Albion's Legacy (Sons Of Camelot Book 3)

by Sarah Luddington

  I couldn’t meet those dark blue eyes; they were penetrating in their intense scrutiny. He took my hand and led me to the rock on which I’d woken. We sat shoulder to shoulder and I watched the mist swirling around Lancelot and Morgana.

  “It’s hard work isn’t?” he said, the tone rueful.

  I glanced at him, the handsome face younger than I remembered from my childhood. His soul had returned to the physical form he had before I was born. That said something profound and sad, leaving me feeling even worse.

  “Camelot?” I asked, looking for a specific and needing to fill the silence.

  “All of it. Being a client state that Albion’s throne relies on to remain stable. Being the rational part of this fey world, the element which grounds their desires and of course Camelot.”

  “Isabel wants me home. She doesn’t understand why Galahad is so important or why I’m running all over the world for him,” I told him.

  “She has a point, as did your mother when she hated me running around with the Wolf.” His eyes strayed to Lancelot and his Wolf looked at him, a gentle smile softening his dark features. They were bonded in a way I’d never be with Galahad.

  My fingers were tangling more aggressively among themselves, the knuckles going white. “Father, I can’t be king. I am deeply in love with a man. He was a prostitute in Larz. The court won’t accept him. Galahad will give him land and titles but it won’t change how Isabel feels. And that’s just a part of it. I’ve disgraced Camelot, disgraced the Pendragon name. I am a failure.”

  My father’s hand covered mine and patted them before resting over them to calm their torment. “Do you think it was easy for me? When your mother and Lancelot were lovers the court fed with a terrible frenzy on the gossip and our pain? It was the darkest time of my life. I was losing my court, the respect of the crown, my wife and my best friend. A best friend I loved and wanted for myself. I never thought they’d accept him. All the court really needs is stability and the ability to maintain that stability. It’s creating the reality which is hard.”

  I stared at my boots. “I don’t want to do it, Father.”

  “Neither did I, son,” Arthur Pendragon said.

  His words did not make me feel any better. He’d lived with the pressure of the throne for his entire life and now it was my turn. I wanted him to give permission for me to turn against the throne, to walk away, but he would never give me the consent necessary.

  “Holt, listen to me,” he said. “Being a king is about sacrifice, and our family name comes with that burden. I lost so much time with Lancelot. I am sorry, son, but you have no choice.”

  I heaved in a large breath. “I am going to abdicate,” I said. I found the courage to look into his eyes.

  Arthur sucked in a breath through his teeth. “You can’t.”

  “I can, Father. I can leave Camelot. I do not have to live your life. I will not sacrifice Severus. I will not hurt him or myself the way you and Lancelot suffered. I am not you.” I finished slowly and quietly. I could feel his anger rising, his temper usually quick and vicious.

  “Arthur, he has a point,” Lancelot said. He’d walked toward us and stood before his lover.

  “He is King,” Arthur snapped. “He is my son. He is a Pendragon. It is his duty.” My father bit each sentence off with the rage building.

  “He is not the right man for the job. Your daughter is the right man, you’ve always known that.” Lancelot turned to me and smiled, his dark eyes sad for my sake. “Holt should not be chained to a throne he doesn’t want. Why can’t a Pendragon be happy, Arthur?”

  “It is not our fate.”

  “If you had not been crowned King we could have known lives with so much more grace and peace,” he said, not rising to my father’s anger.

  I could see the tears gathering in my father’s eyes. “I know,” he whispered. “But it is our duty.”

  “Give him your benediction, Arthur,” Lancelot said. “Allow him to be the man you could not be.”

  My father turned to look at me and I watched a tear slide down his cheek. I looked away, his gaze too tragic for me to bear. “I can’t,” he said. “He must endure, as I did, as his children will.”

  “That’s the point, Arthur, he won’t have children,” Morgana said quietly. “He can’t. He isn’t like you and Lancelot.”

  “I cannot give him the grace he wants,” Arthur said.

  Lancelot sighed. “We are running out of time. We must send Holt back; do this for your son, Arthur. We will never meet again during his life.”

  My father rose and walked away from me. Lancelot placed a strong hand on my shoulder and Morgana stroked my hair for a moment. I thought my heart would break. I didn’t want to leave them but Severus and Galahad needed me. My duty, my throne, waited for me. I would return to life.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The weight of the amulet Morgana wanted us to use to destroy The Lady was a weight equal to the task ahead of me. It was the weight of Albion and our responsibility within its fate. I could not look at my father, his denial of the future I hoped to have burned inside me making it almost impossible to breathe. I would never gain his approval if I achieved my freedom from Camelot. If I’d never come here, if I’d never been able to speak with the dead, I would not have known he’d never sanction my release. I could have lied to myself that he’d have approved, that he’d have understood I wanted to live without the throne of Camelot pulling me down into the pit.

  “Come, Holt, it is time I sent you back to my son. I can feel he is dying,” Lancelot spoke gravely and held out his hand for me.

  I pushed myself off the rock and joined him. My father took my other hand, also grim and silent; Morgana took her place between them – as she had been in life.

  “Look at me, Holt,” she commanded gently. I stared into her vivid blue eyes and she smiled. “You can do this. You can save Galahad. I can see your bonding with him and it is strong, the love you share for each other goes beyond anything I could have hoped for, Albion is lucky to have you both as her saviours.”

  “I can only hope you are right. After everything I have endured since we met I do not feel up to this task. I am not fey, I am not the Black Wolf or the White Hart. I am just a man,” I told her.

  Her eyes were soft, her smile sad. “You have never had enough faith in yourself, Holt. You are not your father and frankly, if you were, Galahad would not be the man he is. Your love for him has been the guiding light he’s needed since you first met. Your consistency is something he values more than anything else. Love him, Holt, and he will find the strength to finish this fight.”

  “And our future?” I whispered, as I felt the power around us grow.

  “I cannot see the future, Holt, no one can. However, I think you should find peace between your head and your heart, then follow the path they give you.” Her blue eyes were now luminance with the power around us.

  I looked at Lancelot, the shadow of a large black wolf standing at his back. “Give my son our love, Holt. Look after him. One day, when the time is right, we will meet again. You are a brave and strong man, I am proud of you, son of Camelot.”

  “Thank you, my Lord. I carry you all in my heart every day. I miss you and I will do everything I can not to fail you,” I whispered. The power grew more intense and my bones began to ache. I looked to my left and found my father’s grave gaze watching me silently.

  “Father.” I was going to lose him forever and we were not at peace. I loved him.

  His hand became tighter on mine. “Son. Morgana is a wise woman, find peace between your heart and your head, that will show you the path to take. You are right, my path is not yours. I have no right to hold you to a life which will make you miserable. I found peace with Camelot in my own way.” His gaze shifted to Lancelot’s. “But Galahad is not his father, and you cannot be me. We all find our own way. Find your own peace.”

  I found it almost impossible to breathe. “Thank you,” I gasped. My knees folded. “Mothe
r... Tell her...”

  The three icons of Albion stood impassive and strangely distant despite our intimacy of moments before. “I shall, son,” Arthur Pendragon said to me. “Farewell.”

  “Father!” I gasped, the pain now so intense I was forced to screw my eyes shut. A thin whine escaped my clenched jaw and my back arched. The hands holding mine were searing against my palms. I fought to try to pull away but they were implacable in their determination to hold me locked inside the terrible pain. With burning nerves, flaming bones, boiling blood, splitting skin, I felt my mind finally begin to collapse. Darkness swept over me.

  The gasping efforts of my burning lungs drew me from unconsciousness with alarming violence.

  I thrashed about, trying to rise but disorientated because my back was pressed into a large tree. As the pain inducing the panic improved, my limbs organised themselves to push me straight and upright. I closed my eyes for a few moments and replayed the last few hours... Or was it days?

  “Father...” I whispered. I looked down and saw the pendant given to me by Morgana. The complex designs on the surface made my stomach churn with discomfort as I tried to trace the pattern. I gave up and removed it from around my neck, slipping it into the purse on my belt. I had the feeling I shouldn’t touch the thing too often.

  Next came the horse. He was stood nearby, impassive and seemingly asleep, making me realise it was dawn in the east. I touched my neck and felt deep bruises, even swallowing was difficult and when I tried to speak above a whisper it hurt. I ached all over and as I struggled to my feet I realised each bone in my body moaned and protested.

  “Galahad,” I forced through the bruising on my throat. The horse woke with a start and shuffled about as I slowly lifted the heavy saddle onto his back. This small and familiar action almost made me weep it hurt so much. My heartbeat and breathing raced from my control and I bumped my forehead against the saddle waiting for the pain to reduce. It took too long. The sun broke over the horizon flooding the woodland with light and deep shadows. It spurred me on and I gathered my few belongings together before mounting the horse.

  I had no way of reaching Galahad and I wasn’t going to try using our bonding again, for all I knew that’s how The Lady had found me. With gentle coaxing the horse shifted and we rejoined the path. I found my water flask and drank a little of the stale liquid, forcing it past the damage in my throat. Despite its unpleasant taste the water revived me and I managed to push the horse into a canter.

  The woodland path remained wide and well maintained. The birds twittered loudly in the dawn light and small animals moved through the trees. I could not see a sign of Galahad or Sherriff.

  Wandering aimlessly through this large forest didn’t make any sense and wouldn’t help. I really needed a plan but the lack of fey blood made me weak and unable to find my friend. I thought back to how it felt to be with my father and Lancelot once more. It was strange to see them and it made me want to return to the man they knew, the man before all the experiences I’d shared with Galahad but I wasn’t that man any longer. I’d worn a crown. I’d made decisions about the lives of hundreds of people. I’d been brutalised. I’d been loved. I’d survived encounters with some of the most powerful fey in Albion and I’d become a team with Galahad.

  I was not the man they knew. I was my own man, and I did not want to be king. I was not my father and if he thought I could be that man then he was mistaken. My fate was not Camelot. My fate was my own.

  The resolution to abdicate hardened within me, Camelot would not be my millstone. My heart and head finally began to align and it felt good, it gave me strength.

  I’d been concentrating so hard on my thoughts I almost missed the very thing I’d hoped to stumble across, a sign of Galahad, a set of tracks. I slowed, turned and rode back to the faint marks in the dust of the track. I slid off the horse and landed lightly on my feet, the slight buzz of the hunt making me forget the pain of my throat and joints. This was one of the things I knew how to do well. I could find anything if I had the evidence to follow.

  I found a single faint hoof print, the other three gone from the path, and a disturbed line of grass. The blades were bent, the dew disturbed, but it was narrow, too narrow for a horse. Where did Sherriff go?

  I doubled back on myself and looked for more hoof prints. There weren’t any, just the one which snagged my attention and, importantly, I could see the signs of a branch being used to wipe out more evidence. Someone was stopping me from following Galahad easily. Was it The Lady? Was it someone who wanted him to face the trials alone and therefore was a potential enemy I didn’t know about or was it simply cruel fey tricks?

  Feeling more than a little grim I returned to the original print, put my fingers in my mouth and whistled. The noise would disturb anyone who was listening but I also knew I’d have an ally if I found Sherriff. We’d travelled a long time without Galahad and he knew me almost as well as my Sparrow did. I heard strange sounds coming from my right. I jogged toward the rustling, snapping, grunting noise.

  I clambered over a broken tree trunk and into the chaotic brush which grew in this area of the forest. Pushing through a large bush I found Sherriff. The huge white stallion was covered in blood and vines tangled through his mane and tail, up his legs and were wrapping around his face, weaving into his bridle and saddle.

  The great calm eye on my side widened the moment I appeared and he snorted, trying to pull himself free to reach me.

  I held my hands out, palms down. “It’s alright, boy, I’m here. We’ll cut you free. Calm, Sherriff. Calm.”

  The vines were covered in small spikes and they were shredding Sherriff’s soft fine coat. I did not want to be tangled into the vines myself, it was clear they weren’t natural, so I drew my sword and began cutting. The moment I started to slice through the mass the ones around Sherriff grew tighter causing the destrier to panic further, making him rear against the unnatural restraints.

  “Damn it,” I murmured watching the vines lash about, looking for me blindly and red sap coming from the broken ends. I called to the horse. “Sherriff, I need you to calm down.” He wouldn’t understand the actual words but my voice and tone would work on a warhorse with his training. He instantly stood still, as his training dictated but I could see him trembling and the snorting didn’t stop his sides heaving and sweating.

  I placed a foot among the vines, very gently. They wriggled over my booted foot but I remained still and they relaxed. It seemed they were attracted to movement. I carefully removed my foot and studied the horse. Now he’d stilled, the vines weren’t growing any worse. I began to trace the vines, seeking a single source. The nest grew thickest near a large beech tree.

  I walked away from the stallion and toward the tree, sword still in hand and watched the vines waft in a breeze which didn’t exist. The central vine was thicker than a man’s neck and many smaller vines sprang from around it protecting the core stem. The best angle would require me to use the sword as an axe but the small one I carried for long journeys was on Sparrow and Galahad’s was on Sherriff, and I didn’t have access to either. I considered my options quickly, not wanting Sherriff to suffer unnecessarily and picked the best angle. I drew back the sword, shifted my weight and swung the sword downward.

  “Don’t do that!” a voice called from my left.

  The sword hit the dirt as I tried to pull the strike and grated against stone.

  “Bloody hell,” I snapped, yanking my prized possession from the ground. The moment she was free I set her against the direction of the voice. A large green pair of eyes stared at me from behind the tree, deep in shadow.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Who are you?” the figure asked mimicking my voice perfectly.

  “My horse is suffering. That plant is killing him. If you are some kind of forest fey let him go and we’ll move on,” I said.

  The eyes blinked at me. “What do I get in return?” it asked.

  I sighed heavily, bloody fey. �
�What do you want?”

  “Put your iron away first,” it demanded. The voice wasn’t human. It was sibilant, the way I’d imagine a snake would talk.

  “No chance.”

  The eyes retreated. “Then your horse is plant food.” The ‘s’ was a hiss.

  The temptation to lose my temper was overwhelming, forcing me to grit my teeth against the desire to slaughter the strange fey. The damn thing would doubtless vanish before my eyes and I was in its territory. I slowly placed my sword back in her scabbard and held my hands up to show they were empty. If it didn’t like iron this creature was old fey, like shifters were old.

  “Or dragons,” the voice said, the eyes returning and this time a small face. The nose was snubbed and upturned. The eyes were large and round, the chin pointed as were the ear tips. The teeth were sharp and the lips narrow, the skin deep green. It wasn’t attractive.

  “You know about dragons?” I asked.

  “I know about yours,” it said.

  “What do you know?”

  The figure’s long thin fingers grabbed the tree trunk and it pushed itself further into the light. “What do I get?” The eyes narrowed and the ears seemed to flatten against the bald skull.

  “Let the horse go and we’ll talk about it,” I said.

  The figure giggled, its shoulders jumping up and down. “Trick, you’re trying to trick me. Deal for the horse, deal for the dragon.” It wagged its finger in my direction. “You very naughty.”

  “What deal do you want for freeing the horse?” I asked, horribly aware of the pain Sherriff must be enduring while I stood there listening to a small green woodland creature.

  “A kiss,” it said promptly.

  I laughed. “Seriously? You want a kiss?”

  The fey drew its head back and it frowned. “A kiss. A mortal kiss. I have never kissed a mortal man. I want a kiss. I am pretty. I want a kiss.”

  I crouched down and studied the small creature. “A kiss from a mortal man is it. I am sworn to another.”