Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
It was early morning. The keep was quiet and still. I ventured to Arthur’s private chambers to sift through his library. He had granted me permission to use his collections whenever I chose.
I sat at a table next to Sir Morien, who was an early riser too and had taken to joining me most mornings.
A month had passed and I was slowly building a routine.
I looked forward to the daily gathering of the Round Table, the exchange of news and assigning of quests.
I had only gone on a few, and on the rare occasion I had to unsheathe my weapon, I quickly disarmed those who wished us harm—thieves, Saxons, or the occasional belligerent king.
Arthur signed off on these small-scale defensive measures, but he still refused to be baited into a wider war with Rome.
Now, when I returned from these quests, I found myself craving the great hall’s elaborate meals.
Each day the kitchen served the most extravagant offerings, including a perfectly salted, crispy fried pike, which reminded me of home.
Galehaut, who loathed fish, would have delighted in the flaky chicken pies.
Camelot even had plum cake.
Yet, as I licked my fingers, I wondered how long it all might last. Reports from the allied kingdoms left me alarmed.
The legionary kings were growing bolder, sieging castles and forcing villages to disavow the old ways.
They destroyed statues, burned temples, drove priests and priestesses into hiding.
I feared for my cousins. I feared for the Distant Isles.
I feared for a world without a trace of magic.
I channeled my anger and frustration into tournaments and exercises, but even the court jesters couldn’t dispel the wisps of foreboding that wove through the air like incense.
All the while the larger quest for the grail continued.
Gawain chased down leads with his brothers, Agravain, Gareth, Gaheris and Mordred.
Percival, the Fisher King’s nephew, led another group along with his sister, Dindrane.
Bedivere’s contingent, despite adhering to the new ways, ardently sought the grail for Camelot.
I would lead a fourth camp, taking whoever might wish to join me.
Often this included Sir Morien. The friendly knight from North Africa was, along with Yvain, quickly becoming one of my closest friends.
Morien had not set out to become a knight.
As a boy he dreamed of being a scholar and scribe.
But when his father abandoned him, leaving his mother in poverty, Morien embarked on a quest to find him, a quest which took him to Camelot.
“I was fourteen,” he explained. “A group of bandits had attacked me, and I arrived at the castle covered in blood. Arthur took me in.”
Morien had darker skin than most of the Round Table, and while this trait drew the attention of isolated villagers, it was not uncommon in Camelot. Still, Morien’s complexion had, at times, been met with fear.
“Even some of Arthur’s knights, when they first encountered me, were a bit taken aback,” he said. “Though it might have been due more to my armor.”
Morien opted for an obsidian shield, black armor and surcoat—an arresting ensemble worn by his uncles.
“The women on my mother’s side possessed magic,” he said. His aunt Mazoe had always regarded me with a neutral calm. I could picture her now, shimmering in her topaz bracelets and hair clips. When she chose to speak, everyone listened.
“Have you ever been to the Isle of Women?” I asked, fighting pangs of nostalgia.
“One time, yes.”
“What do you remember of it?”
“I remember the heat and the morning fog,” he said. “I was passing through the Distant Isles, bound for Ireland on some quest or other, and I stayed the night in a hut on the sand. Mazoe gave me this.”
He held up his hand, revealing the topaz ring.
“Was your visit before or after the grail disappeared?” I asked.
“After. Mazoe was very concerned. I remember she felt I was in a unique position to restore it.”
“Because of your prowess.”
Morien laughed. “Because of my lineage. I am the only descendant related to both the sisterhood and the Corbenic grail family.”
Corbenic. The mere mention swept me back to the night of Beltane, the way Galehaut’s face glowed in the bonfire’s vibrant light. The good memories sometimes hurt the most. Morien’s connection to the grail family took me by surprise.
“You did not know this?”
I shook my head no.
“Percival is my uncle.”
“I had no idea. Why do you not join him in the grail search?”
“I did until you arrived.”
“Why?”
“I felt it was right. To make up for what my father Aglovale did.”
“I’m sorry. I have heard the name, but I have met so many knights here.”
“You mean you do not know?” Morien’s eyes were darting around, his fingers fidgeting.
“Know what?”
“For years my father was trying to kill you.”
My breath caught. Instinctively I looked around, vigilant.
“He is not in Camelot,” Morien assured me. “He’s back in Africa, reunited with my mother.”
“Why was… why did he want to kill me?”
Morien took a deep breath, evidently deciding where to start.
“My grandfather is Pellinore, the Fisher King’s brother.
Pellinore had five sons, among them my father and Percival.
Our family is determined to restore the grail, and a prophecy suggested that Percival would be the one to achieve it. Then Merlin had another prophecy.”
“The prophecy about me.”
“Yes. And my father lost his mind. He couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else recovering the grail aside from his brother. He abandoned us to try and find you.”
All the disparate pieces suddenly clicked into place.
“Does he have long dark hair, pale skin and a belt of daggers?”
Morien nodded.
“He almost got me. I was visiting Sorelois. It was my first time off the Isle of Women.”
“I am sorry.”
“You are not at fault,” I said, sensing his shame. “And you do not need to go out of your way for me because of him.”
“It matters not to me who achieves the grail, as long as it does not fall into Roman hands.” He gripped my shoulder, drilled into my eyes. “You are my friend.”
The doors to the library swung open just then, interrupting our conversation.
In walked Gawain.
I looked down at my hands. Since our encounter in the baths, he had kept his distance. I felt guilty about the way I’d shut him out. But his warning echoed in my head. Go after the grail and I’ll kill you.
“Good morning, Morien,” he said, stiff-voiced.
“Gawain! I did not know you were back from your quest.”
“I returned last night.”
He had gone to Listenoise on a grail rumor. It would have been a long journey, across a deep forest and through a steep mountain pass. He looked well rested for such an excursion. His freshly washed skin was gleaming, hair clean and slick.
“Any news?” Morien asked.
“None. False tip. Though the townsfolk say my aunt Morgan has been spotted in places where she shouldn’t be.” An awkward silence, then he said, “I will leave you to your vellum.”
Gawain disappeared into the shelves, and I sat pondering why I’d been so harsh to him in the baths.
I should have welcomed his friendship. I’d welcomed others.
But the immediacy of our connection had caught me off guard, racked me with a nameless guilt.
Now he was icy to me. He saw me as a competitor, nothing more.
Was that why he was in the library? Had he caught wind of my research and felt the need to keep up, worried I’d outpace him on our parallel quests for the grail?
It would be like him to do such a thing, motivated as he was by fame and glory.
I knew one thing. I would not let him win.
Morien grabbed my hand. In a low voice he said, “He’s not so bad, you know.”
“I did not say he was.”
“When I arrived in Camelot, Gawain was the first knight to welcome me. He tended to my wounds and made me potions. Did you know he is skilled in leech-craft?”
“Of course he is,” I scoffed.
“He may seem hardened. But he is as good a knight as any at the Round Table if you give him a chance.”
Give him a chance? Gawain held all of Camelot under his sway. He did not need me. And he did not need the grail. He’d already recovered the sacred lance and burnished his legend.
I didn’t care about such things. I only cared about making things right. Maybe if I restored the grail, I’d be forgiven.
I could never have predicted what the quest might cost us both.