Albion's Legacy (Sons Of Camelot Book 3)

by Sarah Luddington

  “Maybe we should just get this over with,” Galahad muttered.

  We continued on in silence, ears straining for the sounds of potential violence. The creature we’d killed couldn’t be the only thing lurking in the dark, we just weren’t that lucky.

  Morgan guided us around a corner and that’s when we finally did hear something – music. It was a gentle tinkle of sound, not a drunken ballad, with an old fashioned cant to the melody. We all stopped and listened. There were voices among the instruments of wind and string. It sent a shiver up my spine and we all stopped moving.

  “Friend or foe?” Morgan asked quietly.

  “Do we have to go this way?” I whispered.

  She nodded. “It’s the way I am being guided, so whatever, whoever that is, we have to find out.”

  I sighed heavily and once again asked for patience. “There’s no way around?” I asked the questions, though I already knew the answers.

  Morgan shook her head. “All tunnels link through a large chamber, which is down there.” She pointed forward, her hand trembling a little.

  Galahad took her fingers in his and smiled just for his sister. “Whatever is down there, Morgan, we face it together.”

  “I know, I’d just like to go home,” she told him as he pulled her into an embrace. “A warm bath and my bed seem like a really good place to be right now. I’m trying to be brave. I know I have to do this but to be honest I’m scared.”

  “We are all scared, Morgan,” he said.

  “That’s not overly comforting,” she informed him, her right eyebrow raised. She looked so much like her mother it made my heart ache. I just wanted to protect her from this – whatever it was.

  “We have no choice but to go forward,” I said. “Our fates are impossible to escape at this point and the entire future of Albion and Camelot rests on our shoulders, so let’s go.” I was so tired and I just wanted to curl up with Galahad somewhere warm and full of sunlight, maybe a dappled glade with a river running through it and soft grass, very soft grass.

  “Not much of an inspiring speech,” Morgan said, squeezing my fingers in sympathy. “Couldn’t you have come up with something a bit more like your father used to manage?”

  I missed the opportunity to find her funny. Nothing about this situation made me feel humorous. “I’m not my father,” I muttered darkly, moving toward the sound of the music.

  Galahad stepped up beside me and held my arm. “No, Holt, you aren’t, you are a better man. Your loyalty to me has never swerved. It took your father a long time to learn to be loyal to mine.”

  I stopped and sighed, patting his hand on my arm and tried to soften his opinion about my father. “Different times, my friend, it was different times.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Holt,” Morgan said. “If it wasn’t for you, none of us would have survived after Mother died. From the first moment The Lady arrived you’ve been consistent to us and to the throne of Albion. It’s taken everything from you and yet you still give us more. I love you, brother,” she said. Her fingers entwined with mine and the wash of emotion I felt for her made Galahad gasp through our bonding. Images of our shared lives before he returned to us flashed through my head. The moment the twins were born, one dark, one blonde and I was permitted to hold them as I’d been in The City on the special occasion, which was touched with a savage grief as Lancelot and Morgana had lost Galahad already.

  The first time I saw the girls ride their fat little ponies. Their father so proud of Morgan’s instant argument with him that she could gallop like he did, all he’d done was laugh and kiss her crown of dark curls. I’d led Nim and she’d been far more cautious but laughed with joy when I’d coaxed the pony into a trot.

  All these memories we shared with Galahad in a rush and I watched a tear fall down his scarred cheek. He’d missed so much because of The Lady’s bargain with Lancelot for her help against the god Balar. Now we’d set their deal on its head. Our King of Albion would challenge The Lady and between us we’d defeat her because we’d been through the fires of damnation to reach a point where we had utter faith in each other. The three of us embraced, our family a tight unit.

  When we let each other go, Galahad and I flanked Morgan, the three of us moving in silence as we walked toward the music once more. Light, a silvery shining, crept around the final corner and the music began to seep through our minds. I started to slow down, my instincts making it clear the music wasn’t quite what it appeared to be, but I could feel Morgan and Galahad relax into the sound.

  “It’s beautiful,” murmured Morgan.

  “It’s captivating,” Galahad said.

  “I’m not sure this is going to be a good idea,” I muttered. “Something feels very dark under all that joy.”

  “You’re wrong, brother, it’s the music of the fey. It’s the oldest music of our kind. I’ve never heard it played so perfectly.” Morgan stepped forward more quickly. I reached for her arm, to keep her with me but she slipped out of my grasp like smoke. “It’s fine, Holt. It’s all fine...” The silver light made her hair shine with blue highlights.

  I glanced at Galahad and his eyes were glazed. He hummed under his breath, matching the sounds we heard and the bonding between us – so bright and strong a moment before – began to melt away.

  “Oh shit,” I muttered. I realised we were about to walk into a fey trap. One I could avoid because of my heritage but my companions were drawn to the sound and light – moths to the flame. I needed to snuff the sound out. My hand grasped the amulet Morgana had given me in my purse and I drew my sword.

  I followed the others into the underground cavern and instantly forgot to look for enemies.

  The room was filled with the ethereal silvery light, which emanated from the figures and table before me, and they shone with the magic of the stars. There must have been twenty five men and women sat around or on the vast table. It looked like it sprang from the rock under our feet, the legs a curving spiral, flowing outward at the top to form a large surface. Benches were formed in the same way but each person had a dip for their backsides to sit in comfort on the stone. There were three places free. One at the top of the table and one either side.

  The musicians were spread among the other guests, everyone sang or spoke in a language I didn’t understand; it wasn’t the Common Tongue of Albion. The people were fey but like none I’d ever seen. They were tall like the Sidhe race and slim of limb. Each movement they made was a mastery of grace and control. Like the Salamander race their teeth were sharp and despite the silver light rendering all colour shades of grey and white, I could tell some would have red hair, others blonde, some dark like Morgan and Galahad. All had finely dressed locks to their waists or beyond, and their upswept ears were sharper than any Sidhe I’d met. Their faces were thinner and more angular, cheekbones more obvious, mouths thinner but they were beautiful.

  They ate from platters full of fruits and finely prepared pastries, meats, vegetables, and drank from silver carafes of dark wines. They didn’t seem aware of us standing there staring, living statues watching them enjoy their feast.

  “They are the original fey,” Morgan whispered. “This is the race the Sidhe come from. We are corruptions of their perfection.”

  That’s the statement which shook me from my complacence. This was a trick by The Lady, a little something to shame and tempt my fey brethren. “Morgan, this isn’t real. They aren’t real. And if you think this is good – just take a look at the meat on the table,” I said in a low and urgent voice.

  When I’d first seen the meat I’d thought it beef or fowl or hog but it wasn’t. They were taking slices off small fey shaped bodies of various races within Albion.

  “It’s just the way of the old ones,” Morgan said, taking a step toward the table. My beloved sister would never, ever, countenance such cruelty.

  “Don’t!” I reached for her and this time gripped her so hard she couldn’t slip away from me.

  Galahad cam
e to my side. “They are singing of peace, Holt. They mean us no harm.” He touched my shoulder and I felt the bonding open, a rush of positive sensations to help me understand the true fey of the old Albion.

  I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. “If you think that you’re a fool,” I said harshly. The music stopped. All eyes turned to me. The hand wrapped around my sword hilt tensed, ready and waiting for the violence I wanted to unleash on this bizarre vision.

  The tallest of the men, from the far end of the table, rose and stepped around the revellers surrounding him.

  “Welcome, Galahad du Lac, King of Albion and Morgan Avallach. Welcome Loholt Pendragon, King of Camelot. We have been waiting for a long time.” His voice was heavily accented, his mastery of the Common language clearly unfamiliar. However, the grace of his words and the gentle tone made my heart ping. The sensation shocked me. Why would I want to rush toward his outstretched hand? Why would I want to kiss his knuckles in an act of homage? Why wasn’t I just killing this display of trickery?

  “You have us at a disadvantage, my lord,” Galahad said.

  “We seek no advantage over our brothers and sisters,” said a woman, who moved to stand next to the man. Their robes were similar, long, flowing and just the right side of opaque.

  “I am pleased, my lady, we seek none in our turn,” Galahad said and he bowed low, forever the courtly gentleman.

  Something about this reminded me of the Mer-King’s palace; it reeked of old fey magic and power. I wanted to run, I wanted to fight, but the oldest part of me, the fey heritage from my mother and father could hear the song of their existence and didn’t want to fight. It held me still.

  “Come and join us so we might be friends,” the woman said and she smiled; it was like being kissed by my mother all over again.

  Not so for Galahad. I felt his lust rise the longer he looked at the bewitching creature before us and I knew grief. It burned through me and took all fey trickery with it.

  “There is no sadness here, we are all equal,” said a younger man. He looked directly at me and smiled. I remembered this feeling, it had hit me the first moment I’d seen Galahad in that damned waterfall – naked and wet. A lust so strong it rendered me dizzy, but I’d fallen in love during that first moment of seeing Galahad, this wasn’t about love.

  A small sound of protest escaped me, my mortal and fey instincts at war within me, and I released Morgan from my grip. I wanted to kiss that man’s mouth, kiss that silvery skin and gaze into those perfect grey eyes forever. I would serve this perfection of masculinity forever...

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  I stepped toward him. The smile remained gentle. I took another step, my instincts unable to prevent my body’s desires. The smile became hungry. My instincts screamed, the warrior within me fighting the monster of lust, the man of Camelot fighting the ancient fey blood betraying me. The smile twisted and became cruel. The young man was hungry for a new toy, a new desire, a new victim.

  I was no man’s victim. Not again, not for Galahad, not for Camelot...

  I stopped walking forward.

  This was wrong.

  “Galahad, no,” I said, while watching my temptation’s expression become angry.

  “Holt...” his voice came as a small cry. He was walking toward the woman and couldn’t stop. I felt his underlying fear, his denial of her power over him but it wasn’t stopping, it wasn’t waiting, it wanted to drag the King of Albion into the honey trap.

  But the King of Albion loved the King of Camelot.

  “Son, stop him!” commanded my father’s voice.

  Arthur Pendragon and Lancelot du Lac walked from the pitch blackness at the far side of the feast before us. My father held Excalibur, Lancelot held Caliburn, they were shades – I could see that – but they were shades as the fey trick before us were ghosts from Albion’s past and it didn’t prevent their swords from whispering, shining, righteous death.

  “Get my son away from that table,” Lancelot bellowed. He raised Caliburn over his head and swung toward the fey creatures. Weapons appeared in their hands and the battle began.

  I rushed toward Galahad just as the woman stepped toward him with a shining knife in her hand heading toward his guts. The King of Albion stumbled away and the blade missed us both, which made a pleasant change. She howled in frustration. Morgan screamed, the leader of these savage creations of Albion’s past, lunged for her. Lancelot leapt onto the table and struck downward toward the fey ghost.

  “That is my child!” he snarled, striking at the phantom. I watched Caliburn slide into the ghostly apparition and heard the scream but there was no blood and, as the body slid off the sword and onto the ground, it blended back into the bedrock of Albion. The place from which these ghosts were torn.

  “Father...” Morgan whispered, finally aware of his presence.

  “Fight, daughter of my wife,” Lancelot told his child, pointing Caliburn at her, the blade dark with fey blood.

  Morgan nodded her obedience. She raised her hands and a wave of power washed outward, words tumbling through the wind created by her magic. Galahad and I rushed to the fight, joining our fathers in the final battle. We were one, the old guard and the new. I felt Excalibur’s joy fill the chamber as she gave her gift of death to all those challenging my father and those he loved.

  My sword and Galahad’s were not killing the creatures before us, we were not of their world but we could keep them busy while Morgan, Arthur and Lancelot did the rest. I fought with my bonded companion in seamless unity. We were together, each stroke of our weapons a perfect blending of two separate beings attacking as one. A part of my mind acknowledged the same perfect timing existed between our parents.

  The fight lasted brief moments, until Arthur and Lancelot had one fey man, the one who flirted with me, at sword point.

  “Summon her,” Lancelot ordered.

  “Father,” Galahad said, seeing his sire for the first time as an adult.

  Lancelot’s eyes flickered to his child’s face, and I saw great pride and love in those dark eyes – the mirror of his son’s. Galahad stepped forward but I restrained him gently.

  “He’s dead, Galahad, you can’t go to him. Not yet, love,” I said.

  The great knight’s concentration slid to me. “You always were the wise one, Holt.”

  I acknowledged the compliment. “You taught me well. Fey tricks are many, my Lord.”

  “Fey tricks indeed.” Lancelot smiled at me and winked.

  I looked to my father. When I’d met him in the Land of the Dead it hadn’t ended particularly well. He’d given me a kind of blessing for leaving the throne of Camelot but he hadn’t wanted me to walk away from my heritage. Now, however, I could see his love for me.

  “It’s alright, son,” he said. “I understand. Camelot’s time is over, or rather my time in Camelot is over. A new destiny awaits my city and a new destiny awaits the Pendragon name.”

  I felt the tears in my eyes, those of gratitude. “Thank you, Father. I am sorry, but we cannot go on as we have.”

  He nodded, but was unable to hide his sadness. “I know that now. Camelot needs to move forward and I am the past.”

  “She will become stronger, I’m sure.” I still retained guilt for seeking the freedom I craved because my family’s honour would suffer.

  “Perhaps, but it doesn’t really matter does it?” His sadness touched me but I knew the world must move forward, just as the heart of Albion was changing, so would The City and Camelot.

  “Not really, Father. Camelot has never been what’s important to us, she is just what we like to tell ourselves we are fighting for, but it’s actually those we love we fight for in this life and beyond it seems.” In this I was resolute.

  Galahad and Lancelot seemed to have been talking while I’d been occupied. Morgan was now safely tucked under her brother’s arm and Galahad’s cheeks were wet from tears.

  The time for sentiment and family was over, the greatest Kings of Albion and Came
lot returned their concentration to their ghostly prisoner. “Summon The Lady to this chamber, it is time to finish this game,” Lancelot repeated, placing the point of Caliburn at the fey lord’s throat.

  “You really think they could summon a god?” asked a quiet and cold voice from the darkness to our right. Lancelot drove the blade into the man he threatened, without a moment’s hesitation. The Lady melted the pitch black surrounding her and I saw the figure of Albion on her knees in front of our greatest enemy, a knife made of obsidian at her throat. “They are nothing, mists of the past, just like you.”

  “We are more than mist, Lady,” Arthur said, stepping around Lancelot’s back to protect him as the figure of the fey lord vanished back into the earth. My father continued, “We have brokered a deal with Death to be here. He isn’t very happy with you. Too much power in one place and even gods can’t escape his influence, just ask Balar.” In his hands Excalibur glowed with an inner fire.

  Lancelot, satisfied the fey lords were no longer a threat, turned and joined his lover. “Oh, but you can’t, can you, because we destroyed him completely.”

  “Only with my help,” The Lady countered. “And I thought I’d won the prize.” Her eyes slid to Galahad, who stepped back toward me. He feared her now in a way he never had before, she’d broken his mind and that was his darkest terror.

  “Indeed, Lady, and I paid the price you charged, to my endless regret, but this time we have help we can trust,” Lancelot told her.

  “Ta-dah,” Rhea said walking from the tunnel we’d used with a look of dark joy in her eyes.

  The Lady’s calm expression flickered with a slight look of panic. It heartened me considerably. The old lady of Albion’s eyes fixed on Rhea and she nodded slightly despite The Lady’s grip on her hair.

  “I will miss you all,” she said quite calmly, her golden eyes bright and her smile kind. “It’s been a privilege watching you and being a part of your lives.” Her hands, tied at the wrists, reached up and grabbed The Lady’s hand. Shock marred the alabaster face as the figure of Albion drove the black blade into her own throat. The arc of blood hit the ground and the world trembled.