Chapter 17 #2
And give me chance to understand the brown stone ring, I did not say.
“Impossible,” Sir Lancelot replied. “The matter we are pursuing is urgent.”
“Ah yes, the rescue of Sir Gawain from kidnap,” I said. “Forgive me, but if this quest is so dangerous, just the two of you doesn’t seem a very robust rescue effort.”
“That opinion is my lady’s prerogative.” Sir Lancelot gave a tight smile; his every politeness held a razor’s edge. “Indeed, we were travelling with a third knight, but—”
He stopped, halted by a glance from Galescalain—a cautionary look, but ultimately calming. My nephew seemed as good at soothing his companion’s fire as Elaine had been at dousing my hot temper as a child.
“What third knight?” I asked, hoping to needle du Lac regardless.
Sir Lancelot ignored my bait. “It doesn’t matter—he was wise enough to move on. But if you do have knowledge of where Gawain is being held, best you share it now.”
“The land you seek is about a day’s ride away,” I replied.
“Said to be cursed, but mainly plagued by bad luck, worse weather and an unpopular lord. His residence is a rather forbidding place—dark stone, difficult to enter, with a tall, isolated barbican that would make a good prison. Locally, it is known as the Dolorous Tower.”
“That is the place,” Sir Lancelot said to Galescalain. “I’ll be on my way at dawn.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to inform the King of this?” I asked. “He would be able to throw an entire army behind the rescue.”
Du Lac regarded me severely, but I was used to it now. “Sir Gawain is my brother-in-arms, and I was there when he was taken. It is my task, upon my honour.”
“Our task,” my nephew said quietly.
Lancelot was quick to concede, putting a brotherly hand on his arm. “Of course, my friend—forgive me. We will all bring him home.”
Galescalain smiled, and beyond my own warped lens, I could understand why so many knights were drawn to Camelot’s lofty champion.
His air of superiority was pronounced, but his sense of brotherhood was genuine.
Suddenly, I believed that Sir Lancelot would indeed risk his life to rescue anyone in peril, and never surrender.
“More wine?” I said, as the meat platter arrived.
The food distracted my hungry guests’ attention, so I took our goblets to the side table and poured three generous cups.
Covertly, I drew a narrow vial from my sleeve and unstopped it.
A slightly fetid scent drifted up, but with a spoon of honey it would not register on the tongue.
Henbane and opium, a grind of lettuce seed—a concoction potent enough to drive the strongest man into a ravine of sleep.
I added a few drops to Lancelot’s cup; he had been imbibing it all evening, and now was the time to push him over the edge.
For all he claimed to know of me, Lancelot had forgotten I was capable of more than just magic.
Back at the table, I watched him pour the wine down his gleaming gullet until I could feel his senses spin. When the meat course was finished, the shining knight sat back in his chair and gave a yawn so loud that my nephew regarded him in astonishment.
“We should retire now,” he declared drowsily. “Rest is of the utmost importance.”
I beckoned to the serving lad. “Show Sir Galescalain to the yellow chamber off the north gallery,” I said. “Sir Lancelot, your room is in the west wing. Come, I will show you.”
It raised no qualms in him, the henbane as effective at dulling his edges as I had hoped. Du Lac bade a sleepy good night to his companion, then bowed to me.
“After you, my lady.”
We proceeded by candlelight and the greenish light of a three-quarter moon. I eyed Lancelot through the twilight, watching for the effects of the sleeping draught. Cooler air had sharpened his awareness, but his gait had slackened, a slight swaying in his shoulders.
“Here.” I pushed open a door and led him inside a well-appointed bedchamber. The woody scent of a newly laid fire filled the room, candles making tall our shadows. “I hope you will be comfortable.”
He laughed in a careless way, his lack of concern impressive. So accustomed was he to commanding every situation that he moved through the world completely without doubt or fear. I could only imagine how sweet such freedom must taste.
“I never thought I would say this, Lady Morgan, but your hospitality is excellent,” he commented. “Not quite the Circe’s island I was expecting.”
“An insult or a compliment—I will not ask which,” I replied. “Though you are no Odysseus, Sir Lancelot.”
Suddenly, he looked down and captured my gaze, eyes serious beneath heavy lids. Softened by candle flames, his beauty was almost too much to bear. He smiled, lazy but calculated, and for the first time he seemed aware of the effect his face could have, and was enjoying testing me.
“I will sleep, then,” he said.
“Yes, you should,” I replied. “I bid you good night.”
I held out my hand and he took it, raising my wrist to his lips with a drowsy courtesy. I wrapped my fingers around his, feeling for the brown-stone ring. His extremities would be numbed and tingling by now—enough delicacy and I could slip it free.
As his kiss touched my skin, a rush of sucking, negating power told me I had found it, along with a harp flourish of light behind my eyes: the unmistakable call of a fairy enchantment.
My guess was correct—the ring was powerful and sentimental both.
Ninianne had made this object and given it to her adopted son to keep him safe from magic.
And I would take it from him, to prove I was better.
I braced my thumb and forefinger against the metal and pulled.
An instant, searing pain screamed through my fingertips, as if I had picked up the wrong end of a forgemaster’s tongs.
I reared back, trying to bring the ring with me, but it was immovable, hot as hellfire; the more force I applied, the harder it resisted.
“What are you doing?” Sir Lancelot snatched his hand from mine, but I could not let my discomposure sober him up. If he suspected, I’d never get near the ring a second time.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”
I turned and walked away, but felt the press of his gaze along my spine.
“I will come for you,” he called after me.
I stopped and looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
The light in his eyes had changed—still glazed, pupils black and liquid with the drug effects—but no humour in them anymore.
“I look beyond your wrongs now only for Sir Gawain—for my quest.” He sounded his words with precision, avoiding the instinct to slur.
“The King still wants you to answer for your crimes, and I intend to make it so. Soon, I will return here, arrest you as Enemy of the Crown and convey you to trial in Camelot. For King Arthur’s sake—for the kingdom’s—I will bring you to justice. ”
As ever, his arrogance made me smile. “I would very much like to see you try.”
To my surprise, he smiled back—handsome, magnetic, the most lethal of traps. “Many have tried and failed, I know,” he said. “You have the world convinced that no one can reach you within your Val Sans Retour. Yet I rode through your magical boundaries without pausing for breath.”
His hubris was a strategy, desiring my shock, my anger. But I was not here for his gratification; he was intended for mine. My immediate focus had been to secure the brown-stone ring, but his presence was a gift from the Fates, and I wanted so much more.
“You look tired,” I said. “Take a rest. Things may seem different in the morning.”
His stubborn, astonishing face—his surety that he was master of the situation—did not waver. Regardless, he would soon learn. The next time he saw daylight, it would be through the high windows of a prison.
“Sleep well, Sir Lancelot,” I said, and shut the door.
We were playing my game now.