by T J Mayhew
“Magic,” she spat vehemently. “This world would be far better off without it, if you ask me.” Her words echoed in his head as he remembered a similar comment Lancelot had once made.
Cai shrugged. “I don’t know,” he mused. “From what I can tell, the problem isn’t magic itself, it’s the people using it; magic can be… useful,” he said, recalling the many times Merlin had used it to show him scenes from his past. Then he remembered Morgan and frowned. “But magic in the wrong hands can be…”
“Terrible,” Aelwen finished for him.
“Exactly.”
Aelwen glanced at him uncertainly, hesitant to ask her next question.
Cai faced her. “Go on; you can ask me anything,” he encouraged.
Aelwen allowed herself a brief smile before asking, “So… where did you go?”
Cai sighed and rubbed his forehead. How was he going to explain this? “I suppose the best way of describing it is… another world; the future…” He glanced at Aelwen, aware of just how insane this must have sounded to her. Seeing her confusion, he quickly added, “There’s no easy way to explain it; I don’t even understand it myself, not really. All I know is, I’m back now, where I belong.”
“But… I don’t understand…” Aelwen said as if she hadn’t heard him. She shifted and began to back away.
Grasping her arm, Cai suddenly realised how important it was to him that she didn’t turn her back on him. “Please don’t leave,” he begged. “I know this all sounds… strange to you, but it’s the truth. What happened to me was…”
Aelwen looked at him as though he had lost his mind. “I’m not leaving,” she said.
“You’re not?” Cai asked in disbelief.
Aelwen shook her head. “No; whatever happened to you was the result of magic and, while I cannot understand, or explain it, I can only imagine how difficult this must have been for you.” She paused. “I have seen the results of magic myself; I have seen the damage it can do. It is not to be understood by the likes of us.”
Cai smiled, partly in relief and partly in recognition of the truth she spoke. “No… I suppose not,” he murmured, thoughtfully.
Aelwen studied him for a moment. “When you came back…”
“I learnt of my father’s death,” Cai confirmed quietly. “And of the war Mordred and Morgan had started.”
“Cai…” Her voice was gentle, her touch even more so, as she took his hand in hers.
Cai brought his gaze up to look at her and, in that moment, he knew they had reached an understanding; they had both lost parents but they were still standing, prepared to fight, no matter what.
As if suddenly aware of what she had done, Aelwen dropped his hand and turned away, unable to meet his gaze. “I should… return to Camelot…” she said hurriedly. “Father will be worried.”
As she started back down the path, Cai fell into step beside her, half expecting her to shun him. When she didn’t, he felt encouraged to say what had been on his mind ever since meeting her. “I’d like us to be friends,” he said, cringing inwardly at how pathetic and desperate he sounded; he was only glad that Logan wasn’t there to witness this.
Aelwen nodded offering up a small smile. “Very well,” she said simply.
If Cai had been expecting her to say more, he was sorely disappointed as they returned to Camelot in silence. For Cai’s part, he was glad he had seen a softer side to Aelwen, a side that showed she was more than just the angry, bitter girl he had met in the forest.
15
Cadeyrn felt the fire in his blood rush through his veins; his heart beat in time to his horse’s thunderous hooves. As the cold morning air buffeted him, his eyes filling with tears, reducing his, already poor, visibility. The sun would not rise for a few hours yet but he knew this road well.
He had stopped briefly a few hours ago in order to rest his horse and regain his strength. His muscles were tense and his back ached from riding so hard, for so long, but he continued to forge ahead, ignoring his own pain, never stopping for more than a few moments at a time. Any discomfort he felt was a small price to pay, given the dire situation they found themselves in.
His master had trusted him to carry this message to Camelot and he was damned if he was going to stop now; Camelot was a mere half day’s ride away and, if his luck held, he’d make it in less than that. He spurred his horse on, praying for him to pick up speed but knowing that the beast was at his limit.
Clenching his jaw in determination, Cadeyrn relished the speed at which he rode and the adrenaline coursing through him; just a little further and then…
Suddenly, he was knocked from his horse as something hard and unyielding assaulted his left side, knocking him from his saddle. A searing pain lanced through his side and he let out a strangled cry but not before his right wrist, which was still tangled in the reins, gave out a sickening crack. Tears burned his eyes as pain enveloped him and he hit the ground hard; the world around him spun as his horse continued galloping along the road. He cried out, begging the horse to stop but to no avail.
Focusing his mind on the hand still clutching the reins, he released his hold of the leather strap, letting his hand slip from the reins. Now free, he lay on the road for a moment, too stunned to move.
And then everything hit him at once: he had been attacked; by what or by whom he didn’t know. Desperately searching the darkness, he saw nothing; his senses alive, he strained his ears, listening for anything out of the ordinary but all he could hear was his own shallow breathing, loud in his own ears. He reached for his sword but cried out as a wall of pain and a wave of nausea hit him; his wrist was no longer strong enough to hold his weapon.
Cradling his injured wrist against his body, he struggled into a sitting position suddenly aware of a coldness seeping into his bones: shock. Fighting against this unwelcome reaction, his attention was drawn to the road ahead of him as he saw movement in the shadows; he could only stare as a woman materialised out of nowhere.
“Well, what have we here?” she asked, her voice turning Cadeyrn’s blood to ice.
“Who… who are you?” he demanded, trying, but failing miserably, to sound in control. The truth was, this woman terrified him but he had no idea why.
The woman narrowed her eyes as she stepped closer, studying him. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sound of thundering hooves. Cadeyrn looked up to see his horse returning but he was not alone: a man, clad head to toe in black armour, wearing a helmet with only slits for eyes, sat astride his steed, a sword by his side. He rode with an arrogance not seen in most warriors and he knew, without question, he was better than those around him. Cadeyrn felt himself bristle at the thought.
The man reined the horse in and dropped to the ground before the horse had even come to a stop. Reins in hand, he walked over to the woman and the two stood over Cadeyrn.
He held their gazes, determined not to look away; he was a soldier and would be to the end. But, despite his façade, he knew the truth: in the face of these strangers, he knew he was nothing… he was weak. “What do you want with me?” He heard the fear in his own voice and knew his attackers had heard it too.
The man knelt beside him. “We would like you to pass on a message,” he said quietly.
Cadeyrn stared at him; he could barely make out the man’s dark eyes as they bored into him. “A message?” he repeated, hesitantly.
“We know of your mission,” the woman said, stepping forward beside the armoured man. “We know you ride to Camelot…”
At the mention of Camelot, Cadeyrn recalled the mission he had been charged with; remembering the importance of it, he felt some of his old self return. Looking between them, his jaw set in defiance, he shook his head. “No; I shall not do your bidding…”
Instantly pain exploded inside his head; it took but a moment for him to realise he had been struck by the full force of the man’s hand his gauntlet splitting open his cheek. As the warmth of his blood poured down his face and neck, the world b
egan to spin once more. He slumped to the ground, the iron tang of blood in his mouth; he began to feel the left side of his face swell as he fought the urge to close his eyes…
Almost immediately, he was yanked upright again, crying out as a sharp pain pierced his left side. Raising his head, he found himself face to face with the man’s helmet. Focusing on his eyes, Cadeyrn waited as he tried, desperately, to make the world stop spinning.
“You will do as we ask!” the man hissed. “One way or another…”
Cadeyrn glared at him for a moment before spitting in his attacker’s face. Despite the helmet he wore, the man recoiled, dropping Cadeyrn to the ground once more.
“You will regret that,” the man growled.
Cadeyrn smiled knowingly to himself. He was getting to the man, making him lose his temper; that’s when he was likely to make mistakes. Cadeyrn’s attention was soon drawn to the woman as she took a step closer, flexing her hands, as if readying herself.
“So…” she began quietly, as if trying to understand a particularly complex problem. “You refuse our request. Do I understand that correctly?” Cadeyrn said nothing but continued to stare at her, hoping, if nothing else, to unnerve her in some way. The woman smiled thinly. “Very well… if that’s your choice…”
Cadeyrn watched helplessly as she raised her hands; the darkness was suddenly bathed in an intense white light that seemed to flow from her hands, giving her features a ghostly, haunted look. In that one moment, he was far more terrified than he had even been in his life. Then, all became clear; he was in the presence of the very people he had been sent to warn Camelot about: Morgan le Fay and, her son, Mordred.
He tried to move but suddenly found he was immobile, held in place by an invisible force weighing him down, making escape impossible; he was trapped and at her mercy.
Pain ripped through him, relentless and unforgiving; he tried, in vain, to curl up but was forced to endure her torture. He sensed her enjoyment as he was bombarded by wave after wave of such intense pain that he thought he would go mad. He cried out until his throat was raw and, then, when he didn’t think he could take anymore… it stopped. The light faded and the three of them were once again shrouded in darkness.
Aware of nothing else but the sweat coating his body and his harsh breathing, Cadeyrn lay on the ground, too afraid to move.
Frustrated, the armoured man gripped his jaw and demanded, “Open your eyes.” His voice was cold and hard, his grip unforgiving, forcing Cadeyrn to obey.
“Why… are you…?” Cadeyrn started to ask, his voice weak. He coughed and spat blood.
“Because I am the rightful heir of Camelot,” the man declared.
Cadeyrn forced himself to hold Mordred’s gaze as he spoke. “Cai…” He coughed again, tasting more blood, but forced himself to continue. “…Pendragon… is the rightful…”
He was cut off mid-sentence as Mordred backhanded him again; Cadeyrn clenched his teeth, determined not to give either of them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Not now, he told himself.
“Never speak to me of that boy!” Mordred growled.
Cadeyrn stared back at him, daring him to finish what he had started.
After a moment, Morgan spoke. “Come, my son. He is not long for this world; leave him here to die alone.” She glanced at Cadeyrn and smiled before turning her back on him.
Mordred glared at Cadeyrn. “Soon I shall rule Camelot and you will have died knowing you could do nothing to stop me.”
As Cadeyrn watched Mordred join his mother, a loud crack filled the air and, suddenly, he was alone once more. He lay on the ground, allowing the darkness and silence to wash over him. Oblivious to all, he closed his eyes.
He is not long for this world…
Morgan le Fay’s words haunted him; he was dying. He slowly opened his eyes and began to assess his injuries; aside from the broken wrist, which hung limply at his side, he realised the left side of his tunic was soaked in blood. He moved, wincing as pain shot through him; lifting his shirt, he found a deep gash in his left side.
As far as he could see, he had two choices: to lay here and die a coward’s death or, with whatever time and strength he had left, he could ride on to Camelot to warn them of what horrors lay in store.
Faced with such a stark choice, he knew which one he had to choose.
16
The next few days passed in a hive of activity for Cai and he couldn’t help feeling he was being pulled from pillar to post as, in addition to his training, he now had to listen to endless advice about the forthcoming feast and his part in it. Merlin had lectured him for what had seemed like days about the ceremony itself while Lancelot and the rest of the knights had instructed him and Logan on how to enter the hall. Logan hadn’t been able to resist asking why they couldn’t just walk in normally, earning him an icy glare from Kay and a long drawn out explanation from Lancelot about the propriety of tradition.
There was so much to take in and Cai couldn’t help but acknowledge that, every time he thought he had learnt something new about this life, he found there was always so much more still to learn. He wondered how his father and the knights had managed it.
Finally, the day of the feast dawned and Cai spent the day trying to ignore the inevitable while the servants hurried between the kitchen and the Great Hall. Much to his annoyance, Logan had been summoned to help the rest of the knights with the final preparations.
Now, left to himself, Cai spent the majority of the morning alone in his quarters, pleased that no one seemed to need him. He hadn’t had much time alone over the last few days so he was taking the opportunity to make the most of it. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he saw movement from the corner of his eye; looking up, he smiled as Guinevere appeared in the doorway.
“Good morning,” he said, rising to greet her.
Guinevere returned his smile. “Good morning, Cai. And how are you feeling this morning?”
Cai shrugged. “Nervous,” was all he could manage as he shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. The truth was, he really didn’t want to talk about it, he just wanted to get it over and done with; he needed to refocus his efforts on the task ahead. This feast still seemed so futile to him; he couldn’t see how it would make everyone forget what was happening beyond Camelot’s walls and the pain they were all still suffering.
Guinevere approached Cai and, cupping his face in her hands, encouraged him to look at her. “You have nothing to fear,” she informed him gently. “You are a worthy young man and you will make a great king; one every person here, will gladly follow.”
Cai stared at her; how was it that Guinevere could read his mind so easily and knew exactly what to say to calm his fears? Dropping his gaze, Cai looked away, his eyes filling with tears.
Seeing this, Guinevere embraced him. “You are far better than you ever give yourself credit for, Cai; never lose faith in that,” she whispered in his ear.
Cai held onto her, wishing they could stay like this forever but knowing they couldn’t.
Reluctantly, Guinevere pulled away. “Now, I came here for a purpose; I have something I wish to give you. Will you accompany me to my chambers?”
Cai nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.” And it was only when she smiled that Cai realised she had anticipated the possibility of him refusing her request.
Together, they left Cai’s quarters and, crossing the courtyard, Cai chanced a glance inside the Great Hall and felt his stomach lurch as he saw the amount of people involved in the preparations. Thankfully, everyone was too engrossed in their own tasks to notice him. It was bad enough that all eyes would be on him tonight; he certainly didn’t need it now.
Taking his arm, Guinevere smiled and guided him down a corridor at the end of which was a spiral staircase. Cai had no doubt the stairs down lead to the lower levels of Camelot where Merlin and Nimue resided but, thankfully, Guinevere began to climb the stairs.
Cai followed and they soon reached the upper leve
ls; in contrast to the complete darkness below, the upper corridor was brighter, the darkness punctuated by rays of sunlight as it streamed in through the windows. Guinevere opened the oak door to their left.
Following her inside, Cai glanced around, barely able to take it all in; this was his mother’s room, the room she had shared with his father. It was strange to think his father had once stood in this room, maybe in the very spot in which he was now standing.
Pushing these thoughts aside, he looked around the room. A bed dominated the chamber; intricately carved wooden posts stood at each corner and swathes of thick red velvet hung from the supporting beams as drapes of the same material fell heavily to the flagstone floor. A wooden table and high backed wooden chair stood in front of the window, making full use of the sunlight and on the opposite side of the room stood a small table laden with stoppered bottles of clear liquid.
Taking his arm, Guinevere silently directed him to sit upon a wooden bench at the end of the bed. “I shall be back in a moment,” she promised before turning and disappearing through a door set in the corner of the room.
Cai nodded mutely, taking advantage of the chance to look around once more.
The room was bright and airy, a vast contrast to Merlin’s chambers, the only room he had visited since arriving at Camelot; somehow, the brightness suited Guinevere and he could imagine the many happy times she had spent here with his father and he felt a deep sense of regret that he could never be a part of those memories.
At that moment, Guinevere returned with a bundle of red cloth in her arms but waved Cai aside as he jumped up to help. Gently, she laid the bundle on the bed and began to arrange it. Suddenly, a glint of metal caught his eye and he moved in for a closer look.
“It was your father’s,” Guinevere said, stepping back. “He would have wanted you to have it.” She paused, bracing herself. “Will you wear it tonight, Cai?” she asked apprehensively.
