Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  Fionna seemed to sense his weakening and soldiered on. “At least, tell me where ye go and why. Let me explain yer decision to our king, to keep him from doubting yer loyalty. Whatever is troubling ye so, ye need not carry this weight alone any longer.”

  Lancelot’s throat tightened. Carrying this secret made him weary to his bones. He didn’t want to carry this burden this alone anymore either.

  “There’s another curse.” The words exploded out of him, tumbling from his mouth as if they had been waiting to do so all his life.

  Fionna drew herself up, her silver brows scrunching together.

  “When Morgana learned of my infidelity, her sisters cursed Excalibur and Caerleon, but Morgana cursed me.”

  “What curse?”

  Lancelot recited Morgana’s cruel words, the words branded on his heart. “Never again will you know the pureness of love that flows between one man and one woman. There will be a woman, a Gwenevere pure like the white of driven snow.” He paused a beat, softening his voice as tears began to gather. “You will long for her with all your heart. Perhaps she will love you too. But, if you join as man and woman, she will not only bring your downfall, but the downfall of all you love.”

  Fionna’s mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you see?” Lancelot struggled to slow his ragged breathing, to keep the tears from falling. “You are the Gwenevere pure like the white of driven snow. I long for you with all my heart. But if I join with you as one man and one woman, it will bring the downfall of all I love.”

  Fionna shook her head. “A Gwenevere is a sorceress. A fae enchantress. I am not a Gwenevere. I’m the daughter of Brin and Catríona Allán. Princess of Clann Allán.” She tilted her head and then whispered, “Ye are mistaken, Lance.”

  “It’s you, Fi. It has to be you. There is power dormant within you that even I don’t understand. Your connection to us, the Grail, the sídhe . . . you’re the foretold Gwenevere.”

  “Then we will not lie together,” Fionna said, nodding to herself. “A simple solution.”

  Lancelot ran a trembling hand through his hair, his eyes darting about wildly. “I’ve thought of every option, every possibility, I’ve even tried it all! Why did you think I pushed you away, and then kept you at arm’s length? But I’m weak.” He drew in a quivering breath and choked out, “I long for you with all my heart. So much so, I laid with you!”

  Fionna’s brows pushed together. “I would remember such a beautiful moment with ye.”

  “I didn’t join with you, but a dark faerie glamoured as you in that . . . that castle of maidens!” He thrust out his arm and pointed to the smoldering castle up on the hill. “But I didn’t know that then! And I didn’t care. As far as I knew, last night, by making love to someone I thought was you, I was bringing the downfall of myself, Arthur, Caerleon, all of us. I was triggering the third curse.”

  “Did you say a third curse?” A new voice rasped from the darkness outside the stable door. A voice he recognized. Their king’s voice.

  A THIRD CURSE. Morgana had mentioned this, but Arthur had ignored her taunting babble. He didn’t want to believe his half-sister, for he had curses enough to contend with.

  His side throbbed as though the Norse fires of Hel pulsed within him, every movement blistering agony. But when his eyes had fluttered open to see Fionna slipping out the door, he had to follow. After what happened with Excalibur . . . a cynical part of him feared she was still not trustworthy. And then he discovered that it was Lancelot—his brother, his second-in-command—who was leaving.

  “My King, you shouldn’t be up without assistance.” Fionna hurried to his side and wedged her shoulder under his arm to support his weight. But he ignored her. He didn’t need to sit down. He needed answers.

  “How could you not tell me?” Arthur asked Lancelot. “If there was a danger to my kingdom, I had the right to know. I am king!” The sudden surge of blood to his face left him lightheaded and woozy. Fionna’s small frame staggered under his weight, and she steadied herself.

  “Arthur—” she murmured, but it was Lancelot who filled Arthur’s vision.

  Guilt twisted Lancelot’s face. “In a hundred years, I still could not atone for how sorry I am, Arthur. You took me in, you were a brother to me—the only family I have, really—and I repaid your kinship with ruin and destruction to your land. The other curses weighed so heavily upon your shoulders. I simply didn’t want to burden you with something more to worry about.”

  “Bullshit,” Arthur snapped. “You didn’t want to admit that you failed again.”

  “I’m trying to make this right,” Lancelot shot back. “It’s why I’m leaving. I’m separating myself from Fionna, so I’m no longer a danger. I plan to visit Vivien and see if there’s a way to break this curse upon me.”

  “You are my knight, and you are sworn to obey me,” Arthur grit between clenched teeth. “And you do not leave without my permission”—he pointed a finger at Lancelot’s chest—“The standing stone said the blessed five would find the Grail, which Merlin confirmed. Remember? That’s why we forgave Fionna, even when she betrayed us.”

  Lancelot’s face paled and he felt Fionna suck in a sharp breath at his cutting words. But Arthur’s anger was too powerful a tide to be concerned for how his words affected others just now. The fury writhed within him, the betrayal a monster waking to life, sweeping him away.

  “But you didn’t think of that, did you?” He hurled at Lancelot’s feet. “Your vision is consistently so narrow, so myopic, that you rarely consider how your actions will cost others.” Arthur grimaced at a stab of pain while Lancelot’s gaze hardened, as if each word fell upon him like whipped lashes. Drawing in a slow, steadying breath, Arthur continued. “You’re supposed to be a leader of men, but leadership takes sacrifice. And to sacrifice, you must care for something other than yourself!”

  “I love you, Arthur,” Lancelot softly spoke. “And Caerleon, and our sword-brothers, and Fionna. And that is why I was leaving tonight.”

  “You can’t leave until we complete the quest. I forbid it. After we drink from the Grail, your life is yours to ruin as you please. But not a minute before!”

  Lancelot’s hands curled into fists at his side, his jaw working. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

  “Now will you sit down?” Fionna asked in an exasperated voice.

  “Fine,” Arthur answered stiffly, and Fionna helped him to a bench in the corner of the stable, where he sat with a groan. “Wake Galahad . . . and Percival . . . We ride for . . . Caer Benic,” Arthur managed through pain-laced breaths.

  “Now?” Fionna asked. “Is that such a—”

  “Now!” Arthur barked. It was time to finish this.

  AS THEY PASSED through the old city wall of Eiden’s Burgh, the land around them transformed. Gone were the fog and darkness that had shrouded the city, and instead, countryside as bright and fair as Caerleon unfolded before them. Before Caerleon’s curse, that was. They rode through green fields as flocks of sparrows swooped overhead. A rabbit with a bushy white tail darted in front of them in a zig-zag pattern.

  Arthur held himself woodenly against the rocking movement of Llamrei’s gait. A trickle of blood seeped from his wound and pooled on his breeches. But he said nothing. He couldn’t stop now. Not when they were so close. He feared that if he stopped, he would never arrive at Caer Benic.

  They had mapped out a distance and direction from Castellum Puellarum based on the enchanted signpost near Betws-y-Coed. But in the end, they hadn’t needed the coordinates. For the beautiful blade—the one that had magically replaced Galahad’s—possessed a mind of its own. Galahad held the Grail Sword loosely in his hand as they rode, and if they roamed off course, the sword tugged at him insistently, directing them onto the correct path.

  “Don’t know where the in hell this blade came from,” Galahad said, “but I’m glad it’s here.”

  Arthur let out a wheeze of a laugh, which sent pain s
hooting through his abdomen. The pain was so powerful, it took his breath away. He prayed they were almost there.

  They rode up into craggy, boulder-strewn foothills of Alba. The shining expanse of the sea stretched far in the distance.

  Lancelot hadn’t uttered a single word since their exchange in the stable. Arthur knew his words were harsh to his friend, even cruel. But anger still burned within him. Lancelot should have trusted Arthur to handle the truth of this third curse. How weak must Lancelot think him?

  A shiver wracked Arthur and he gripped his saddle, struggling to stay upright on Llamrei’s back. He had been tricked by the faerie maidens in the castle too. But of all in their party, only he had been injured. So, maybe he really was the weak one.

  The horses were puffing when they reached a plateau atop a hill. Galahad’s sword pointed straight down as though drawn to a lodestone. He reined his horse in and peered over his shoulder.

  “Is the Grail Sword broken?” Fionna asked. “Confused?”

  Percival shook his head. “Nae, lass. I feel the pull here too. I think . . . we’re here.”

  “There is no ‘here,’” Arthur said. “The sword can’t be right.”

  Galahad turned his horse in a circle, pointing the blade’s tip in every direction. The sword rebelled against him, continuing to point down. As if they were supposed to come this far and no farther. “Any brilliant ideas?” Galahad asked.

  Fionna furrowed her brow. “Haven’t we learned that things aren’t always as they seem? Especially when it comes to this quest? Percival, do you have the adder stone?”

  Percival pulled the talisman out of his tunic and moved to hand the gem over. But as he did, he stilled.

  “Fionna is right,” he said. “Look.”

  Fionna took the stone from him and her eyes grew owlish. “My goddess!”

  She handed the relic next to Arthur. His jaw dropped. For before him was something more extraordinary than he had ever seen in his life. A castle that floated upon the air. Huge and tall, with soaring white stone spires. No mortal had formed this keep. Relief rushed through him. They had made it—finally.

  Galahad dismounted and crossed over the grass to Arthur and took the stone. He blew out a whistle and then tossed the stone to Lancelot. The giant of a knight moved to help Arthur off his horse and Arthur toppled sideways, the earth spinning beneath him.

  “Bloody hell,” Galahad said as he caught Arthur and helped him to the ground. “Your stitches have failed? Have you been bleeding all this time? You should have told us! We would have stopped.”

  “We finish this,” Arthur rasped.

  Galahad grumbled.

  Fionna dismounted and knelt at Arthur’s side, her hands fluttering over the wound. “Arthur,” she said, his name soft and tender on her lips. “Ye need to take care of yerself.”

  “I have to take care of Caerleon,” Arthur said. “If we get the Grail, the sacred vessel will heal me. So, let’s get the fucking Grail.”

  Percival nodded. “The Blessed Grail is rumored to have healing powers.”

  “There’s only one problem. How do we get up there?” Fionna asked.

  Galahad pulled Arthur up in his arms and they walked forward.

  Fionna took the stone once more from Lancelot. “There’s a doorway. Here on the ground. But . . . I don’t understand. It’s a door to . . . nothing.” She passed the talisman to Arthur and he squinted to focus.

  She was right. A single door stood on the Scoti moor, with nothing behind the entryway but air and heather. The door made little sense. But they had passed beyond the realm of the logical, and into the fantastical. “We go through the door,” Arthur said. “It’s not the strangest thing we’ve seen on this quest.”

  The knights walked forward in a tight clump. When they reached the door, they paused. No one seemed to want to be the first to open the entry to the Grail Castle.

  “You go first, Fisher heir,” Galahad gestured with his head toward the large, carved oaken door.

  “Great,” Percival said. “I always wanted to be blasted by dragon fire or some other trap first in our party.” But he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and turned. Then he jiggled the handle and pushed. But the door didn’t budge. “Locked,” Percival said with a shrug.

  Lancelot groaned and spun in an angry circle, but thankfully said nothing. Especially weakened how he was, Arthur had little patience for Lancelot’s pessimism.

  Percival was throwing his shoulder against the door now, but the entry held firm.

  Arthur looked at the space where the door was, wishing his mind was more lucid, wishing he could burn through this fevered haze that was swallowing him whole. A locked door. They needed a key. Arthur let out an incredulous laugh that quickly turned into a cough.

  “Easy,” Galahad said.

  “Could it be that simple?” Arthur said. “Put me down.”

  “But Your Majesty—” Galahad protested.

  “Put. Me. Down,” Arthur commanded. For whatever the Grail Quest had taken from him, he wouldn’t let it take his dignity. He would walk through that door on his own two feet and face whatever he found there.

  Arthur reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the bone key.

  “Ye think . . .” Fionna trailed off.

  “All I know is here lies a locked door and we have a key.”

  Leaning heavily on Galahad, Arthur limped to the door. Percival handed him the adder stone and the smooth wood finish of the door materialized before him, carved with faerie runes.

  With a shaking hand, Arthur slid the ivory key into the lock. The knob turned with a click, and then the door swung open.

  THE GRAIL CASTLE was empty, but not the haunted emptiness of the castle they had fled in Eiden’s Burgh. This emptiness felt hushed and right. A quiet anticipation. As if the place was waiting for the rightful master’s return. Percival’s stomach clenched and unclenched. He wiped his clammy palms on his tunic. Part of him couldn’t believe that they were actually here. That he now walked the quiet halls his father had once walked. That Percival had also once gamboled through, a cheerful and tumbling boy with a shock of red hair.

  Memories flashed within him as they passed through the long corridor to the Great Hall, where his father had entertained nobles and dignitaries, human and fae alike.

  His feet moved of their own volition, towing him forward.

  “You know the way?” Galahad asked. The Grail Sword was in his hand—that same strange glittering thing with the violet pommel. Percival knew the sword was important. He knew the Grail Sword was tied to this place, the Blessed Grail, the whole sordid legacy. The same way he was.

  “Aye,” Percival said. “We should find the vessel up here.”

  Arthur was leaning heavily on Galahad, his pallor ashen and his face beaded with sweat.

  Percival prayed what they found within the Great Hall was friendly, for Arthur couldn’t take another setback. He feared his king wouldn’t last much longer.

  Down the long hallway stretched an arching set of double doors. “There,” Percival said. “The Grail should be behind those doors.”

  The knights’ footsteps sounded ominous on the polished stone floors.

  Percival’s breath was tight in his chest as he reached the entry, and paused. “Are we ready?” He asked with a crooked grin.

  “On with it,” Lancelot barked. “We need to get Arthur healed.”

  Percival pushed the door open, his mouth parting. At the sight before them, they let out a collective groan.

  “Another feast?” Fionna asked, her hand flying to her stomach.

  A glittering array of food and drink, much like they had just left the day before, adorned a large banqueting table. But for one notable difference. A woman. Tall, lithe and fair, the woman’s golden-blonde hair fell in soft waves down to her narrow waist. She wore a dress of a deep violet hue, her waist cinched with a belted girdle of golden links encrusted with amethysts. And her brow was crowned with a gold diadem boasting a
n amethyst stone that perfectly matched the gem on the pommel of Galahad’s sword.

  This, Percival was certain, was the Grail Maiden.

  Percival scrambled into a bow and the others followed suit, Arthur with an audible groan.

  “Fair knights. Kind king,” she said. Her voice was soft and melodious, like the bubble of a fountain. “Welcome to Caer Benic. I have been waiting for you.”

  “We have been waiting to get here,” Percival said. “Thank ye fer yer service in guarding the Blessed Grail.”

  “The honor is mine. I know these are dark times, and I felt it right to do what little I could to assist your righteous cause.”

  “The standing stone?” Percival asked. “Ye left that for us, didn’t ye?”

  She inclined her head in an affirmative.

  “And the sign-post?” Fionna asked.

  She nodded again. “This castle has been too long without her rightful king. Welcome home Percival of Caer Benic, Fisher King.”

  “It’s good to be home,” Percival said, his voice catching in his throat. However bloody and unpleasant his past had been, at least he had lived up to his father’s legacy in this small way. He had done it. He had found the castle. And the Grail.

  “Keeper of the Grail,” Fionna began. “Our king is grievously wounded. I do not mean to be forward, but may we see the Grail and heal him? I fear he grows weaker with each passing candle mark.”

  The Maiden turned to survey Fionna with an appraising eye. Did her violet eyes widen as she took Fionna in? “I did not expect a Gwenevere, though perhaps I should have,” the Maiden said.

  Fionna winced at the title, but soldiered on. “He was pierced through with this spear, which has continued to weep blood ever since. Is the tip poisoned?”

  “No. This is the sacred spear of Lleu, which weeps blood. A blessed relic of the fae to harm sovereign-blessed kings.” She took the spear from Fionna’s hands and the magical weapon disappeared. “We thank you for the spear’s safe return. And, I am afraid the Grail does not heal mortal flesh, but I do have something that will help. Go to the table and fetch one of the red apples. They hail from the Isle of Man, from Manannán mac Lir’s orchard, and possess healing properties. One bite should be enough to save the Little Dragon King.”