by Ines Johnson
Until her mother shrieked in horror and sent him away.
As a child, Gwin had let the fireflies go without much argument. She knew she could only hold them captive for a day before they’d die. Her time with Lance was always stolen moments before she had to release him back into the world.
She was tired of letting him slip away from her. She wanted to hold him captive forever. She wanted to argue for him to stay. She wanted to wrap her legs around him like she'd seen a woman do in the movies. But that would never work. Gwin never wore pants. She'd have to lift her skirts to perform such a feat.
She shook the damnable thought from her head. She could never do such a thing. She was bound to another. She had made her choice. And she had to live with it. Trapped in a jar of her own making, even as it crushed the light from her soul and the soul of the man she loved.
Back when she was a child, she’d seen a man crush the bugs in their hands. All to see their hands glow with stolen light. That had been Merlin.
It should’ve been a foreshadow of events to come.
“You are a married woman.” Her mother hissed once Lance turned the corner and melted into others from the community. “You should be with your husband.”
“You mean the murderous wizard who killed witches and nearly murdered your youngest daughter?”
This wasn’t the first time Merlin had been at death’s door. He’d gone missing two decades ago. Everyone had thought him dead. But when witches across the ley line grid that spanned the earth began turning up with their magic drained, Gwin immediately suspected her dearly departed husband hadn’t entirely departed the living world.
Siphoning magic was a trick he'd learned from her. She would take the crippling power that wracked his body and replace it with her gentle, healing magic. Merlin wasn't so gentle when he practiced the maneuver on others. He took everything, crushing the witches' spirits until his hands glowed with their stolen essence.
He was even at fault for taking Morgan’s magic. But Gwin’s baby sister was a force to be reckoned with. After he'd knocked her down, Morgan had managed to get back on her feet with her power in tow.
Yet, Merlin still had Gwin under his thumb. Even now she could feel his greedy hands reaching out, trying to wrap around her person and crush her light.
No. Wait. That was her mother.
Gwin inhaled under the weight of her mother’s glare. She lifted her chin, but the weight of the world was on her shoulders, leaving her feeling lightheaded.
“You were called to a higher purpose.” Her mother began the speech that always turned Gwin's mind. Gwin often wondered if it were a spell. "With your gifts, it is your responsibility to do your duty. These people need your guidance."
“Morgan is marrying Arthur, the heir. She will take over as Lady of the Castle. It’s her they should look to.”
“Your sister doesn’t have your skill, your strength. She knows it, as does everyone in this town.”
“Morgan is stronger than you think.”
“She’s in love,” her mother scoffed. “Love of a man isn’t higher than love of duty.”
Gwin looked away. The words were working.
“Your husband needs you. What will you do when he dies? Who will you be?”
That was the point. Gwin could be anything she wanted when Merlin died. Maybe she could even finally kiss the ginger knight she had dreamed of every night for over a hundred years.
“You gave Camelot no child.”
That was a sore spot. Weight crashed down on Gwin in shame. The shame was heavy.
“Perhaps it’s not too late,” said her mother. “Your husband still has life in his blood and seed in his loins.”
Gwin reared back. Gwynfhar and her daughters didn’t have a close mother-daughter relationship. Gwin knew her mother was an opportunist and a social climber. But she never dreamed she’d steer her daughter in such a direction.
“You go too far.” Gwin jerked away from her mother and stormed down the hall. Unfortunately, the direction she was headed was just as distasteful. She was headed to the infirmary to check on her villainous husband.
5
Lance balled and unballed his fists. After all these years, Lady Gwynfhar still got to him. It was likely because she had the face of the woman he loved stretched across her disapproving features.
The thought of Gwin’s rejection was his worst nightmare. So whenever he encountered his true love’s mother and her pinched face, his every doubt, his every misgiving, his every shame rose to the surface. It was cruel.
He didn’t expect Gwin to stand up for him in the face of her mother. There wasn’t much she could say if she did. Lance’s own mother had been a fallen woman. She’d fallen in love. She hadn’t known it was with someone else’s husband. When she found out, her heart fell in its cage. It broke and never got up again.
But she never fell into a life where she sold her body. She worked in factories, anything to keep a roof over her boy’s head and food in his belly. Her life was hard and came to an abrupt ending. As she lay dying, she told Lance the truth of his heritage.
Lance made his way from the remote Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland, where his father thought no one would know about his bastard, to Wales where the magical town of Camelot rested. He found his father sitting in the lap of luxury on a high seat of nobility. The welcome was anything but welcoming. But Lance’s parentage was undeniable.
His father wanted no part of him. Neither did his stepmother. Only the sword, the knights, and Gwin had.
The townsfolk weren’t sure how to treat the illegitimate son of a revered knight. There were those that shrugged off his father’s transgressions. There were others who were scandalized. They looked upon Lance as though his conception and existence were his faults.
It had never mattered to Gwin. She didn’t see the bad in anybody. Including her mother and her husband. Add that to the thousands of reasons Lance loved her.
Gwin had never once said a harsh word to him. Or looked at him as though he didn’t belong. She’d raised a hand to him once—the day they formally met. But that had been his fault. It was also a memory he cherished.
And with that memory, he was smiling again. His consciousness of Gwynfhar’s frown was a distant thought as he turned down a deserted hall. He looked up to find he wasn’t alone.
“Good eve, good sir.”
Lance tried not to outwardly sigh at Lady Minerva’s sudden appearance. She was a woman in the prime of life and still lovely. Her husband, on the other hand, was wheelchair-bound after valiantly defending Camelot for decades. For his troubles, he was saddled with her.
“I’m so glad you’re here, good sir.” Lady Minerva’s breaths came in little pants. “I’m having trouble with my corset.”
She tugged, but her fingers couldn’t reach the silky ribbon of the stays at her back. She looked distressed, but Lance didn’t budge.
“What appears to be the problem, my lady?”
“The problem is the corset is still on.” Her stiff fingers became nimble, and she grasped the length of ribbon. Her stays unraveled, her corset loosened, her bosom spilled out and she launched herself into his chest.
Lance deftly moved aside, making room for her to fling herself into the wall behind him. But, because he wasn’t a bastard, he reached out and steadied her before she crashed and fell on her ass.
“I’m sure you’ll find a lady nearby to help you,” said Lance. “Or you can go and seek out the assistance of your husband.”
With that, Lance gave the curtest of bows and turned on his heel. Because manners precluded him from turning his back on a lady, he held there as she continued her unwanted seduction.
“Why must you continue to play these games, Lancelot? You’ve been stuck in town for far too long with nothing but untouchable witches and no human women to dally with and assuage your baser urges. You must be starved for attention.”
Lance had no base urges. He’d spent his entire life fighting for respectabil
ity and protecting his honor. Yet every so often, more often than not, a bored lady or a randy widow would approach him in an effort to debase him. As though his valor, all the glory he’d won for this town, mattered less than the itch in their corsets.
“I can ease your troubles. No one needs to know.”
So that he could be another high-born’s dirty little secret, just like his father had done to his mother. The hair at the nape of Lance’s neck stiffened.
“I’m trouble free, thank you, my lady.” Lance turned on his heel giving Lady Minerva his back. There was no courteous bow this time.
“I know you poked Lady Prudence with your broadsword last year.”
Lady Prudence was another bored, old witch who liked to accost Lance in the halls of Camelot. She’d even made her way into his bedroom once. That’s when he, the most valiant knight at the Round Table, in the safest place in the whole world, began locking and barring his door at night.
Lady Minerva wasn’t done. She rounded him, her hand on her bodice to keep from spilling any further. “I ruined my life when I chose him. If only you had come along earlier. We could’ve been together. We could be together now. My husband is dying. I want to be with you; a strong, virile, young man before my life is over. I don’t want to wait any longer for my life to begin.”
Lance couldn’t hide the disgust from his face any longer. He made a choking sound. Lady Minerva’s features turned from pleading to pissed.
“You think you’re high and mighty because you’re a knight. But we all know the truth. Beneath your virtuous and chivalrous facade, you're still the son of a whore."
Lance fought to keep his feet moving. There were people rounding the corner. If she continued her foul diatribe, they all would hear. So, he tried to let it go. And failed.
Attacks on his honor were one thing, he was used to it. But attacks on his mother he did not countenance. He turned and stormed up to Lady Minerva.
She backtracked, her back slamming into the wall in her haste. But she did it with a smile on her face. He’d heard that she liked it rough. So rough she’d get.
“Trouble with your corset, you said?” He reached out. He gripped the bottom of her stays and pulled.
“Yes, my lord.” She breathed, eyes closed in ecstasy. She reached up to wrap her hands around his neck. But he ducked away from her snare.
“I’ll take these to Igraine for you.”
Lady Minerva’s eyes slammed open. Igraine was an empath. She could see the past and future by simply touching a person’s belongings.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.
“I consider it my duty and my honor.”
Lance turned and stormed away, tossing the ribbon aside as he did. Lady Minerva didn’t follow. Her clothing was coming apart. But that was her problem.
He made his way down to the dungeons, still irate from his encounter with Lady Gwynfhar and now Lady Minerva. No matter his great deeds, nor his careful protection of his reputation, he still couldn’t escape the mark drawn on him by his father’s misdeeds.
He descended down into the bowels of the castle. Warmth did not reach this deep. Cold seeped from the stones into his boots.
Entering the dungeons, Lance found Percy and Arthur already in progress of the interrogation of Simon Accolon, Malegant’s son. The man of science was barefoot. His once crisp, white, collared shirt was now dingy and sweat dampened. His air of academic superiority was replaced with a caged desperation as he stood behind bars.
“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” came Accolon’s voice. “My father was crazy. My mother didn’t allow too many visitations with him when I was growing up. He was always going on about Friday the 13th. When I was a kid, I thought he was talking about the movie. I didn’t understand the significance of that day and the Templars.”
A kid growing up in the modern human world would naturally assume the reference was made to the movie. Few understood the true significance of that date in history and the Templars.
The history of The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon began in France centuries ago. Their original mission had been to grant safe passage to witches and wizards back to the Holy Lands from which their ancestors came. For two hundred years they carried out this mission, later including the devout in their safe passage. But as the Templars’ ranks grew, so did the jealousy of the crown and the church.
It all came to a head in France when King Phillip and Pope Clement conspired to rid themselves of the Templars and relieve the order of the riches they’d amassed. In a coordinated effort, they gathered up thousands of knights on a single day. Many were arrested and jailed, even more died. This all happened on Friday the 13th, 1306.
The day the order, as the world knew it, died. What rose from the ashes was the antithesis of what the original Templars had been. Now under the control of the crown and the cross, they hunted down anything magical and destroyed it.
“You know, it’s kind of stuffy down here.” Accolon tugged at his drooping collar. “My allergies have been acting up. Do you think I could get out for some fresh air?”
The knights all glared at the man, especially Arthur. Apparently, Accolon didn't understand that the only thing keeping him alive was the bars that separated him from Arthur. That, and any knowledge he could give them about his father's whereabouts and plan.
“My father would go on and on about the lost army of the Templars,” said Accolon.
“They’re not lost,” said Percy. “They’re dead.”
Accolon shrugged. “After what I’ve seen this past year, I’m not so sure anymore.”
Humans’ eyes had been opened to flying dragons, angels coming up from the core of the earth, and God delivering a sermon from the sky. Most chose to believe what the government said, that it was all a hoax. But there were a few believers of the truth; God and Her angels, the Elohim, lived in the core of the Earth with many extinct animals. The core was only one of the many realms on this planet that humans knew nothing about.
Accolon let out a fit of coughing before he continued. “My father said there was a sleeping army of the devout. He seemed to believe they were under a spell.”
“An army of the devout?” asked Lance.
“Thousands of Templars died during the Friday Massacre,” said Accolon. “But not all the bodies were found. Hundreds were unaccounted for.”
“Malegant thinks they’re sleeping somewhere?” said Arthur. “For hundreds of years.”
“You’re looking pretty good for two centuries.”
Arthur growled low in his throat.
Accolon backed up, hands raised. “That was a c-c-” He sneezed and began another coughing fit.
“That’s all I know,” said Accolon after the fit of coughing. He really wasn’t looking so good. “He believed magic would break the curse of their sleep.”
“Magic can’t bring people back from the dead,” said Lance.
Though as he said it he looked at Arthur. Accolon had shot Arthur straight in the heart with a gun. Morgan had used magic to bring Arthur back. But Lance was sure that incident didn’t count because Arthur hadn’t truly died. He’d just been wounded. Mortally. Or near mortally.
“This is a dead end,” said Arthur. He looked at Accolon in disgust as the man continued his coughing fit.
“What about the note about Champagne and Hugo de Payens?” Lance asked Percy.
“De Payens betrayed Camelot,” said Percy.
“But he also began the Templars,” said Arthur. “And most of our records of the original Templar Order are still at the manse in Champagne. I should probably go check the libraries there, to see if there’s any lead to what Malegant may be looking for.”
The younger Malegant was coughing so rapidly, he was turning blue in the face. The knights leaned against the bars, watching the color change. Lance believed they dusted down here at least once a decade or so.
“You can’t leave now,” said Lance. “You’re in the midst
of wedding planning.”
Arthur nodded his head as though to indicate that’s why it was the perfect time to leave.
“Well, I can’t miss another day,” said Percy. “With Geraint and Gawain still away, I’m in charge of squire training.”
“I’ll go,” said Lance. “It’s just a recon mission. I can do it alone.”
Accolon had collapsed in a heap on the stone floor. No one moved as they looked down at the man. His chest still rose, but at least he’d stopped coughing and hacking. Lance knew Arthur wouldn’t offer. He doubted Percy even thought about it.
“Fine,” said Lance. “I’ll take him up to the infirmary.”
6
The farther Gwin got from the Throne Room and her mother, the freer she felt. All her life she’d done what her mother had asked of her, tried to live up to the image her mother saw of her. If she were honest, it left her nothing but misery.
She pulled on a fake smile every day of her life. She pulled it on to be accepted by those in the town. She pulled it on to be welcoming to those visiting. She plastered it on to marry a man she did not love.
Every day her face strained from holding up the smile of complacency. And now she was tired.
She’d thought her life would be in service as Lady of the Castle. But, now that her husband was dying, and her sister was marrying the remaining Pendragon heir, and her services were no longer needed, Gwin’s veneer began to crack.
It didn’t matter what Morgan said about not wanting the role of Lady of the Castle. With no husband and no heir, the title wasn’t rightfully Gwin’s any longer. In truth, it had never truly been hers.
But she’d done her duty as best she could. Now she would be relieved. And relief assailed her.
For the first time, she wondered what it would be like if she had chosen a different life. What would it be like if she didn't tend to the needs of others? What if she only thought of herself?
