guinevere nodded with a sigh. “May I?”
“Yes.” She moved back to let the newcomer work.
Merlin watched anxiously as the nymph stripped the blanket from Arthur’s feverish body. She gently removed his bandages and the poultices that Merlin had applied, and she sat and examined the weeping wounds for a long time.
“Can you help him?” Sir Kay asked.
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Please, everyone… step back.”
They complied, and the fey princess put her delicate white hands onto Arthur’s feverish skin. She took a deep breath. When she blew it out, a white mist, moist and chilly, came with it, and it covered Arthur in a cloud. The High King disappeared from Merlin’s view, and he crossed his arms, biting at his thumb. He watched closely as Guinevere and Arthur vanished into the fog she had created.
The white cloud did not dissipate. Instead, it grew denser and darker, clinging to the place on the floor where Arthur’s pallet lay. The scent of seawater filled the hall. He heard Arthur groan once, and then there was silence.
“What is happening?” Sir Brastias demanded.
“She’s healing him.”
The first thing he felt was the damp chill, and the second thing was a pair of hands, one on his thigh and one on his abdomen. Arthur opened his eyes, his head suddenly completely clear, but he could see nothing but white. He heard a woman’s voice, entrancing in its beauty, whispering words in a language he did not understand. It sounded lyrical, as if she was singing more than speaking. Her hands felt good against his battered flesh, and he realized that he no longer hurt.
The hands pressed harder, and he groaned, more as a result of the pressure on his gut than out of any pain. The woman whispered, “Shh.” He fell obediently silent.
The chill began to depart, and in its place was warmth that suffused his limbs and filled his body with comfort. The mist began to clear, and he looked up into a face he had seen once in life and many times in dreams. She was as beautiful as he remembered. He smiled, and she looked into his eyes and smiled back.
“I have dreamed you,” he whispered to her.
“Shh.”
He bit his tongue, holding back his urge to prattle like an overly excited child. He felt his strength returning, and his energy was growing. Just as he began to feel that he could no longer lie still, she lifted her hands from his body and sat back. The mist around them dissipated completely, and he found himself lying on a pallet in someone’s great hall.
“Princess Guinevere,” he said. “Thank you.”
She inclined her head. “You’re welcome, King Arthur.”
Guinevere sat back and regarded the boy lying before her. He had clear eyes the color of the spring sky, a pale color with a deep life behind them. His skin was lightly tanned from living out of doors, but smooth and unscarred. He had yet to grow a beard, so his chin and cheeks were still smooth, and his lips were pink and soft. His nose was straight and elegant, and his black hair curled around his brow. She thought that he was comely, as human males went, and even comelier than most.
He stared at her as if there was m
uch he wanted to say, but she couldn’t bear to hear him speak just yet. She had heard him say that he had dreamed her, which was a flattering thing, but she wasn’t sure yet if she should believe him. She had known many bragging boys who thought they were romantic, telling tales that weren’t true in an effort to turn a lady’s head. She had no wish to be taken in by a liar, no matter how pretty the face was that delivered the untruth.
She looked down at his abdomen, at the rise and fall of breathing and the hills and valleys of the muscles that rippled down his body like a waterfall. She wanted to touch him again, just once, to feel how firm those muscles were, but she had already pulled away, and it would be inappropriate, as King Leodegrance had told her, for her touch him again. She knew that the muscles she had touched during the healing were hard and strong, and she could see that the same was true of his chest and his broad shoulders.
“My lady,” he said again, and she shook her head.
“Don’t speak,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
His words would destroy the shred of the dream, the one that said he was comely and fair and strong, and that he would be a kind man and a good king. She couldn’t bear it if he opened his mouth and poured out something whiny or self-indulgent.
Guinevere rose with a smile. “Rest, King Arthur. You will need to sleep to make this healing last.”
The mist cleared completely, and she could see the king’s retainers standing about with worried looks upon their faces. Among them was the girl, the blonde human, pretty as a picture. She could smell the truth of her from where she stood, and it made her hesitate.
Merlin came forward and knelt at King Arthur’s side. “Are you well?”
“Remarkably so. There’s no pain at all,” he said, his hand going to his abdomen where he had been healed. He turned those bright blue eyes to Guinevere again. “Thank you, my lady. How can I ever repay you?”
“Be just when you are king,” she said. “And remember the powerless when you have power.”
He bowed his head. “This, I swear I shall.”
She turned the curtsied to King Leodegrance. “By your leave, Your Majesty? I am weary and would like to return to my bower.”
The old man smiled kindly. “Of course, my dear. Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”
As she began to walk, the other men bowed to her, and she caught a gleam of lust in one man’s face. She stopped and spoke to him, sensing his heart beat faster.
“Your name, sir knight?”
“Sir Bedivere, my lady.”
Guinevere nodded. “Sir Bedivere.”
She said nothing further. Instead, she glided out of the great hall and into the corridor that led to her private rooms.
Merlin followed her. “Your Highness,” he called. “A moment, please.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “Yes?”
The demon smiled for her, and his deceptively youthful face looked pleasant and innocent. She was instantly on her guard. “May I speak to you?”
“Of course. I’m listening, aren’t I?” Her words were harsher than she’d intended.
He came closer, and she could smell his sensual, musky scent. She had learned long ago that incubi walked in clouds of sexuality. It was their stock in trade. When he was close enough to whisper, he asked, “Did you speak to Manawydan about my proposal?”
Guinevere nodded. “I have. He told me to look to the High King as a potential husband, and that he strongly encouraged me to acquiesce.”
Merlin’s eyes looked shrewd as he asked, “Well, now you’ve seen him, albeit not in his best of moments. What do you think so far?”
“I think he is comely… for a boy.”
“He is no boy.”
“He is no man yet, either.” She took a step back, putting some distance between herself and the druid. “He’s too young to marry. Perhaps when he’s older.”
“Arthur is older than his years, my dear. He may be physically young, but he has the spirit of a grown man and the wisdom besides. If you fear that he may not yet know himself, I can vouchsafe that he does. He is a canny warrior and will be a good and just king.” He looked into her eyes, and she felt strange. “He will be a king in need of a queen.”
“Don’t try to enspell me, demon,” she said softly. “I will not be compelled.”
“I wasn’t,” he said. She almost believed him. “My lady, at least consider it.”
“I will consider it when he’s fully grown.” She backed up another step. “If you will excuse me, I’m weary and would like to rest.”
He bowed to her courteously. “Of course. My apologies for keeping you.” She walked down the corridor, and as she did, he called after her. “If you get to know him, you will come to love him.”
She did not respond to Merlin, but as she opened the door to her bower, she thought, That’s what I’m afraid of.
They stayed at Cameliard only for one night. They ate breakfast with King Leodegrance and Princess Guinevere, then took their leave of their gracious hosts. Arthur did his best with polite small talk over the table, but it was clear that nobody’s heart was in the exercise. The princess never even looked in his direction, much to his disappointment. When it was time for him to go, she curtsied to him and disappeared back into her private chambers.
The others had thought to bring Arthur’s horse. It had been led by Brastias the whole length of the journey from Vinovia. Arthur was standing beside him now, saddling him in preparation for the long ride ahead. Merlin came to him, a smile on his face.
“Now that I no longer have to worry that a magical shift might harm you,” he told Arthur, “I can take us the rest of the way to Caer Gai.”
“I thought that you couldn’t move someone who is dead,” the king said. “That’s what Griflet said you told him.”
Merlin had the good grace to look embarrassed. “A slight prevarication. I was concerned for your wellbeing. You were balancing on a knife’s edge, and the magical travel might have pushed you over.”
Arthur nodded. “Thank you. If you can take us, I would greatly appreciate it. I don’t think my father’s body is holding up very well.”
It was an understatement, and he knew it. Merlin was kind enough not to belabor the point by saying anything further. Instead, he shepherded their party together into a tight group, the knights astride their horses, and he cast his traveling magic to take them to Arthur’s boyhood home in the space between two heartbeats.
The young king had never expected to see the place again, and certainly not under these circumstances. Ewain emerged from the stable with a look of surprise, but when he saw the faces of the two young lords of the estate and smelled the bitter burden of their cart, he understood. He came forward.
“Sir Kay,” he said. “Arthur. Is this…”
“Sir Ector has died,” Sir Brastias said. “He was killed defending the new High King’s rights.”
The look of surprise returned. “New High King?”
“Yes,” Sir Bedivere said, dismounting. “He stands before you.”
“King Bedivere…”
The knight chuckled. “Not me, you idiot. It’s Arthur - King Arthur Pendragon, High King of All Britons.”
Ewain stared at him, his mouth falling open. Arthur smiled. “Hello, Ewain. How have you been?”
“I… you… Your Majesty!” He bowed deeply. “I apologize… I didn’t know…”
Arthur dismounted and put a hand on the groom’s arm. “If an old friend can’t call me by name, then who can? There’s been no harm done.” He turned and looked at the cart, then at his brother. “Ewain, please call the priest. My father is in need of a funeral mass.”
Ewain raced off to the chapel. Sir Kay dismounted and helped Lionors from her palfrey. She clasped his hand once she was safely on the ground, looking up at him with such love in her eyes that Arthur had to smile. Kay tried to smile back at her, but it was faltering at best.
She looked around. “So this is where you grew up,” she said
. “It’s lovely.”
“It’s very small,” Kay said, sounding embarrassed. “It’s nothing like Ceredigion.”
“I know. That’s part of why I like it.” She smiled at Arthur, then turned back to Kay. “I’m glad I get to see it, but I’m very sorry for the reason we’re here.”
Sir Brastias went to the cart and lowered the back gate. He took hold of the sodden shroud around Sir Ector’s body, and Arthur went to help him. Kay and Bedivere came, too, and together they gathered up the corpse. It was in terrible condition, and they all struggled with nausea as they carried Ector into the crypt. Merlin, Griflet and Lionors followed, silent.
The stone coffin holding Aelwen’s body was flanked by an empty box that had always been intended for Sir Ector. They laid him in his final bed, then stepped back. Merlin cast a spell to help dispel the stench of decay, and the mourners stood around the coffin.
Arthur felt tears prick his eyes, and he looked up from Ector’s body to try to gain control. His gaze fell upon the box with Amren’s ashes, and his heart felt like a stone. He took a deep, steadying breath in an effort to prevent himself from crying out loud. Beside him, Kay was wrestling with his grief as well, and slowly, silently, Arthur put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
The priest was brought, and the burial prayers were said. Arthur fervently prayed that his father would find his way to heaven, or to the Summerlands, and find peace and joy. He deserved no less. They put the stone lid onto the sarcophagus and left the crypt, leaving Ector to his rest.
They stayed in Caer Gai overnight. Sir Kay, who had inherited the estate from Sir Ector, insisted that Arthur, as High King, stay in the master’s chambers. Arthur did not wish to sleep in his father’s bed. He would have much preferred to sleep on the pallet in his old room, but Merlin quietly explained to him that he would have to get used to accepting the best of everything, even when he didn’t want it. He thought Kay should have had the master’s room, only realizing as he lay down to sleep that his brother probably felt as strange about sleeping there as he did.
