Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “I bet you’re right, Percy,” Galahad said. “He probably doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.”

  Lancelot rolled his eyes.

  Galahad dismounted first and assisted Fionna while Percival tied up their horses.

  The inside of the inn’s common room was even more eerie. Tables and benches sat neatly throughout the room, and a row of clay pitchers lined the wall behind a large serving table, beside stacks of oak barrels. But the center fire pit and candles were dark. And the place was completely empty.

  “What happened to all the people?” Arthur asked, seemingly to no one.

  “Everything is neat, just as they left it,” Lancelot said. “A raid hasn’t killed or driven off the townsfolk. This is magic.”

  “Percival, do you see anything strange?” Arthur asked.

  Percival shook his head, drawing his cloak tighter around himself. “Nae. Everything appears . . . as though a macabre tapestry.”

  Fionna’s stomach rumbled audibly. She pressed her hands to her midsection, as if to keep her hunger quiet. “Perhaps we could see if they left anything to eat?”

  “I’m feeling quite peckish myself,” Galahad said. “I’m sure even this empty village of ghouls will look better after a good meal and a fire.”

  Without another word, the knights settled Fionna into a chair and then dispersed through the inn, into every alcove and walled-off space, poking about every cooking utensil.

  Percival stood up from where he had been peering into a storage chest with a look of dismay. “Empty.”

  Lancelot and Arthur appeared out of a back room. “The pots and barrels are empty,” Arthur said, almost apologetically at Fionna. “Not a crumb.”

  Galahad nodded, holding up a log. “I found nothing but firewood.”

  “Water?” Arthur asked.

  “Perhaps in a nearby well,” Lancelot suggested.

  “All right,” Arthur said. “We’re going to bed down here for the night. Percival and Lancelot, get the horses set up properly and see if there’s water to boil. Galahad, make us the biggest fire you can manage. Fionna, your job is to eat every scrap bit of food we can rummage from our saddlebags.”

  “But—” she began to protest, but Arthur held up a hand.

  “You haven’t had a full meal in a week. The rest of us will live. You need to eat.”

  Her stomach rumbled again, and she nodded.

  PERCHED ON A window ledge, the crow angled her head to track the mortals with her beady eye. She could see the spectral ribbons of fears dancing wildly before their vision, those same threads building cobwebs in their minds.

  Swords half-drawn, the males circled around the witch, who appeared sickly and weak. The crow almost cawed in laughter. They were more skittish than a field mouse scurrying away from an owl. But then the large male with golden hair strode by the window and gained her attention. His deep voice rumbled even the fog blanketing the In-Between. Then another voice, one more familiar, pierced through the shadows and illusions.

  Him.

  The male with tumbling darkness for hair and the Otherworld’s veiled mist for eyes. He belonged to her. He was her possession, not the Little Dragon King’s. And certainly not the witch’s or the other male’s, the one with magic in his blood. Unable to resist the lure of his scent, the call of his voice, the crow fluttered to the ground and transformed.

  Morgana crept to the sill and peered inside from the shadows. The magic of the In-Between made her invisible until she granted the powers here permission to help her fully materialize. Still, she used caution, not wishing to disturb the trap.

  She could see, even now, the mortals’ unease. The landscape around them unsettled them in its emptiness and quiet. How little they understood the Otherworld was laughable. Not even the witch or the Fisher whelp, who had magic singing in their blood, possessed The Sight. Rather, they saw only darkness and space, uncomprehending how the bone key they carried had allowed them to pass through the mortal realm and into the In-Between—the thin veil between the human world and the faerie Otherworld—where even more dangerous monsters tread.

  True, the key would unlock the gate to Caer Benic and their precious Grail. But it also unlocked other doors. And so, earlier in the week, while the party traversed Strathclyde, she had used the morning’s fog to weave with the In-Between’s mist to funnel them into the hushed shadows of this place. Conjuration was magic she particularly enjoyed—perfect for implanting ideas in dreams or to terrorize through nightmares. Or to lure warriors to their deaths through visions of a beautiful maiden. Perhaps one by a streamside, collecting berries. The red stains on her lips the blood she thirsts to drink from their veins as they lay dying.

  And lure a warrior she would. Fogging the window with her breath, she wrote runes onto the glass. As her fingertip formed the last line, Lancelot snapped his intense gaze to where she stood. But he couldn’t see her. Rather, he would feel a longing to peer out the window and search for whom his heart desired. Slowly, he ambled across the creaking floor to the fogged glass and cupped his eyes to peer outside, looking right through her.

  Morgana traced the outline of his face with her finger. “You do not belong here, prince,” she whispered to each beloved, cursed feature. “You are of no value to this quest. Forsake my brother and his witch and I will forgive you. Together, as a mortal son from the Isle of Man and a fae daughter from the Otherworld, we will reign this wretched land. The people will finally accept you. Finally love you.”

  Lancelot stepped back from the window, his dark brows furrowed, his beautiful lips tipped down in a frown. With a sigh, long and slow, he twisted away from her and moved beside the fire, his shoulders slumped.

  Cackling with delighted laughter, Morgana’s body faded into the swirling fog until she was born aloft by the unnatural wind. The crow glided across the false city of Castellum Puellarum to the In-Between’s Castle of the Maidens. Time to alert her sisters and fellow sídhe priestesses that their guests were soon to arrive.

  I SHIVERED UNDER the thin blankets, praying for sleep. We had used up all the firewood we could find in the common room, but none of us had wanted to brave the rain or the unsettling quiet of the city to venture out and look for more. So, the center fire pit was now dark and cold.

  I had experienced worse, I reminded myself as I tried to unclench my frigid muscles enough to let sleep take me. One fighting season, when cattle raids were especially bad, the snow had come early. With nowhere to properly hide, I had slept under the boughs of an oak tree with only my cloak above me and a fellow fiann mate at my back. I worried endlessly about losing fingers and toes those two days, rubbing my limbs and digits regularly. The cold hard bed below me now was luxury compared to that near misadventure. Grasping at gratitude, I finally drifted to sleep.

  But my sleep was as restless and as troubled as the hours leading up to the moment we huddled up for the night. I found myself back on the Scarlet Selkie, the swaying and undulating of the sea stealing my equilibrium and my dignity once more. The sky above the dream state Welsh longboat was roiling with storm clouds. A streak of lightning danced across the sky, followed by a crack of bellowing thunder. I stood and ducked out from beneath the protective burlap cloth. The rain slashed against my face, plastering my hair to my scalp. But I was alone. The crew, the captain, Arthur and the other knights, they were nowhere to be found. The sails cracked wildly in the wind, ropes like thrashing snakes twisting against my feet. I ran for a set of oars near the stern, plunging the paddles into the swirling ocean, trying to slow the ship’s wild movement. But I couldn’t. As lightning split the sky, whitening the deadly sea in my vision momentarily, my breath caught in my throat. A wave stood before me, tall as Arthur’s keep, impossible to avoid. I dove for the mast, wrapping my arms around the solid oak post. Clinging to the wood and ropes with all my strength. But when the wave hit me, the momentum was too powerful. The water hit with the force of a hundred tonnes, ripping my fingers from the mast and tossing me into th
e frigid, uncaring sea. Up was down, right was left. I fell into darkness. My chest screaming for air.

  I bolted upright, my lungs gasping, as if they had truly been straining for their last breath. In the still blackness, my hand strayed to my forehead, where clammy sweat beaded on my brow. Ten frantic heartbeats passed before my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I realized where I was. No longer was I in Eiden’s Burgh. I was back home. In Aghanravel. I was in the bed that I shared with Aideen. I threw off the covers and biting cold air gnashed at the exposed skin of my face, neck, and hands.

  “Father? Aideen?” I called out, my mind struggling to make sense.

  How had I returned here? What in the hell was going on? I threw open the front door and ran into a hazy dawn. The landscape looked like my home. The crooked, wattle fence post, the trough for the horses and pigs, the little stretch of garden beneath the eaves that Aideen tended to daily. But everything was wrong.

  The lush land surrounding my father’s home was barren—blackened like the black of the rivers in Caerleon. The tall birch trees were stark, bare skeletons, Aideen’s garden shriveled and dead. What happened here? I turned slowly in a circle, horror permeating every fiber of my body. Not here too. How had Morgana known? Was this the work of the fae? Had Aghanravel been torched? But no—the house was untouched.

  I saw a figure in the distance with chestnut hair flowing in the wind, a dress of cornflower blue and gray wrapped onto her thin frame. “Aideen?” I cried out, excitement warring with alarm within me. I took a few tentative steps toward her and then broke into a run, flying at my sister. “Aideen!”

  I spun her around. But when I saw her face, a ragged gasp broke from me. I recoiled, a sob prickling the back of my throat. Aideen’s eyes were lifeless, her skin a patchwork of black spiderwebs. The curse . . . the dark magic had taken her too. I caressed Aideen’s hair, her arms, taking her face between my hands.

  “Aideen. Wake up, mo chroí. Fight the curse. I’ll find a way to fix this. I’ll find a way to heal you.”

  Aideen opened her mouth to say something.

  Relief welled in me. My sister was still in there somewhere.

  “Yes, Aideen?” I asked.

  But out of my sister’s mouth came a singular sound. Foreign and grating.

  The single caw of a crow.

  I jerked awake, tangled in my blankets. I was in the inn in Eiden’s Burgh. I flopped back into my bed, trying to slow my racing heartbeat. Goddess above, they had only been dreams. Horrible, horrible dreams. I threw off the tangle of blankets, moving toward a window, trying to gather my wits about me. The rain had let up and was now just a misty drizzle on the windowpanes. The night was still dark though. Unnaturally so.

  I heard a caw in the distance and whirled toward the source, my eyes going wide. Was the bird inside the inn?

  Grabbing my sword, I tip-toed back toward our circle around the fire pit, searching for Arthur in the dark. I didn’t want to wake him, if I were going mad. Arthur’s bedroll was empty. What? Where was he?

  I moved quietly to Percival’s bedroll. Empty as well.

  Galahad’s. Empty.

  The caw sounded again. I froze. It had emanated from down the hallway, near the back door. Lancelot’s post. I lifted my sword and crept toward the back end of the inn. I rounded a corner, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light inside. I sighed audibly when I saw Lancelot’s form curled up within his bedroll.

  But my relief was short-lived. Something was wrong. I crept closer and when I saw him—truly—I couldn’t stop the garbled scream from escaping my throat.

  He lay on the bed, his form limp. His eyes—his eyes . . . “No, no, no!” I cried, pressing against a wall. His eyes had been pecked out.

  A deafening caw from behind chilled my blood and I leaped, spinning. A huge crow perched at the window. As soon as my eyes met the beast’s, the bird launched from the windowsill and flew out into the rainy night.

  I sat up. A sob escaped me. I was in bed—disoriented and terrified. Was this a dream? Another dream within a dream? Or goddess . . . Lancelot . . .

  I threw my covers off and ran down the hallway toward where Lancelot lay before the back door. I burst around the corner. “Lancelot!” I crossed the back room in a blink, falling at his side.

  He startled awake as my fingers found his face, the soft unbroken skin of his eyelids. I felt across his stubbled jaw, the peaks of his cheekbones, the smooth expanse of his temple. Relief uncoiled within me, my body nearly toppling over limp and spent. He was alive. And he was whole.

  “Fionna?” He asked groggily. His voice was low and rasping with sleep. “What’s going on?”

  “I had a dream,” I managed, my fingers still straying over his face of their own volition. “Ye were . . .” embarrassment prickled me as my voice caught in my throat, thick with threatening tears.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into the crook beneath his shoulder. “It’s all right. I’m fine. Gods, woman, you’re frigid!” He pulled open the blankets to usher me inside. “Get in here before you die of cold.”

  I let him wrap me in the comfort of his blankets and his arms, breathing in the scent of mint and moonlight that was all Lancelot. I shivered against him—whether from the cold of the night or my fright at the dream, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind—the dark bloody wounds where his eyes had once been.

  “What happened? You had a bad dream?”

  “The images were so real,” I said, suddenly feeling like a foolish child, and wanting to explain myself. “I was having another dream, and I woke up in my bed here, but everyone was gone. Everyone but ye. And ye . . . yer eyes had been pecked out. There was a massive crow.” My shivers wracked me against the hard muscle of Lancelot’s body.

  “All is well,” he murmured into my hair, pulling me tighter against him. His warmth was beginning to leech into me, to soothe my nerves. “Morgana’s shadow hangs over all of us. Especially in this place. I don’t know why, but fae magic is strong here. I’m not surprised foul thoughts invaded your dreams. But rest assured, I am alive and whole. I would put up quite a fight before I would allow anyone to peck out my eyes.”

  “And quite a racket?” I asked, cracking a small smile. I imagined muttered curses and crashing about, if Lancelot truly went to battle with a giant crow inside the tiny end room of this inn.

  “I’ll make a huge racket. There would be no way you could sleep through my annoyance.”

  “Promise?” I asked, looking up at him in the dark. My eyes drank in the sight of him so close—the tangle of his hair, the smooth expanse of his skin beneath me. My hands itched to rove freely over the muscles of his chest and shoulders. But I held myself still, not knowing how far our truce extended. Not wanting to ruin this moment.

  “I promise, Fi,” Lancelot whispered, and gently kissed my brow.

  My heart squeezed at the nickname. Fi was what Aideen called me since girlhood. But Fi sounded especially sweet on Lancelot’s lips. Thoughts of Aideen sent my stomach churning again—the memory of the horrible dream version of her and the real woman, who was perhaps just as doomed.

  “You were so worried,” Lancelot looked down at me, his light eyes shining in the dark. “When you feared me dead . . .” he trailed off. His words were tentative, as if he couldn’t quite dare believe. Fool man. Of course, I cared for him!

  “Does it truly surprise ye that the thought of finding ye wounded and bleeding terrifies me? Did I not make clear to ye after Twrch Trwyth that I would like ye whole and intact?”

  “I recall the angry lecture . . . the rest is a little blurry. I could use a refresher.”

  I snorted. “Oh, could ye? Well let me put it more plainly, Lancelot du Luc. I want ye alive. The only way ye’re dying is if I stab ye myself, ye infuriating goat.”

  Lancelot softly laughed. “Consider the feeling mutual.” He tucked a stray braid behind my ear, gazing down at me. His look unarmed me. There was a raw tendernes
s there I had never seen until this moment. How could he hide his vulnerability so well?

  “I care for ye, Lancelot,” I whispered as I traced the curved shell of his ear. “And I always will.”

  Lancelot closed his eyes briefly, shuddering under my ministrations. And when they fluttered back open, the glinting steel of his eyes were alight with a fire. A cool heat that thrilled me deep down to my core. He seized my arms and then rolled me beneath him in one swift movement, the shock of the cold air mingling with the heat of his lips on mine.

  FIONNA’S KISS WAS the most bewitching sensation Lancelot had ever known. Her touch a magic unparalleled. A hot chill stole its way down his spine, igniting every dark and lonely corner of his soul. His heart drank greedily, desperately. To him, there was nothing more alluring than a woman who asserted herself—confident and comfortable with her own body. With her own mind.

  Fionna’s tongue thrust between his lips and his chest heaved with desire. Claim me, he wanted to shout. Make me yours. Lancelot had little fight left in him and he yielded to the warrior’s body pressed firmly to his. A warrior who was his equal.

  “Fi . . .” Lancelot pulled away just far enough for his breath to tangle with hers. He cupped her face and whispered, “I want to know your . . . love.”

  “Then allow me to love ye.”

  Those words unlocked a hidden flood of grief within him. A gnawing hunger took over—a desperate need to be loved, to be wanted, dousing all reason within him.

  With practiced grace, Lancelot rolled Fionna over to top him. Whispered warnings clamored in his racing mind. But when she fisted his tunic and yanked him up to meet her lips, the whispers silenced. His heartbeat knew only hers.

  Lancelot, now sitting up, gripped her hips and positioned her across his lap.