Return of the Grail King

by Theresa Crater

  After he played the first evening, Guinevere lingered at the table until Mordred and his men had gone out to drink and play dice in the yard under the summer stars. The servants cleared the meal. She picked up her mead and walked to the corner where Carataos sat.

  “I am grateful you are here.”

  He ducked his head slightly. “It is my honor to play for you, my lady, one from the old lands.”

  She smiled at the acknowledgment of her home island. “Have you seen Merlin about?”

  Carataos smiled, his long angular face softening. “Aye, the mage travels with Arthur.”

  “Oh, it seems he is still his favorite student,” Guinevere said.

  The harper chuckled. “So it would seem.”

  She watched as he loosened his harp strings and with a soft cloth, stroked the honey-colored wood. His movements were careful, tender, reminding her of Lancelot’s touch. Warm desire filled her. If only Arthur had not asked Mordred to come. Was it a chastisement for her inability to give him an heir? Surely his presence proved the blame did not rest with Arthur. Was he preparing him to rule next? It would be unprecedented for a Sun Child to rule the mundane world. She did not trust him. There was something devious in his nature. He nurtured some dark secret. She would not like to see Camelot pass to such a one.

  A plan hatched in her mind. Perhaps it was not too late. Births were not like clockwork.

  “If you are willing, perhaps you could lead the mid-summer ceremonies.”

  His too large lips formed a smile, then he nodded. “If m’lady so desires, it would be an honor.”

  A few days later, Guinevere saw Lancelot trot out to the north woods alone, his black stallion pulling at the reins, tossing his head, eager for a run. The preparations for mid-summer in two days were well in hand. Mordred and his men had ridden out to the southern meadow to joust. Guinevere told Hester her mare needed exercise and slipped away to the stable.

  Once out of sight of the settlement, she let her mare stretch out along a path that ran through an open meadow. Ducking close to her horse’s neck, she let her run like a cloud scudding before a swift wind. The mare reached the top of the meadow and continued into the woods, the path broad here beneath the hawthorn and oak branches stretching above, forming a wide tunnel. Her mare slowed and she settled into an easy canter, then a trot. The horse’s sides heaved, so Guinevere slowed her into a walk and let out the reins to allow her stretch her neck and cool off. They walked out from the woods to a higher meadow and there at the end, against an ancient stone wall, she saw the black stallion freed of his bridle, grazing.

  Lancelot leaned against the wall, hand hovering near his sword. He must have heard her horse’s hoofbeats. When he saw her, he leaned back, arms at his sides, a wide smile on his face, and let her come to him.

  And go to him she did. She slid off her mare and took off her bridle, letting her out to graze. The black stallion turned his head and snuffled a welcome, and she joined him standing close enough to take advantage of his long tail chasing away the flies from her face. She paid him the same favor.

  Suddenly shy, Guinevere laid the bridle next to Lancelot’s tack, smoothed her skirts, and only then did she look up at him.

  “My love,” he said, his voice urgent and husky. He took two long strides and grabbed her up in his arms. He pressed his face into her neck, kissing the hollow at the bottom of her neck, then let her slide down his body until her face hovered near his. “I think we have waited long enough.”

  A small whimper escaped Guinevere in answer, and he claimed her mouth, letting her slide further down and find her feet again, but she leaned into him. His arms encompassed her, strong, safe, right. She surrendered to his probing tongue, letting him hold her up.

  Lancelot grunted, a hart relieved the season has finally arrived, and picked her up, carrying her to a blanket he must have spread earlier. Had he known she’d come, she wondered? He laid her down, gentle now, pushing her hair away from her face, kissing her forehead, her temples, stroking her cheek. “You are the most beautiful woman—”

  Guinevere stilled his words with her own mouth, amazed at her brazenness. Their kiss deepened and his hands strayed to her breasts. She thanked the goddess that Hester had been too busy to dress her this morning. Her bodice opened easily and Lancelot bent to pay them homage.

  Lost in his touch, in the tug of his mouth, the playfulness of his tongue, Guinevere laid back and gave herself up to Lancelot’s explorations. He reached down and pulled her skirts free from their entangled limbs, then raised them. But he did not do as Arthur would have. He bent between her legs and paid tribute there, surprising her enough that she raised up on her elbows, but his skill made her gasp and she laid back, enjoying the arts of the French.

  She melted, her heart opening as her body did. The tension mounted, and she spasmed beneath him. He waited for her to settle again, then with maddening slow deliberation, took himself in hand and pressed against her small mound, until the heat built again and she thrust her hips up, trying to capture him. But he chuckled and eluded her. She groaned her frustration, but at last he moved into her, only slowly at first, enjoying his teasing, until at last it seemed he could hold back no longer, and he thrust all the way. She climaxed once again, but this time he did not pause, but continued to move, slowly at first, then building to a gallop and they burst into ecstasy together.

  They laid back gasping. Guinevere felt as if she had been a virgin until this moment, even though she’d been a married woman for several years. They curled up together, watching the sky, listening to the birds and the horses munching nearby. Neither spoke. What was there to say? She was married to the High King of England, he an ambassador from another king wishing to confirm their alliance. But they had today. And perhaps a few more if Mordred’s report was true.

  After a while, Lancelot turned to her and began all over again. He had amazing stamina. They dallied there, enjoying their love play uninterrupted. But then Guinevere realized the shadows had lengthened, and the sun had moved into the western sky.

  She sat up, groping for her clothes. “Lancelot, we must get back. I’ll be missed.”

  Looking down at him, his face changed suddenly—his eyes warm and dark, his nose curving down to a full mouth and square jaw. He pointed to a pendant laid out on a counter with other jewelry. He seemed to be asking her to pick one.

  She seemed to be in an odd jewelry shop.

  She blinked and Lancelot’s face swam back into focus.

  “. . . I’ll take that path and it will bring me back from a different direction. Does that sound like a plan?”

  “What?”

  Lancelot gave her a questioning look. “Ride back the way you came. I’ll take the long way round. That way we won’t arrive at the same time or from the same direction.”

  “That’s a good plan, Michael.”

  Lancelot took hold of her forearms and looked into her face carefully. “And who is this Michael? I thought I only had a marriage of duty as a rival.”

  Guinevere blinked, then shook her head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  He smiled. “Then I have made you take leave of your senses with my attentions?”

  She kissed him lightly. “Yes, my love, you most certainly have.”

  He laughed and helped her capture the mare, slip on the bridle, then lifted her into the saddle. “You have made my heart sing, my lady Guinevere.”

  “Gwen,” she said. “Arthur calls me Gwen.”

  “Then I shall call you Guinevere. Now, ride.”

  As the story of Isis unfolded, Elizabeth grew restless again. Something seemed off. She had hoped by reenacting this ritual, retelling this myth, that she would gain insight into their present situation, or perhaps the knowledge to loosen Mordred’s grip on Anne and the baby. She knew Egypt had succeeded in bringing the enlightened one to birth through this very story. Isis had conceived Horus and given birth to him, then Horus triumphed over Set. She knew Camelot had failed to d
o the same for England in their time. While Nephthys’ mating with Osiris had produced the great Anubis, Guinevere had failed to produce a child, either with Arthur or Lancelot. That story still hung in the balance, waiting for an ending.

  Arthur was the once and future king. The legend that he would return and bring his golden age of Camelot to fruition still haunted the Western imagination. Would reenacting this successful story help to break Mordred’s hold? How? Would it somehow move this story forward? But nothing new was coming to her, and she felt as if she was just going through the motions by rote.

  Abernathy took up the tale again. “Isis bowed before the queen, took the baby, and at night gave him her finger to suckle. He soon flourished, but as he did, a desire grew in her heart. Isis yearned for her own off-spring, an immortal child fathered by the Great Osiris, whose body stood enclosed by the tamarisk pillar in this very palace. So, she decided to turn little Dictys into a God. Every night, Isis would place the child in the fire.”

  As Abernathy narrated, Elizabeth mimed the actions. She approached the central crystal, pretending it was the fire, and held her hands above it.

  “Isis assumed her form as a swallow and the fire burned away the mortal parts of Dictys as she flew around.”

  Yes, put me in the fire. Make me immortal. Mordred’s voice rose from the crystal.

  Alycia had already stepped out to play the part of the terrified queen, but stumbled to a stop when she heard the voice.

  It startled Abernathy into silence.

  “You seem quite immortal to me,” Elizabeth snapped.

  Shaken by Mordred’s interruption, Elizabeth took a moment to center herself, then nodded for Alycia to continue the ritual.

  “You are trying to kill my child. Guards.” Alycia cried out.

  Abernathy stepped forward. “Startled by Queen Astarte’s interruption, Isis assumed her goddess form and stood, a beacon of light crowned with the throne. As this happened, the guards rushed in, surrounding King Malcander. Amazed by the presence of this goddess, they all bowed.”

  Elizabeth said, “I am Isis, Queen of Heaven, Mistress of the House of Wisdom, the Neter of Magic and Science.”

  The whole lodge bowed to Isis, and Elizabeth felt herself being subsumed by Her presence.

  “Queen Isis, you have honored us with your presence. You have healed our son. What gift may we give you?” David in King Malcander’s role asked.

  Abernathy answered, and the lodge enacted the story that he told. “Isis asked for only one thing—the tamarisk pillar that only she knew held the body of her beloved Osiris. King Malcander granted her a ship to carry it back to Egypt, and she set off, calming the waters, until she reached the delta of the Nile. Hapi welcomed them both. Isis hid the boat near a floating island and laid the chest out. She opened it to gaze at her beloved, then closed it and finally rested.

  “But Seth went out to hunt that night and from a distance spied the chest of cedar inlaid with ebony and ivory, gold and silver. He knew Isis had found the body of Osiris, and since a Neter can never truly die, knew she would soon call upon her magic to resurrect him. He flew into a fury and, lifting the body of Osiris from the coffin, tore it into pieces. Some say fourteen, some forty-two. He scattered these pieces up and down the length of the sacred Nile for the crocodiles to eat.”

  For a moment, Elizabeth was one with Isis as she learned of Set’s treachery. Isis felt weightless for a moment, suspended in air. Her mouth gaped, a fish stranded in the sand desperate to breathe. She shook her head, her arms stretched out in front of her as if to push the knowledge away.

  “No, it can’t be,” Elizabeth choked out, and she and the Goddess Isis fell to the lodge floor and wept. They wept for the loss of Osiris, the beloved. For the loss of so many in her family, her brother George, her fae-touched sister Cynthia, and grandson Thomas. They wept for the state of the world, yearning for the return of the light.

  Abernathy moved forward and put his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. When he felt her sobs lessen, he spoke. “Now Nephthys, the sister of Isis, could no longer bear the cruelty of Set, so she took Anubis and joined her sister on the banks of the Nile. ‘We shall search for him,’ Isis declared, and took a boat of papyrus to travel the Nile and find the pieces of Osiris. She would put them back together and blow the Breath of Life through his lips.

  “Anubis assumed his jackal form and hunted the banks for his father, to bring him back a second time.”

  A chill ran through Elizabeth, shaking her body physically, as she recognized the link between the two stories, but before she could say anything, Abernathy’s recitation went on smoothly like a gentle breeze over her head.

  “Piece by piece, Isis reassembled the body of Osiris, and in each place that she found a part, she had the priests build a shrine and conduct his funeral rites to fool Set into believing the body of Osiris was buried in that place. But in secret, Isis laid out the pieces of her beloved in a sacred sanctuary until she had rejoined them all. All but one piece. The member she would need to mate with him and engender within her womb the Golden Child, the Sun Child, the Falcon God.”

  Tears of joy gathered in Elizabeth’s eyes as she felt the energies of the two stories coming together to heal what had been rent in the past. Oblivious of her realization, the lodge continued the ritual, and she rode the wave.

  “So Isis shaped a phallus from pure energy, some say of gold, and in the shape of a swallow, she hovered over the body and became pregnant with the Divine Son. After Isis had accomplished all this, she had her priests perform the funeral rites and the spirit of Osiris passed into the Halls of Amenti where he rules to this day. But when the Nile floods, he returns to spread his green over the fields, and when the harvest is ready, he is cut down once more and he returns to rule the Land of the Dead.”

  Chapter 18

  Elizabeth rose from the center of the temple, her heart singing, and returned to a seat beside Anne. Anubis smiled at her, but Mordred still glowered, restless, not understanding the shift in tides that was loosening his grip on Anne and the child. Anne murmured something, but Elizabeth didn’t catch what she said.

  Abernathy continued the story. “When Horus grew into a young man, he gathered an army and went in search of Set in the southern deserts of Egypt. Ra brought his chariot of solar light down to help Horus, but Set took the form of a boar, black as a thunder-cloud, fierce to look at, with tusks to strike terror into the bravest heart. Not knowing the boar was Set, Horus gazed on it in wonder, and Set sent a blast of fire into the face of Horus, harming the clear vision of the Falcon King.”

  Elizabeth suddenly saw Michael on the inner planes. “Arthur has slain the black boar already,” he said to her, and he showed her his vision of being in the forest and the young Arthur riding by.

  “Ra shielded Horus from the light in a dark cave until he regained his vision,” Abernathy said.

  She has captured him, Mordred shouted in their minds, and he gave a trill of victory echoed by many voices of an army they could not see.

  Dr. Abernathy stumbled in his oration.

  Chilled by the cacophony, Elizabeth looked into the crystal ball and was suddenly blinded by crystal walls. Then Mordred swam into view, a triumphant leer on his face.

  Behind him, she saw something move, a figure caught up in what looked like mirrors. As she focused, the scene cleared. Merlin stood surrounded by a cave of crystal. He beat his fists against the sides of the huge faceted stones.

  Then the scene morphed. The crystal gave way to a room in a modern building, Merlin’s magical robes to a suit coat and vest. And finally, the face. His long, gray beard disappeared, revealing beneath pajamas of all things. The gray mane hanging over his shoulders shortened into well maintained silver haircut. The man crept around the room, poking and prodding the walls, trying the windows, looking for anything to use to escape. Then, he stiffened as if suddenly knowing he was being watched. He turned and stared straight into Elizabeth’s eyes. The eyes were the same—pierc
ing, timeless, full of sad wisdom.

  With a start, she recognized Valentin Knight.

  Where are you? she sent.

  Lady of Avalon, is that you? I need your help.

  He is still caught up in the legend, Elizabeth realized.

  Anubis moved into view and addressed Knight. Grand Mage Merlin, mentor of the Once and Future King. Help your lady complete the ritual and you will be free of this witch forever.

  Guinevere made it home from her morning with Lancelot and fobbed off inquires by claiming she’d fallen asleep in a meadow. “The summer days are so beautiful. I dozed in the sun.”

  Hester accepted her story, but Leigh studied her more carefully. Guinevere ran into the kitchen to escape her, then up to her room, where she stretched out on the bed, remembering her morning with Lancelot, retracing every touch, every kiss, as if it had been her first time. And indeed, it had felt like it. With Lancelot, her body and heart sang as one. She knew this was true love. Perhaps this was why her womb had not quickened. Because her heart had remained lukewarm. She loved Arthur, but more as a companion, a friend. With Lancelot, she felt as if she were on fire.

  That evening went smoothly, she thought. She kept her mind and eyes off Lancelot until he called for the harper to play a love ballad. The first song praised the beauty of a man’s intended, and the company sang along at the chorus. The second told the tale of star-crossed lovers, the lady betrothed to a lord to seal alliances but whose heart belonged to a gallant knight. Carataos’ face might be marred, but his voice was as beautiful as a lark welcoming in the sun on the first spring morning free from frost. Light and sweet as the lilac bush when singing of beauty, but in a sad song, haunting as the moon just glimpsed behind heavy clouds or a shadow barely seen, flitting between trees, ghostly and ominous.