Chapter 17
Alys and I left Camelot that day, and she scolded me for several miles for what had transpired in the castle.
She was justified, but I had no regrets: between Sir Lancelot and Guinevere’s embrace, Kay’s information and the secret cracks beneath Camelot’s facade, I now had a stronger footing than ever to build my vengeance upon.
Back at Belle Garde, I set upon forming a new strategy, though what that plan should be proved more difficult.
Supposedly, Sir Lancelot would soon leave the Royal City, but I didn’t know when or in which direction he would go.
For over a week, I sent magpies out to seek his path, but they found nothing.
There was no trace of the champion knight at all.
Strange and frustrating as it was, I could do nothing but wait and trust he would leave Camelot as planned, so I returned to my daily rhythms and counselled myself in patience. There was no rush to exploit my advantage; I had waited ten years, after all.
Then again, it is said that to make plans is to hear the gods laugh, and it happened that my game was ready to begin whether or not I made its first move.
Late one afternoon, I was reading alone at my study desk, Alys, Tressa and the household having gone up to the northern valley to attend an early feast for Pentecost. I was just contemplating joining them when the turret gave a great wrenching shudder, as if shaken by a giant.
The gallery shelves rattled, jars of quills toppling on the worktable.
A clay bowl shuddered off the edge of my desk, scattering polished hematite across the floor.
I leapt up and ran onto the balcony as another tremor took hold, vibrating the entire world before my eyes. The disruption wasn’t emanating from the land—not an earthquake or subterranean collapse—but from the air itself.
Instinctively, I looked across the treetops, towards the east and the valley’s main entrance and saw my protective veil quivering, silver threads coming apart like bad stitching.
“What in all Hell…?” I exclaimed.
Another shudder shook the horizon, and what was left of the charms tumbled, dissolving into nothing, until the entire eastern boundary of Belle Garde was as bare as the day I had arrived. Somehow, my unbreakable fairy magic had been destroyed.
Limbs coursing with shock, I ran back inside and careered down the spiral stairs.
Before I got halfway to the main door, a huge bright figure charged in, halting my running body in its tracks, just ahead of a mutual collision.
Stunned, I blinked at the blaze of silver-white armour in my entrance hall.
“What in the name of Lucifer is this?” I demanded.
Sir Lancelot of the Lake recoiled, disdain settling across his fierce beauty. I raised my chin in anticipation of his retort, another breathless knight rushed through the door.
“Du Lac, thank God,” the newcomer said. “You ran off as if pursued by demons.”
“There are no demons here,” I said. “Only trespassers.”
Sir Lancelot fixed me with a cold pale stare. The second knight bowed with immediate courtesy.
“Lady Morgan,” he said. “I am Sir Galescalain, Prince of Garlot. Queen Elaine’s eldest son.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “That would make me—”
“My aunt, yes.”
I had never met Elaine’s children, but the descriptions from her letters matched him exactly. Galescalain stood taller than his father and less slight in a wiry, knightly-training way, but was otherwise a perfect mousey approximation of my sister and her husband.
“In that case, you are welcome, nephew,” I said. “Though I cannot offer the same greeting to the wild man you travel with. If he has caused the slightest scratch to anyone in my valley, I would have every right to kill him where he stands.”
Sir Lancelot clapped his hand to his sword in outrage, though we both knew his knightly tenets precluded him from drawing it. Galescalain put a placatory palm on his companion’s shoulder.
“Our apologies for the manner of our entrance, Aunt Morgan, but no one has been harmed. We are not here to seek trouble.”
“Then why are you here?” I asked.
“Where is he?” Lancelot interrupted. “What have you done with him?”
I cast a sardonic gaze upon him. “Where is who?”
He glared at me as if to say You know who. “Sir Gawain. He’s been kidnapped.”
“And you think I have him? For what reason? I have no argument with Gawain.”
“Your grudge against the High King extends to all of those loyal to him,” he said. “You pursue Camelot’s sworn knights, seeking to disrupt as many noble quests as you can.”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. “I don’t even know who all the knights of Camelot are! What a waste of my time, chasing after any of you.”
Lancelot’s jaw hardened. “Yet my brother-in-arms is missing, and you like to keep men trapped here. Rumour has it he’s being held captive in a cursed land, perhaps in a tower. Where else but your Vale of No Return?”
“This valley isn’t cursed,” I said. “And I do not keep anyone here. Knights happen upon me, just as you have—though with considerably less fuss.”
Sir Galescalain stepped between us. “There’s no proof of foul play, du Lac. She is Sir Gawain’s aunt, as she is mine. My mother says Lady Morgan would not act against her sisters, and my mother never lies. I trust her word above all else.”
Sir Lancelot gave his companion a long look, then took his hand off his sword. Praise was due to Elaine for passing her unfaltering evenness onto her son.
“In the interest of helping our shared relative,” I told my nephew, “I may have some information about this so-called cursed vale. You must rest here the night, and we will speak on it. If your friend can find his way to civility, of course.”
I extended my hand to Sir Lancelot; he regarded it as if my skin were poisonous. At Galescalain’s urging look, he gave a growl of reluctance and swiped up my fingers.
As soon as his skin touched mine, another tremor rattled through my bones, the same sensation from the turret but radiating from inside my body; a forceful, nauseating weakness.
Shocked, I reared back, causing his grip to tighten.
A second quake rippled through me, less violent but profound, snatching at my strength like an illness.
I tried to give myself a burst of healing and found the golden force dry as a drought-hit riverbed.
Alarmed, I struck fire in my hand to scorch him off, but nothing sparked. My skills were silent, unreachable, every sense dulled by the low, sickening absence pulsating through my body. I could not access magic.
I pulled away, and caught sight of Sir Lancelot’s hand as it fell.
On his middle finger he wore a flat-banded ring, dull grey and set with an unassuming brown stone, plain to the point of ugliness.
Something so unappealing could only be an item of great sentimental value.
Or an object of power, trying to go unnoticed.
First the protective veil and now this; it was Lancelot’s fault—it had to be.
The shining knight drew back, his eyes on my face. Though our connection was broken, the draining effect remained—lesser than by direct touch, but still potent. No doubt there was a distance at which my powers would return, but I needed to know how far.
My nephew took up my hand next, allowing me time to gather myself. “We appreciate your hospitality, my lady aunt. Both of us.”
“You are welcome.” I beckoned them to the reception room and gestured inside. “Please, take a rest while I make arrangements for your stay.”
Leaving them settled, I exited the house and headed for the stables. Within a few hundred feet, I felt my strength rushing back, and by the time I mounted my horse, I could once again wield magic to my full abilities.
From there, I rode through the hawthorn grove and to the valley’s main entrance.
Shredded charms carpeted the ground like gossamer, a great scorch mark left where Sir Lancelot had charged in.
In experiment, I drew a few charms forth and wove them together successfully, but I was sure enough: the ring he wore held some sort of enchantment and had caused the quaking, bringing down the protective veil when he came into contact with it.
It also explained why I could not find du Lac through the magpies before he was upon me. The ring must protect him from magic.
Whether the knight knew as much was still in question, but when I arrived back at the house, Camelot’s champion was standing alone in the entrance hall, watching me as I came through the door. He studied my windblown aspect with a slight amusement, as if he had guessed where I’d been.
“The meal is ready to be served” was all I said. “Though there is one courtly rule here—no swords at my dinner table. I assume that won’t alarm you, Sir Lancelot?”
His face shifted to a cool, imperious look. With slow hands, he unbuckled his weapon belt and rested his silver-hilted sword against the wall.
“I fear nothing from you, my lady,” he said. “Shall we?”
He gestured to the room where my nephew still sat, brown stone winking dully in my direction. I concealed a shudder of weakness, but du Lac noted it, perfect mouth curling up in satisfaction. He knew exactly what the ring meant for me.
And I did not have as much power over Sir Lancelot as I thought.
*
The three of us sat down to a private dinner, my nephew even-handed and talkative, Sir Lancelot displaying surprisingly good humour and manners, though part of me missed our attempts to get under one another’s skin.
“You look like you haven’t eaten well for days,” I said, as they tore into a second plate of seeded bread.
Galescalain nodded. “We slept a few nights in the woods. Some manors are tired of hosting knights on quests and don’t open their doors. Though my friend here possesses charms that I do not.”
He grinned at Sir Lancelot, who responded with a look of mild reproach.
“If you are tired, then stay longer,” I offered. “To truly restore your strength.”