Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  But even here, in this hushed dusty place, I was overwhelmed. With my new fae senses, I felt like I was coming up from a lifetime underwater. Every fiber of Merlin’s robes, every whorl of his tattoos, I could see them more clearly than I knew was possible. The smell of crisp, aging pages and old leather threatened to submerge me. So potent were the scents in the air that I could taste each one on my tongue. My ears perked at the sounds of a moth’s wings brushing against a leather spine one row over. My ears—I couldn’t help but feel them again, the delicate tapered points. Was this the true me? It didn’t feel like me. It felt like stepping into someone else’s body. I hoped this sensory saturation would settle in time.

  But nothing was more foreign than the feel of magic. My skin felt alive with it—everywhere, tingling all around me. In the Great Hall, I hadn’t understood how Arthur and each of the knights felt so different, so strange to me. Yet, familiar . . . like an old lullaby you had forgotten until you heard the familiar, comforting melody on someone else’s lips. Now, I think, I was beginning to understand.

  “Your Majesty. Did you hear me?” Merlin snapped his fingers in front of me, and I jerked to attention. “Magic is a lot to take in,” he continued, his tone softening. “If these studies are too much, tell Arthur. You should not be expected to have mastered all the lessons in a few hours.”

  I squared my shoulders. “They’re depending on me. Caerleon is. If I don’t master my magic, people will die. There’s no real choice.”

  “Then pay attention.” The words were harsh, but his face held kindness. Understanding.

  “Start again.” I sighed, focusing on him. My sight zoomed in until I could see every pore. I shook my head, struggling to adjust.

  “You know of the five elements,” Merlin began again. “They are the basic building blocks of all life. They are also the fundamental essence of magic. To manipulate matter, you must understand its component parts.”

  I nodded sagely. I think I was following.

  “Druids use aids to access these parts, to mold them as we will. Spells, herbs, other ingredients that will aid our manipulation. You, however, have those elements within you. You need no help to utilize them.”

  “Like the snowflake in the Great Hall,” I said.

  “Exactly. Anything you might want to change or create is all just a matter of fitting the elements together in different combinations and patterns. Most fae have an affinity to one or more of the elements. You, Fionna, are almost all aether.”

  “Great,” I said, pausing to take in his words. “What does that mean?”

  “Aether is space. The space between elements, where the spark of life itself begins and lives.”

  I pursed my lips together. “I don’t know how that translates to magic.”

  Merlin considered, leaning back. “Imagine that performing a spell is like . . . planting a garden. You need the seed, the air for the sprout to breath, water, and the warmth of the sun. But you also need a place to plant it. Fertile soil. That is aether. That is you, Fionna.”

  That did make some sense. Though, the concept brought me no closer to doing actual magic.

  “Let us try. You seem like the type where action may be preferable to theory,” Merlin said. “Close your eyes.”

  I did as instructed and, almost immediately, a new sensation filled me. A light tug on my awareness.

  “You must first find where within you your magic resides,” Merlin said.

  I knew that’s what this feeling was. The moment I yielded to the tug, it was like I was pulled sideways within my own essence, into a place of infinite darkness. But it was not a fearful darkness. It was just . . . empty. Waiting.

  “This inner place may feel like—”

  “I’m there,” I said, cutting Merlin off.

  A pause. “Very well. Now you must locate the other elements. Bring them into this space, and then use your will to mold them into what you wish them to be.”

  “And that will . . . make things happen? Magic?”

  “Indeed. This is the law of correspondences. One of the immutable laws of the universe. As within, so without.”

  I was already reaching out, feeling for the elements. This was harder, I didn’t know them like I knew aether. Like I knew myself.

  But then, my consciousness brushed against something familiar, and realization flared within me. This feeling—this essence—it was one I knew. It felt like . . . Arthur. Like hearth and home, the smell of fresh churned soil, and fresh-baked bread. Earth.

  I reached for the other elements eagerly, already knowing what I would find. I was familiar with them, the feel and taste and touch of them were written on my heart, on my very soul. I knew these elements as I knew my knights.

  I found air next, the feel of Zephyr galloping beneath me, the wind whipping my hair about my face. Trees fluttering in the breeze, bearing the scent of berries and green grass and the sound of laughter. Percival.

  Then water. The strength and stamina that was Galahad, a raging river carving its way through the rocks and soil until after a patient millennia, all had yielded to the current’s curving path. It was the strange feel of buoyancy as I floated on my back in a lake, face upturned to the heavens, supported by everything and nothing all at once.

  Lastly there was fire. The heat and smell of a bonfire raging beneath the wide-open sky, the warmth of the embers shining in Lancelot’s eyes. The feel of the sun as it filtered through a green forest, dappling my face with its sweet kisses. Fire, I thought. I would know you anywhere.

  Tears trickled down my face as I pulled the elements to me, molding them in this space. Each unique—each essential for life. Every bit of flora and fauna that graced the earth, every man, woman, and child. Without all four, the world would fall to dust.

  And, so would I.

  I opened my eyes and found that my tears were joined by a warm deluge. Rain poured from the air above us, dripping down me and Merlin in rivulets. A surprised laugh escaped me as I put my hands up, blinking against the droplets.

  “I think Arthur might appreciate it if you did not drown his entire library.” A hint of a smile flitted across Merlin’s lips.

  Chagrined, I retreated into the space within myself, pulling the elements apart, wishing them well on their journeys back to their source.

  When I opened my eyes again, the rain had stopped.

  Merlin wiped his face, flicking the water to the ground. “Well. I think it’s safe to say you have found the source of your magic.”

  I surged to my feet, my heart soaring within me. “Aye. Aye, I have.”

  ARTHUR HAD BID his knights to meet in his study when their tasks were complete. So, Percival found his feet bearing him that direction, though his mind was elsewhere. With Fionna. The morning’s events seemed a strange dream. She had died. And come to life as a shining goddess, her appearance reflecting the wonder that Percival already knew was within.

  It had taken all of them to bring her back. Merlin had set them around the Cauldron, and Percival had felt the magic tug on him, pull from him. He had known all along—the curse over the land, the blessed five, the Grail—from the very beginning they were tied and tangled together in a web of magic and emotion that could never be unknotted.

  Percival stopped outside the door to Arthur’s study, rallying his courage. He needed to tell his king. Fionna belonged to all of them, and herself. Percival wanted to marry her too. If she would have him.

  His heart stuttered nervously as he stepped into the study. Lancelot, Galahad, and Arthur were gathered around Arthur’s desk and standing over what looked like a crude map.

  Their dark knight was leaning over the table and pointing at the paper in a way that displayed the formed muscles of his legs and finely-shaped arse. Percival jerked his eyes upward as he realized where they lingered, his face heating. A man could objectively admire the fine form of another man, no? Never mind, his mind whispered. His admiration for Lancelot was anything but objective.

  “Ah, Pe
rcival,” Arthur said. “The armory has provided the extra arrows we need?”

  Percival nodded. “The bower discovered a few extra bundles of arrows inside a dusty chest in the corner of the armory. He placed them beside the cauldron for Merlin when he finishes with Fionna.”

  “Excellent,” Arthur said. “I think we’re all set here too.” He put his hands on his hips. “How do we think our Fionna is doing?”

  “Yer Fionna is faring well,” Fionna said, striding into the room, her eyes shining like incandescent pearls.

  Percival took a step back, despite himself. Fionna had always exuded force and confidence, but now . . . her very presence made him want to fall to a knee before her. She was majestic.

  “You have accessed your magic?” Arthur asked.

  She smiled. “Merlin is a wonderful teacher. And I am an apt pupil, if I do say so myself.”

  “And a humble one at that,” Lancelot quipped.

  “The battle plans are set,” Galahad said. “If you’re ready, we can attack at nightfall.”

  “I’m . . . almost ready,” she said. “There is something I must attend to before we ride for battle. My King, may I speak with ye privately for a moment?”

  Arthur nodded, and the two crossed the room to a corner, whispering in hushed tones.

  Percival swaggered to the table and examined the map, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could look over his shoulder and lip-read what was going on in that corner. For he had something he needed to say too. But he wasn’t sure if now was the right time.

  Lancelot had no such compunctions. He was watching Arthur and Fionna with hawk eyes.

  “And the three of us on the outside,” Galahad rumbled softly. “How it ever shall be.”

  Percival looked up at that, unaccustomed to such moroseness from Galahad. He supposed losing the woman you love could do that to a man. In a way, she had died twice to them.

  “It should not be so,” Percival said. “I have not given up hope.”

  Lancelot reached out to cuff him, and Percival grabbed his wrist before he made contact, stopping his hand mid-air. Their eyes locked and Lancelot slowly raised an eyebrow. “Look who’s all grown up,” he murmured.

  “I am,” Percival said, perhaps a bit forcefully. “And I plan on asking for Fionna’s hand. The worst he can say is no.”

  “The worst he can do is execute you or throw you out on your ear.” Lancelot eyes darkened, and a muscle pulsed along his jaw. Then he dropped his voice for Percival alone. “And I . . . I can’t lose—”

  “This is Arthur we’re talking about,” Galahad said quietly, interrupting. “He would never.”

  A throat cleared and the three of them snapped to attention. Fionna stood before them, Arthur a few paces behind.

  “It’s not every day a woman dies and comes back to life,” she began. “And it makes a person realize a thing or two about what’s important. When I felt the knife pierce my back, my mind was filled with the woeful thought of leaving Arthur. But more than that. I was filled with sorrow over the thought of leaving each of ye.”

  “And we ye, dove,” Percival whispered.

  She took in a long, shaky breath, and then lifted her chin. “The fact is, I love ye. Each of ye. And I think, despite the necklace’s charms, that ye each love me. Truly.”

  “Ye know I do,” Percival said.

  “There’s no other,” Galahad agreed, resignation written across his handsome face.

  Lancelot nodded slowly. “As much as I’ve tried to fight it, my heart is yours.”

  “When I tried to access my magic, I realized something. We are tied together, us five. By honor, and duty, and respect. By love. But by more than that. There is magic deep in each of us, in each of ye. It sings in yer blood, in yer very soul. I knew the magic, because I know each of ye intimately. The gods, or fate, or chance . . . something brought us five together. And fused us together with unbreakable bonds. Bonds of love. I may be the Gwenevere, but my power is tied inextricably to each of ye.”

  “What are you saying, Fionna?” Lancelot asked. His face was hard. “You’re married to our king and now our queen.”

  “Aye.” She turned and reached a hand back to Arthur. He grasped hers and squeezed. “Arthur is my husband.” She twisted back and met each of our eyes. “But in Ireland, a woman may take more than one husband.” She dropped Arthur’s hand and approached Galahad until she stood before his immense bulk. “Sir Galjorheledanik of Swansea––”

  “You finally learned to pronounce my Norse name,” Galahad said, a smile crossing his face.

  She laughed. “I did. Galahad, I claim ye. I would have ye as my husband, if ye would pledge yerself to me.”

  Percival hissed in a breath. Truly? Was this truly happening?

  Galahad looked at Arthur with cautious expectancy. “This isn’t Ireland.”

  Arthur merely nodded his assent.

  With a huzzah, Galahad pulled Fionna into a bear hug, spinning her around before claiming her mouth with a kiss. Then the big man began laughing and, Percival swore, tears formed in Galahad’s eyes.

  Percival watched with breathless excitement. For he was next.

  “Sir Percival of Caer Benic, His Majesty, the Fisher King,” she said, as Galahad put her down on somewhat shaky legs. Looking at her in that moment, Percival thought his heart might swell to bursting. “I claim ye, pigeon. Would—”

  “Aye lass, I willingly join yer harem of husbands. Now kiss me already,” Percival said, grinning as he dipped her back. In the background he could hear the other knights’ laughter, but Fionna filled his awareness. Her lips and tongue now buzzed with power and magic, hitting him in a heady wave. He lifted her back up, breaking their kiss, and then he blew out an excited breath. Joining with the Gwenevere would be an . . . invigorating experience.

  Then it hit him. She called him “pigeon.” He slid her a sly smile and she winked.

  Fionna turned to Lancelot next. His jaw was set, his fists clenched at his side. As if he couldn’t dare believe such good fortune would come his way. “Sir Lancelot du Lac, Prince of two worlds,” Fionna murmured, reaching a hand up to caress his chiseled cheek. “I claim ye. Will ye marry me, and let me show ye how much I want ye all the days of yer life?”

  “My King?” Lancelot raised his eyes to look at Arthur across the room. “Are you sure this is what you desire? Our brotherhood means too much—”

  “Peace,” Arthur said, stepping forward to put a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, closing the circle beside Fionna. “I was thinking of this harem of husbands, as Percival put it, far before Fionna brought the idea to me. It has been my honor to share my kingship and my hearth with such fine brothers as you all. I can think of no one else whom I would want as family.”

  Fionna turned back to Lancelot, who was blinking back emotion. Then, in one powerful move, he seized Fionna by the arse and lifted her up astride his waist, spinning slowly while their lips met. As they joined in a kiss, an energy filled the air, lighting the circle with power that heated Percival’s blood. Fionna broke off the kiss and, with her legs still wrapped around Lancelot, leaned back to kiss Arthur, claiming their king with her lips.

  Galahad reached out with a reverent hand to brush a stray braid from her arched throat, and Fionna responded by pulling back from Arthur. Their Gwenevere’s eyes were alight with desire and love and magic, and she leaned forward to kiss Galahad once more.

  As she did, Percival met Lancelot’s eye and saw such a grin of genuine happiness there that it nearly took his breath. He wrapped one arm around Lancelot’s shoulder, pulling him close. “Joy suits ye, brother,” Percival murmured, and Lancelot turned his head until their faces nearly touched. Something passed between them, different from Fionna’s magic. A tingling, a knowing that Percival recognized, a current of magic. The same one he experienced the first time he first glimpsed Lancelot riding through the forest. A recognition of kinship. And love.

  “I learn from the best,” Lancelot murmured
softly, and then leaned in for a kiss.

  SOLDIERS FILLED THE dark courtyard. Rows and rows of armed warriors waited silently for the gates to open, for their king’s command. Lancelot shifted, scrunching his toes in his boots to keep them warm. Though it was nearing midsummer, his breath fogged the air, the chill cutting through his leathers to rest deep in his core. Where their enemy slept, in the quiet camp beyond, a steady snow began to fall.

  Fionna had taken to magic like she had to everything—effortlessly. She stood atop the keep’s wall like a white sentinel, her eyes closed, her form barely visible in the low light. It was a full moon tonight, but the heavy clouds Fionna had summoned blotted out all but the faintest glow of Cerridwen’s light.

  “A good night for a dark deed,” Lancelot said under his breath.

  Arthur, standing at his side, glanced his way. “I fear our course lacks honor. Attacking under cover of dark. Is this the coward’s way?”

  “Our enemy has no honor,” Lancelot said. “O’Lynn wouldn’t hesitate for a second to take Caerleon by stealth or trickery. And don’t get me started on Morgana. Remember the Castle of Maidens?”

  Arthur’s hand floated to his side where he had been wounded by the faerie spear. “How could I forget.”

  “This is the best way. And will result in the least loss of life, on both sides. You know that.”

  “I do,” Arthur sighed. “It’s only that sometimes I wonder if chivalry is dying.”

  “Let’s stay alive to save it then,” Lancelot said, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. “And secure Fionna a wedding gift in the process.”

  “Eh?” Arthur raised an eyebrow.

  “Her sister’s freedom.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed and his jaw set. “I think it’s time to be on the move. Fionna’s magic has chilled the summer’s dawn for an hour now. The snow will muffle our movements and reduce visibility. Let’s just hope the Uí Tuírtri don’t know we’re coming until we’re already upon them.”