In a swirl of sea mist, the crow dipped to land on a makeshift dock and transformed into her female form. A fae queen.
Morgana’s lips curled into a wicked smile at O’Lynn’s widened eyes as he took in her sudden appearance. “Expecting someone else?” she asked casually while stepping toward the Irish king.
“I never look at crows the same now.” He blew out a slow breath and then shuffled his feet to a sturdier posture. “Especially carrion crows.”
Her smile grew wider for several quick beats of the mortal’s heart before she switched her focus to the ships and warriors. Men and women moved past them on the dock, oak chests and barrels filled with weapons and food in tow. Farther down the harbor, warriors wrapped strips of dark wool around their horses’ eyes and led them onto longboats with stabling posts to tie them up. Others forked hay and grains onto the boats to help ease the spooked chargers.
“You have done well, mortal,” she cooed, returning her gaze to O’Lynn. “I am pleased with you. Arthur Pendragon is ours for the plucking. Even though the Fisher whelp found the Blessed Grail, King Arthur’s land still withers. Even now his people grow sick and their bellies roar with hunger.”
O’Lynn’s body softened at her words and his eyes drank her in––her cleavage rising and falling atop her bodice, her slim waist, the way her hair draped about her shoulders in a waterfall of raven-feathered black strands.
“Our plan is to depart tomorrow,” he said. “Our druids predict fair weather to Wales.”
“I plan to travel with you. Release the caged crows.”
“No, they’re necessary should we need to find the closest land point.” O’Lynn crossed his arms over his chest. The gold torc around his neck glinted in the afternoon sun. A hint of a sneer curved the corner of his mouth up. “The crows will stay with their masters if released, anyway.”
Morgana cocked her head and slitted her eyes. “The crows only stay with their tormentors to feast on their flesh once they die.”
O’Lynn’s Adam’s apple bobbed as the flirtation and challenge in his eyes faded to trepidation.
“I will fly about to each ship to inform the captains, if necessary. Now, release the caged crows. I shall not ask again.”
Heaving a resigned breath to cover his fear—a fear that filled Morgana’s nostrils with a heady scent that lightened her head with pleasure—O’Lynn grabbed the arm of a warrior passing by. “Tell each captain who sails to release their navigation crows.”
“Yer Majesty?” the young man asked, uncertain.
Morgana slid up to the younger man and leaned in close, trailing her sharp fingernail down his cheek. His brown eyes blinked a few times in surprise, though he remained still. “You are a beautiful specimen,” she purred. Her nail trailed down his neck to his chest. “Now, be a good lad and do as you’re told.”
“Yes, Lady,” the young man said softly.
Morgana smiled sweetly at him, biting down on her lower lip, a canine bared.
“Anything ye ask of me,” he added in an affected whisper before darting away.
O’Lynn glowered at Morgana. Good. He needed a reminder that she was in charge, not him. In a dismissive motion, she turned her back on the older man. She could feel his heated stare before he walked away to finish preparing for their departure at dawn.
Morgana remained on the dock, whispering incantations over the boats for a swift travel, until the sun began to set and a crescent moon began to rise. Only breaking her focus to greet her sister and brother crows who launched into the starry night. Their black wings cut through the air with a song of vengeance. A melody she hummed to the wind.
Sea mist and the whispered prayers of greedy men preparing for war swirled around her. The crow hopped on the dock and peered at the humans who gawked at the sky, mouths agape, fear icing the blood in their veins. The crow then flapped her wings with a loud caw and joined the dark celebration swooping before the goddess moon.
There was nothing that alighted her soul more than impending war and death.
I WAS BACK in Caerleon. I was home.
The thought struck me like a lightning bolt as we rode through the gates of Arthur’s proud keep. I tested the feeling, trying the idea on for size. Yes, this place was a harmony to the joyous song in my heart. Caerleon, and King Arthur Pendragon, and my knights. Strong Galahad, laughing Percival, and infuriating Lancelot. Though Lancelot was as moody as an Irish winter, I missed him like the summer sun. I felt his absence keenly.
Our return to Caerleon should have been a triumphant thing—proclaimed from the hillsides with horns and witnessed by a parade of grateful citizens who tossed flower petals before our horses’ hooves. We had done the impossible and found the Blessed Grail. The feat was no small miracle—and yet—I didn’t think the enormity of what we had accomplished had truly sank in among our small group. For all we could think of was the dark, grasping curse still seeping through Caerleon’s clear waters and flaxen fields.
And the army sailing for our shores.
Arthur had depended on the Grail to breathe new life into his dying lands. A black, creeping death courtesy of his sídhe half-sisters—Morgana, Morgause, and Elaine. The Blessed faerie bowl had almost absolved the dark curse.
Almost, if not for me.
Merlin foresaw how the Grail would heal the land when our group of five each drank from the enchanted bowl. The mystical Grail Maiden confirmed Merlin’s theory, the same sovereignty-goddess who had aided us on our quest. She also helped us travel to Avalon, located at the foot of Glastonbury Tor, where we drank from the sacred spring.
Lancelot, Percival, Galahad, and Arthur each drank from Avalon’s Red Spring and the land flushed incrementally back to life after each bowlful. But when I drank—the last of us to do so—nothing happened. Not even the wisp of a warm spring breeze or the melodic twitter of birdsong.
I promised myself weeks prior that I would never let Arthur down again. But despite all attempts to prove my worthiness, I had failed him. And, in this misdeed, I felt worse. For I didn’t understand why the Grail rejected me. Now, because of my apparent brokenness, innocents would continue to suffer under this wretched curse.
I drew in a deep breath and squared my shoulders against the rocking gait of my horse.
The mood through Caerleon proper was tangibly strained as we approached Arthur’s keep. The wary faces of his nobles and common folk alike watched silently as we dismounted, the jagged look in their eyes a none too subtle reproach for failing to amend the foul magic crippling the kingdom’s outlying villages. We had born witness to the curse’s dark veins spreading all the way to Caerleon. If something wasn’t done, and quickly, people would begin to perish with the poisoned land.
“To my study,” Arthur barked, and we hurried after him, leaving our horses with the grooms.
I was eager to visit Zephyr, my beloved mare I had been forced to leave behind while she healed from an injury. But she would have to wait. I knew what Arthur was going to ask me—what we would talk about—and I didn’t want to face the truth. My mind spun horrors with every turn of thought. And each possible scenario weakened my resolve to remain mentally and emotionally present.
Why hadn’t the Blessed Grail worked on me? What was this strange power thrumming through my body that others seemed to sense but me?
But more so—Arthur would ask about Donal O’Lynn. And this thought was one I couldn’t face, not without the red haze of fury covering my vision, setting my fingers itching for a knife.
Donal O’Lynn, Chieftain of the Uí Tuírtri clann, the sworn enemy of my own clann. The man who held my father and sister for ransom and who now sailed for Caerleon with a fleet of ships laden with Dál nAraidi warriors to claim Arthur’s crown. With a dark fae priestess on one side. And a new wife on the other. I choked on the latter thought, unable to shove that hellish reality away far enough. At least, far enough away for me to properly focus.
We reached Arthur’s study and filed into his room, but no one
sat. We were too uneasy, too unsettled. Too lost in our own troubles. I hardly registered Galahad’s hulking presence, or Percival’s lean, pacing form behind me. Or Merlin’s gold-ringed eyes that watched us all with the intensity of a hawk tracking a bevy of field mice.
Arthur rounded on me and I met his fierceness with my own. I knew the anger in his grass-green eyes was not directed at me. But his anger called to me, to the fury pounding through my veins. “O’Lynn,” Arthur practically growled, his voice low and deep. “Tell me of him. How many men? Allies? With his new union, could he claim the support of Clann Allán as well?”
His new union. I wanted to retch. Aideen. My soul keened my sister’s name. I saw her waves of chestnut hair, her kind eyes, her sweet laugh. I knew there was a strength hiding beneath her gentleness, but I feared her courage wouldn’t be enough against a man like O’Lynn. How he had managed to claim her as wife haunted me too. Irish women were free to choose their own husband. They could not be forced to marry. So, what could have made Aideen take such a drastic step and agree to marry him? My imagination filled in a parade of nightmares, most of which featured my father. Aideen was tender hearted and loved our father more than any. If O’Lynn demanded Aideen’s hand as the price of sparing our father . . . I had no doubt that her consent was a price she would pay without hesitation.
“He will never claim the loyalty of Clann Allán,” I said, sure of that at least. “There are several strong warriors who would declare leadership over my clann if . . .” I stumbled over the words. “If my father was lost. None of them would side with a snake like O’Lynn. Our clanns have fought and slaughtered each other for generations.”
“That’s a relief. How many warriors does he have?”
“Two thousand, perhaps? But all strong and fierce. Seasoned fighters. They will not be easy to defeat.” My hand strayed to my sword, aching to bury the sharp blade into a Uí Tuírtri body.
“How long before they reach Caerleon?” Arthur looked to Merlin, who had relayed the message of the massing ships in Dublin.
“It is unknown,” Merlin said calmly.
I wished I could face word of an approaching army with such serenity. It wasn’t that I feared O’Lynn and his men. To the contrary, I welcomed a fight with them. But I feared for Caerleon––this soft, gentle land would break under the weight of a war like this. And I feared for my knights and my king. For what I had found in Wales, with them . . . the very thought of losing any part of my life here terrified me.
The druid continued. “It is a three-day passage by boat from Dublin to the Usk River here in Caerleon. Or three days overland to Caerleon on horseback, if they traveled one to two days by boat to Conwy, up north. If they left today, we might have four or five days, a week at best. But I think it is safe to believe they are already en route.”
“The messenger who observed the ships in Dublin didn’t know when they were leaving?” Arthur asked.
“He couldn’t tell. Though he did not think they were leaving for several days. The ships were not manned yet, and provisions were still being secured.”
“We must assume arrival is as you say, then—a few days at best.” Arthur shook his head in disbelief, gritting his teeth. “There is no way we can withstand a siege with poisoned water and food.”
“Ah yes,” Merlin said. “The curse. Tell me of what happened at Glastonbury Tor.”
“There’s something wrong with me,” I blurted out.
“Lass, that’s not—” Percival began, but I held up a hand, and he fell silent.
“There’s no need to protect my feelings. Not at the expense of Caerleon,” I said. “We were all there. We all saw. The curse lifted when each of ye drank. Except me.”
“Do you know why, Merlin?” Arthur asked. “What went wrong?”
The druid examined me, and I squirmed under the weight of his piercing gaze, as if the man could see right through me. Right into the darkest recesses. Well, he wasn’t a man, was he? Only half a man. Half an immortal incubus.
“Alas, I have no answers for you,” Merlin said. “But I will cast my runes and see what I can learn. Perhaps there is something that can be done.”
“Before the army reaches our gate would be preferable,” Arthur muttered.
“And what of Lancelot?” Galahad rumbled. “Apologies, Arthur, but who is to lead your forces while Lancelot is absent?”
Arthur winced at the mention of Lancelot’s name. I think we all did.
Lancelot had grown more and more withdrawn from us as our Grail quest continued. And, in the last days leading up to quest’s end, we learned why. Morgana had placed a special curse on him alone—a curse that would destroy all Lancelot held dear, but only if he slept with a Gwenevere. A legendary white enchantress that he proclaimed was me.
I let out a hissing sigh as I thought of him. Why had the fool knight carried his burden all on his own? If he had only told me, I would have known why he pulled back from me, why it was important that he did. If by some strange twist of fate I was indeed this Gwenevere, which I believed untrue, I would have resisted the growing connection between us. It’s not as though we were animals. We could have resisted our attraction. Though, if I were honest, I hadn’t done a very good job at resisting my animal impulses as of late. One glance at the impossibly handsome forms of my king and the two knights surrounding me was all the confirmation I needed, and I cursed the shiver of desire pulsing hot through my body.
Arthur slipped a quiet look my way before finally cutting through the tension and speaking. “Lancelot made his choice. As much as it grieves me, his choice is one we all must accept. With all the trouble bearing upon my kingdom, I do not have time to chase down stray knights. Even if they are ones who are like brothers to me.” Arthur loosed a quavering breath, running a hand through his hair. “Galahad.” He turned to the brawny Norseman. “Until Lancelot returns, and perhaps even after, I deem you my second-in-command and charge you with the forces of Caerleon. I hope you don’t mind the promotion, because things are about to get messy around here.”
GALAHAD STRODE TOWARD the barracks, excitement galloping through his racing heart. Arthur’s words rang in his mind like the resounding peal of a bell. I deem you my second-in-command.
Was it opportunistic to step into Lancelot’s shoes in his absence? His sword-brother had been gone less than a day, and Galahad had already seized his role. But no. Arthur had chosen him—it wasn’t as if Galahad vied for the position. And Caerleon needed someone to defend her lands and people after Lancelot abandoned his post. Galahad worked his entire life for a chance like this. He wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him by.
The soldiers in the barracks snapped to attention when Galahad entered.
“Sir,” one soldier said, stepping forward. The man was short but well-muscled, a dark brown beard covering his round face.
Galahad wracked his memories for the man’s name. “Clive,” he said.
The man gave a little nod and Galahad relaxed slightly. It had been a while since he had trained with the soldiers. But now he would need to know them each, especially as he would spend more time among their ranks.
“What can we do for you, Sir?” Clive asked, redirecting Galahad’s thoughts. “I was not aware the king’s knights had returned.”
“Just a few hours ago,” Galahad replied.
Other soldiers gathered around, and Galahad swept a calculating eye over each man. They were a well-fed lot, their red linen uniforms clean, their weapons well cared for. Arthur was a kind employer. But still, did these men have the raw power and bloodthirst that Galahad had witnessed among the Uí Tuírtri he had fought near Lord Bronn’s manor? Even if so, that detail mattered not. These men were what they had. And they would have to be enough.
Galahad cleared his throat and dozens of eyes snapped to his. “We’ve received word that a fleet of Irish ships bearing Dál nAraidi warriors is bound for our shores, if they have not already landed.”
Murmurs of dismay rippled th
rough the group.
“We must warn the neighboring villages to take shelter within the keep,” Galahad continued. “There’s no telling what horrors might be visited upon them, if they stay where they are.”
“Of course, Sir,” Clive replied, dipping his head. “Consider it done.”
“Sir,” one of the other men, a red-head with a puckered scar traversing his jaw, began hesitantly. “Has Sir Lancelot not returned with you?”
“No,” Galahad said simply. “He had other business to attend to. The Pendragon has appointed me as his second-in-command in Lancelot’s absence.”
Another man stepped forward. They seemed to be growing bolder. “Is the king aware of the strange blackness befouling Caerleon’s waters?”
The other men nodded, eyes wide.
“My brother said his entire crop rotted,” the red-headed soldier chimed in. “Whatever it is, the black is spreading.”
“Rest assured,” Galahad said, “the king is aware and doing everything he can to cure this strange sickness. He is consulting with the druid Merlin as we speak. In these difficult times, we must band together and hold fast.”
A mutter of affirmations warmed Galahad’s core.
“The people should be assured as well,” Clive said. “Fear is creeping through the villages. A fear just as vile as the sickness that’s infecting our land. The people speak against His Majesty, saying the land has rebelled against him, that his kingship is illegitimate.”
Galahad’s heart stilled. “You have heard these sentiments spoken?”
“By more than one,” Clive said, an apologetic frown pulling on his face.
A sour lurch tightened Galahad’s stomach. Likely, the news of an encroaching army would only lower Arthur’s popularity farther.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 40
