Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “I am trying,” Merlin said. The lines furrowing about his mouth and brow deepened. “She is weakening. Perhaps with the herbs in my cave—”

  “The cave is cut off,” Galahad said. “There’s no way.”

  Merlin grimaced. “I will do what I can.”

  “Do everything, man,” Arthur snapped. “If you have to lend her your own life essence, you do it.”

  “Of course, my king.”

  “Set her down here,” Galahad said, knocking a bowl and a pile of linens off a table to clear a space.

  Percival set her down gently, and when he stepped back, wiping his hair back from his forehead, Galahad saw that his hands—his leathers—were drenched in blood. “My gods,” Galahad whispered. Swallowing back his fear, he placed a trembling finger to her wrist, hoping to still feel a pulse.

  “She was stabbed in the back,” Percival managed as he hiccupped back a sob. His crimson hand hovered before his mouth, his eyes not leaving her. “Three wounds.”

  Galahad leaned an ear down over her mouth, trying to listen over the thunder of his heart. To feel some faint whisper of breath. Some sign of life. Something more than the silence he was feeling in her wrist. The absence of movement where a pulse should be. From his vantage with his head crooked, Merlin was in his line of sight. The druid met his eyes and pursed his lips into a thin line. And infinitesimal nod. No. No. Merlin was confirming what the signs were telling Galahad, the ones his mind was refusing to accept.

  Galahad slowly straightened, placing Fionna’s arm back down at her side, curling his fingers around hers. When he spoke, the words were a rasping whisper. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Arthur. She––” He sucked in a sharp breath. “She’s gone.”

  Fionnabhair Allán was dead.

  Silence settled upon them, thick and deafening. Percival’s bloody hand still fluttered before his mouth, while Lancelot looked as white as Fionna, as if he himself had been struck by a mortal blow. Arthur’s eyes were wide and wild, and he only shook his head, over and over, his breath coming in tight and quick.

  The light that was their Fionna had dimmed and snuffed out.

  Galahad looked at her, part of him needing to double check. Wanting to be wrong. Fionna was tough as nails, unyielding as the winter wind. It would take something far more than a blade to wound her. To rip her from this world.

  A keening note ripped from Arthur’s lips and he fell upon her body, grasping her limp hand in his own, pressing his forehead to her breast. “My queen. My love,” he mumbled, and then the sobs came, wracking his body, tearing open the wound Galahad was so valiantly trying to hold together—with little more than determination and duty. For this was Arthur’s time to mourn. She was his wife. But Arthur’s grief sang to a note in Galahad’s own soul that he couldn’t fight. Tears began to fall, hot and salty, gathering in his beard.

  Percival rubbed at his face, her blood streaking down his eyes and cheeks. He muttered, “I didn’t reach her in time. Oh gods––” His body began to shake as his own tears streamed through Fionna’s blood. “I couldn’t save her,” he sputtered through his grief. “I couldn’t save her. I’ll . . . I’ll never forgive myself.” Lancelot turned Percival away from the awful sight and then the two men clung to each other. Percival buried his head into Lancelot’s shoulders, their dark knight becoming a solid rock against the tide of sorrow. But an ember of volatile grief flickered in Lancelot’s steeled eyes and, when the vengeance emerged, Galahad knew that O’Lynn would never know what dark, violent power of wrath sliced him and Morgana through.

  Arthur gripped Fionna’s body to his, her head lolling off his arm. Every part of Arthur shook as he openly wept, apologizing over and over again to her corpse. Silver eyes stared absently at Galahad.

  Galahad turned, a shudder of sorrow clawing down his spine. He was unable to bear the sight of Fionna’s perfectly still body any longer. Hushed stillness where vibrancy and life had been only moments before. Her body looked frail and small without the vitality of Fionna’s essence. His king’s keening sobs pierced the remainder of Galahad’s resolve. He wiped tears from his cheek with the back of his hand, knowing it was useless, for more quickly followed. His eyes darted from object to object, anything to distract him from his reality. Anything to dull the pain. Skipping past Merlin, Galahad’s gaze fell upon the Cauldron of Plenty, sitting quietly in the corner of the Great Hall, forgotten by all including the shocked servants who stood about, their eyes wide with the sight of their king’s wild grief.

  The Cauldron of Plenty. Hadn’t Merlin and Vivien shared how the Cauldron was rumored to be so powerful that it could even raise the dead?

  A spark flared within the cold corners of Galahad’s heartbreak.

  He strode over to Merlin and seized the druid’s arm, spinning him around and pointing at the Cauldron with a desperate finger. “Could it work?” He gripped Merlin’s muscular bicep tighter, clinging to this last vestige of hope. For a different future.

  Merlin’s eyes rounded. “By the gods, it just might.”

  Galahad staggered back, wiping away his tears. Purpose and hope surged through him bright as a sunrise.

  “Arthur,” Merlin barked. “The Cauldron. The relic resurrects. Bring her here.”

  Arthur lifted his head, his eyes clouded and hazy. “She is gone,” Arthur whispered, then spat, “Do not toy with me, druid.”

  Merlin clapped his hands, and it seemed the very thing to break Arthur free of his fog. “We have a chance to save her! Bring her body here!”

  Blinking back his tears, Arthur scooped up Fionna and strode across the room.

  “What magic is this?” Lancelot asked as he and Percival pulled apart.

  “The Cauldron of Plenty is a powerful relic of the gods,” Galahad said. “It’s rumored to be able to resurrect the dead, remember?”

  Percival’s eyes lit up. “Och, what are we waiting for?! Do it!”

  “We are doing it,” Merlin snapped. He was helping Arthur lower Fionna’s body into the cauldron. She disappeared into the black bowl as their hands released her body. Galahad and the others crowded closer. Fionna’s body was curled into the fetal position on the bottom of the cauldron.

  “You four,” Merlin said. “Arrange yourselves around the cauldron.” He stepped back and allowed each of them to form a circle around the relic. “Lancelot and Percival, you switch.” Merlin said.

  “What are you doing?” Galahad asked.

  “Something I thought when we were first searching for a fifth knight, but the idea has only just crystallized in my mind. There is preternatural strength in your connection. The five elements. Fire,” he pointed to Lancelot. “Earth,” to Arthur, “Air,” to Percival, “and water” to Galahad. “Fionna is the aether, the fifth element that binds you. I will draw on your essence while working the cauldron. It will strengthen the spell, and hopefully pull her soul back into her body.”

  “What must we do?” Lancelot asked.

  “Just be willing,” Merlin said. He pushed up his sleeves and closed his eyes. He then began chanting in a voice that raised the fine hairs on the back of Galahad’s neck. Magic made him uneasy, but for Fionna, he would endure anything. A wind rose, even in the closed room, fluttering the tendrils of Galahad’s hair. Merlin’s words seemed to course through him, mingling with his blood until they were galloping through his veins, filling him with a tingling feeling unlike any sensation he had ever known.

  The timbre of Merlin’s voice rose, and the interior of the cauldron started to glow with lavender light. Galahad was shocked to see that the eyes of his fellow knights started to glow as well, as if their life force was bolstering the magic of the cauldron. Arthur’s eyes glowed the vibrant green of grass in the summer sun; Lancelot’s as red as the embers of a hearth fire. Percival’s brown eyes now glowed silver, like Fionna’s sometimes seemed too. The wind picked up and Merlin was shouting now, his arms raised.

  Galahad held up his hand before his face and his palm reflected a blue glow, no dou
bt from his own eyes. He set aside his shock and focused on the cauldron, willing his energy, his life, his love, into that dark space. Into Fionna. Take all of me, Galahad thought. Take whatever you need, Fionna. I am yours. I would give my life a thousand times over, if it meant you could live.

  A great bolt of lightning snaked from the ceiling into the cauldron’s bowl, and Galahad threw up his hands against the brightness of the image. A crack of thunder followed, as deafening as the fall of a great oak.

  Then silence.

  Galahad slowly lowered his hands, straightening.

  Merlin’s shoulders sagged, but he was nodding. Footsteps raced behind them and Arthur turned. From the corner of Galahad’s eye, he could see Brin Allán slow before them, his face bloodless, his shoulders shaking.

  Ignoring everyone around him, Galahad peeked over the edge of the cauldron. Into the black space. Breathless with anticipation. With fear and hope.

  And he started like a hare before a wolf as a pale hand reached out from the darkness and clapped onto the rim of the cauldron.

  ARTHUR DARED NOT hope. True, Merlin had said that the Cauldron of Plenty had the power to resurrect the dead. But the lands of Briton were littered with objects with supposed supernatural powers. These claims were not always true. Yet as Merlin spoke in words of power, Arthur could not deny that he felt magic pulsing through him—emanating from him—and mingling with power from the others. And then, as quickly as the magic had begun, the whirlwind ended, leaving only Arthur and the ragged edges of his heart. Fionna was dead. His love. His wife. Why did the fates see fit to torment him so? To find love only to have it ripped from him—

  A hand emerged from the recesses of the cauldron, gripping the lip. His hope flared to life like a shooting star blazing across the moonless night sky.

  The others had jumped back at the unexpected movement.

  Percival had his hand to his chest. “Merlin’s balls,” he practically yelped.

  From the corner of his vision, Arthur could see his druid look sideways at the knight. But Arthur’s gaze was fixed only on the cauldron. On the figure emerging from the mist within.

  “Fionna?” Galahad murmured softly, stepping forward.

  Then it was Arthur’s turn to press a hand to his chest, as if he could keep his beating heart from galloping away. For the figure was Fionna. But also . . . not. Beside him, Brin whispered his daughter’s name with reverence.

  As she climbed to her feet, Arthur recognized the familiar. Fionna still wore her boiled armor stained with her lifeblood. Her silver-white hair was braided as it had been. But . . . a bright white light emanated from her once-silver eyes, and her skin glowed like milk in the moonlight. Her ears were also tapered to delicate points.

  “Galahad?” Fionna asked, turning to him, blinking the light away. The glow died, leaving only her feather-soft lashes and her quicksilver eyes.

  “Fionna!” Galahad closed the distance between them, wrapping her in his arms.

  Percival whooped with joy, jumping a foot in the air. He dashed forward, embracing Fionna too, even while Galahad’s arms remained around her, his golden locks splayed across her shoulder.

  Across from him, Lancelot was shaking his head in disbelief, leaning forward, his hands on his knees.

  Brin crossed the distance and joined the celebration of limbs and laughter, taking his daughter’s face in his hands before openly weeping at the sight of her.

  Arthur observed it all through his tears, even as a sweet rush of relief stirred him with force enough to weaken his knees. Fionna was alive. Fionna was . . . fae.

  Brin, Galahad, and Percival broke off their embrace, stepping back while wiping tears from their eyes. Lancelot straightened and nodded as their eyes met.

  Then Fionna turned to him. Arthur’s stomach flipped. Gods, he was nervous! Fionna had always been beautiful, even unnaturally so. But now . . . She was radiant. Ethereal. Otherworldly. She was the moon. She was the snow in winter. The spread wings of a hundred swans in flight. An earth goddess. A Gwenevere. Who was he to deign to love her? Let alone be wed to her. Lay with her—

  “Is my husband just going to stand there like a daft imbecile?” Fionna put her hands on her hips. “Or are ye going to embrace me?”

  A startled bark of laughter escaped him, even as his cheeks reddened.

  “It isn’t every day I come back from the dead,” she continued, stepping out of the cauldron and toward him. “I would think some congratulations are in order.”

  Yes, she was the first Gwenevere in a thousand years. A white enchantress of tremendous power. But she was also Fionna. His wife. And you didn’t keep Fionna waiting. Arthur stepped forward, taking her face gently in his hands. Her skin was as soft as goose down and he could swear it glittered faintly beneath his dirty fingers.

  She met his eyes and smiled. “Now kiss me, ye idiot.”

  Arthur smiled too, and drew her mouth to his, tasting the first thaw of spring, the wild whortleberries in summer. She tasted like eternity. And possibility. And also, distinctly, like his Fionna.

  “Is it just me or does fae Fionna seem feistier than human Fionna?” Percival mused to himself as Arthur broke off the kiss.

  “Not sure that’s possible,” Galahad replied. “You can only contain so much feisty in one body.”

  “One human body, aye,” Percival countered. “But her body is fae now. The normal rules don’t apply.”

  “You two are idiots,” Lancelot said, but his words were light.

  Fionna tucked herself under Arthur’s arm, acknowledging each of them in turn. “Thank ye. And Merlin.” She turned to the druid. “Thank ye most of all. For bringing me back from the darkness.”

  “I owe ye all a life debt, twice over now,” Brin said.

  “Da . . .”

  “Brin,” Arthur began, “Your Majesty, there is no debt to be paid.”

  “But—”

  Arthur placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Peace. Let us talk no more of death and debts.”

  Fionna smiled at her father. “For our connection runs far deeper than death. As my foot touched the Underworld, I still felt a tether to yer heart,” she said first to Galahad, “And yers,” to Percival, “and yers,” to Lancelot.” Her eyes softened and rested on Arthur, and she whispered, “And yers, My King.”

  Merlin inclined his head. His hands were tucked in his robes. “Indeed, it was your connection to each knight that saved you. I was just the conduit for the magic to work.”

  Fionna’s eyes went thoughtful at that, and she exchanged a look with Arthur.

  “So, is it safe to assume that the géis is broken?” Lancelot asked. “You look different. Do you feel different? Powerful?”

  “I do feel different,” Fionna said. “I can sense things. Like . . . I’m connected to it all. I can feel the sickness in the land. And as for power . . .” she closed her eyes. “There is something there. A well. I am not sure how to access it though.” She furrowed her brow, and a gust of cold wind curled past, making Arthur shiver.

  “Is that . . .” Galahad pointed to something in the air between them.

  “A snowflake,” Lancelot said, incredulous, stepping closer.

  “Where?” Fionna asked, opening her eyes. The snowflake vanished as the room re-warmed.

  “Morgana and her sisters will tremble before the might of your snowflake.” Percival nodded with mock seriousness.

  Fionna reached out and cuffed him gently. “Just wait until the snowflake brings friends.”

  Lancelot gaped at Fionna, a strange look for his friend. “I can’t believe it,” he eventually pushed out in a breathy whisper.

  “What?” Arthur asked.

  “Morgana’s curse. She said that I would love a Gwenevere as pure as the driven snow. I always thought it meant Fionna’s fair coloring. But what if it was more? Fae don’t have the ability to lie, but they speak in riddles and poetry. Perhaps Morgana foresaw how this Gwenevere’s magic would have the ability to affect the w
eather. To bring snowfall, even in the heat of summer.”

  “Wait, so Fionna can’t lie?” Percival grinned. “Whose manhood is lar––”

  “She’s only half fae,” Galahad said, taking his turn to cuff Percival.

  “Merlin,” Lancelot turned to the druid. “Do you think you could teach Fionna how to wield her magic, so she could bring blizzard-like conditions?”

  “Possibly,” Merlin answered. “We’ll need some time, however.”

  “How much time?” Arthur asked. “Because Morgana and O’Lynn won’t give us much.”

  “Magic usually cannot be learned in an afternoon. But since it is in Fionna’s very essence, I suspect she will be a quick study,” Merlin said.

  An idea was coming to life in Arthur’s mind. “What’s the status of O’Lynn’s armies?” He asked.

  Lancelot replied. “A soldier came and told me that the men behind the keep’s wall had retreated. They were hoping for a stealth attack, not a drawn-out engagement. When O’Lynn learned we knew of his treachery, he must have pulled them back.”

  “But the reprieve will be short,” Arthur said. “Tomorrow, at the latest, they will engage. They won’t sit around too much longer.”

  “Aye, yer king speaks truth,” Brin added.

  “It’s a big army to feed,” Galahad said. “And with the sickness in the land, they won’t be able to rely on foraging.”

  “Finally, something works to our advantage,” Arthur murmured. “If Fionna can summon a blizzard, I want to bring the battle to them. Do you think you can manage it?”

  Fionna nodded, a grim smile on her face. “To trounce Morgana and O’Lynn? I’ll be ready.”

  Arthur took her hand, threading his fingers though hers and squeezing. “Good. I grow tired of Morgana’s games. I grow tired of O’Lynn’s soldiers darkening my doorstep. Ready the soldiers for battle. We attack tonight.”

  I WAS INUNDATED with sensation. Merlin and I couldn’t risk being caught unawares in his cave, so we ducked into a back corner of the library, where my knights had received strict orders to leave us alone.