Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy (33 page)

Mab spoke again, and this time, her voice was close, tired and present. Rhys and Naida turned to see, and there she was, a frail creature in a simple white gown of lace. She smiled at him, and immediately all feelings of worry left his heart at the favor.

“Nay, Oberon my love, nay. We shall not yield, for the
Dragon Prince
has come. The Lifetree is renewed, and Eon will flower forevermore.” She placed her right hand on the Lifetree, and the tree responded to her touch, glowing brightly with an inner fire.

The moment Mab touched the Lifetree, there was a great wailing from the battle, and a bellow of rage and frustration from mighty Oberon.

“Impossible! I cannot lose this day!” he cried, but the trepidation in his voice gave lie to his words. Across the battlefield, great chasms split the earth open wherever the forces of Arcadia stood. Drow companies disappeared by the legion; goblin war bands spat and cursed as they were dragged into the bowels of the earth by invisible hands. The human forces staggered to keep their ground amongst the uproar, but the fae chariots, imbued with the power of the Lifetree itself took to the air, soaring over the battlefield and smiting the airborne terrors of Oberon and casting them down into the pit.

“Oberon, I seal thee and all thy kind inside Arcadia for eternity,” Mab said, “never to trouble the worlds of man or fae again, not until you can convince me that you have renounced your ways of villainy and discord. One age of man must pass before I consider your plea again. Your magic is undone, and I declare your staff broken!” Mab said, and clenched her fist. Sparks flew from it, and the magic mirror in the skies began to fade with the wailing cry of Oberon as his magical guile deserted him.

Below the castle walls, the forces of Mordred, the humans that remained, suddenly found themselves outnumbered where mere moments ago they were on the cusp of utter victory. Their morale failed them and the mercenaries of the long ships and the northern clans began to flee the retribution of Camelot, Avalon and Eon combined. Many were captured, yet many more fled back to their homelands. In later days, with Mordred captured and in chains, Arthur would recognize the claim of autonomy from the Celts and the Picts, though they were bound over to make no more mischief and never to take up arms against Camelot for so long as the line of kings lived.

“It is done, then?” Naida said simply, and it was the sweetest sound that Rhys had ever heard, those few words. Finally, he and Naida were together, with no threat of death hanging over them like the executioner’s axe.

“Not yet,” said Queen Mab, and her voice was weary. “The doors of Arcadia will be bound with chains made from the wheat of the Elysian Fields, and no more will their kind trouble the hearts of men. The Lifetree will return with me to bring new life to Eon, and our people will prosper.”

“So, all is well?” asked Rhys. He did not see where Mab was driving to with her words.

“Almost,
Nestaron.
I have some final duties to enact. My first is to give thanks to thee, who restored the Eternal Branch to us after so many before you had failed.” She bowed to him, and Rhys blushed at the courtesy shown to him by this royal immortal. “Secondly, to Naida I must say, you valiantly fought at the side of this man, and brought him to his fate with courage and honor. But now you must choose; return with your people, and receive your wings as a member of the Seelie Court, and all the other high honors you shall receive, or remain here in this realm and accept the gift of mortality.”

“No!” cried Rhys, knowing that acceptance of life on Earth was on Naida’s lips. “My love, I cherish you more than any victory, and if death had taken me this day, I would have taken his hand gladly, knowing that I had held you in my arms even one time. But do not give up your long life for the brief toil of this one, I beg you!”

Naida simply smiled at him, violet eyes meeting green again, and pulled him to her for a kiss.

“Rhys, my heart’s desire, after the worlds you have seen, and all that you have done, do you remain in the belief that death is the end?” She playfully kissed him again, and turned to her queen, kneeling before her.

“My queen, I accept your boon. I will remain on Earth, and become mortal, if it pleases you,” she said, and Mab was struck by how much this young faery had grown in spirit and conviction. The dreamy girl who would rather pick mushrooms and herbs than conduct important duties was gone; in her place a woman, soon to be a great mother of lords and ladies, a line that would continue in happy times for many years. That was what she foresaw for Naida Brannon Vuin, and what she saw was pleasing to her.

“Granted, and happily, Naida,” she smiled, and then, as quickly as she had arrived, Queen Mab and the Lifetree to which she held were gone.

Epilogue

Rhys and Naida were betrothed that same day in the High Hall of Camelot. King Arthur placed the cloth around their shoulders and tied the string about their clasped hands himself. There was understandable rejoicing, none more so than at the reunion of Rhys with Eramus. The
Nestaron
greeted his former tutor with amazement, not only with the appearance of his friend at the Battle of Camlann at all –  for that is what the defeat of Mordred came to be known as – but by the cheers and chants of “Erasmus! Erasmus the Valiant!” that accompanied his entry. Erasmus explained that there had been the minor event of his having to battle Ragnar Lodbrok, chief of the Vikings, and he was regretfully forced to slay him when Ragnar would not yield. The humbleness in his retelling was met with mirth from his fellow soldiers, and gratitude from none other than King Arthur himself, who had not forgotten that it had been Erasmus who stepped forward to meet Mordred in combat, knowing it meant certain death.

Erasmus became Sir Erasmus of Avalon that day. Of King Arthur, there are many other stories that detail his deeds and nobility after the great battle against his son, Mordred. Arthur could not bring himself to slay his misbegotten son, and put him in chains in the dungeons of Camelot. Mordred, for his part, refused to swear fealty, and instead spat on his father’s hand of forgiveness. Later he would escape, and return to make mischief; though never again so great as when he had the power of Arcadia at his side.

Thomas of Manchester, Gawain of Sheffield and John of Leeds were also joyously reunited with their fellow Son of the Round Table, and they near fell over each other, trying to recount their tales since they had been parted at Kendal. Rhys, for his part, remained quiet. He could not find the words to put his tale across well until many years later, by which time the events that transpired after he saw the beautiful nymph at the Everlasting Pool seemed almost the stuff of myths themselves.

His sisters Glynnis, Aelwyd and Cadwynn would go forth from that day to rule Avalon as the Thirteenth Glastenning, and to have it heard tell aright, they were, if anything, ever more loved than even Morgan le Fae had been, though they would not hear of it themselves. The family was finally brought together when Merlin began to bring Rhys’ parents and relatives through his back doors between worlds, one by one. Anlawd came first, his genial grandfather, followed by Gwallawc. Rhys greeted his father on one knee, but his father raised him up.

“Nay, son. I kneel to you this day,” he said, and there were tears of joy at the repaired bond between them. Irelli and Mucuruna, his grandmother and mother, also came through on the arm of Merlin; and Rhys smiled greatly to see the not quite matronly eye Irelli favored Merlin with. And so, the Tywysog line was brought into completeness; and Rhys found himself happy to be among them, not raised up as a savior of worlds, or a knight of the realm, but simply a son and grandson once more.

Naida met her new family nervously, though they showered her with love and encouraged her to come live at the House at Red Ditch as soon as she may. As a mortal, her eyes would slowly change color from purple to deepest blue, but she retained all of her faery beauty; save for the points of her ears, which became as rounded and fair as any maiden’s the moment she renounced her immortality to Queen Mab. She had no wedding dress, but this did not seem to matter, neither to her new family nor her new husband.

The same evening as the Battle of Camlann, there was first a great and splendid feast. The great hall in Camelot was swelled to bursting, and every lesser hall was turned over to make room to feed the soldiers of Camelot and Avalon. After the feast was done, and the minstrels had played their fill, the Knights of the Round Table formed a guard of honor for Rhys and Naida as they passed down the hall toward the dais where King Arthur and Merlin sat. The great fraternity of noble knights was in good cheer with their four new members, and hailed and thrice hailed them when Merlin pronounced them man and wife.

Tears flowed, and laughter, and great joy was had. Great adventures for the Dragon Prince and the Knights of the Round Table would yet be lived, and it was said that not a minstrel in the land did not know at least one of the songs of the faery and the
Nestaron
for many centuries that followed.

Across the seas of reality, the realm of Eon spanned on in its happy way, quarrelsome and chaotic though the Seelie Court could sometimes be. The Lifetree grew strong again, and no longer were the faefolk dependent on the attention of humans for their vigor; although it has been rumored that sometimes when men and women walk alone in the woods, they can hear the muses whispering stories to them. The stories of Queen Mab and her doomed love Oberon, the stories of brave Minerva, and Rinnah the Mad. And yes, even this one: the story of the faery who loved a human, and gave up her long life to be his bride, and the Dragon Prince who restored two worlds to peace. And that, my friends, is as far as the muses have ever whispered to me. Perchance there will be a time when they may tell further tales to you, instead.

The end

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Also available:

Stormy Weather

A Storm Donovan Thriller Book 1

by Steve Rollins

(read on for a sample)

Chapter One

Storm Donovan had just sat and ordered a Jack and Coke when Albert, his good friend and ex-partner, stepped into the restaurant. Albert spotted him and came over.

“You’re late,” Donovan said as Albert sat.

“What else is new? What did you order?”

“Jack and Coke.”

“Not even diet?” Albert waved to the waiter, who came right over. The restaurant, Morton’s, was busy, but the wait staff was always attentive. “Scotch on the rocks.” The waiter nodded and left.

“I don’t need to diet,” said Donovan.

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“And you think you’re going to stay skinny forever?”

“I’m not skinny,” said Storm. “I’m trim. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, you look skinny.”

Their drinks came. Both men took long pulls and sat back in their chairs. A group of beautiful women in short swing dresses came in. Both men admired them for a heartbeat or two.

“I need your help,” said Storm, as the ladies were shown to their table. Storm was certain one of them had caught his eye; a medium-sized, olive-skinned beauty.

“Figured you did,” said Albert. “It’s not often you say dinner’s on you over the phone.”

“It’s my way of softening you up.”

Their waiter came back to take their orders and Albert ordered the New York strip steak, without even looking. It was the most expensive thing on the menu, Donovan mused, but a promise was a promise.

“Consider me softened,” said Albert. Donovan himself kept looking at the menu quite indecisively. Eventually he ordered the veal with black truffle butter.

Albert was intrigued. “What do you need, Donovan?”

Albert Parker was an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Donovan had worked for the FBI, too, until he realized he hated taking orders from others. Ten years ago, he had opened his own law practice in New York and he liked being his own boss much better. He had five other attorneys on staff and, between his five juniors and himself, they had every legal niche covered. Donovan, himself, didn’t specialize. He’d become known in DUMBO (
Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass)
for taking any and every case that came to him. Parker, his ex-partner, was still his close friend, and Donovan used the man’s resources whenever he could.

“I need to know if the FBI has a file on someone,” said Donovan.

“We have files on lots of people. Tell me why I should give away government secrets to a private dick.”

“Because someone wants me dead.”

“I need more than that.”

“Because I’m buying you the best cut of steak on the East Coast.”

“You make a good argument, my friend. Do you see the hot chick looking at us?”

“She’s looking at me,” said Donovan. “So will you help me?”

“Why does he want you dead? Maybe it’s a valid reason. Maybe it’s something I can get on board for.”

“Asshole.”

Albert chuckled as their salads came. Both men put orders in for another round of drinks, and Donovan asked the waiter to deliver the attractive girl and her friends a couple of bottles of some good wine. “Good move,” said Albert. “You can kiss that hundred bucks goodbye.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Donovan. “Anyway, I helped put his brother in jail for a long time.”

“Who are we talking about here?”

“Twin brothers. Quinn and Denny Lang.”

“Which one’s in jail?”

“Quinn.”

“So Denny wants you dead. And you know this how?”

“Word on the streets,” said Donovan.

“Streets?” Albert snorted. “You live in DUMBO.”

“We have streets here, too.”

“Fine. I’ll see what I can dig up. Hey, looks like you got that girl’s attention.”

Donovan had been watching, too. The waiter had delivered the two bottles of wine and made a great show of opening them for the ladies. He then pointed to Donovan, who promptly nodded and waved. The girl nodded, too, then raised her left hand high. Even from where Donovan sat, he could see the brilliant sparkle on her ring finger.

Albert laughed and slapped the table hard. “Married. You know how to pick them.”

The girl and her friends laughed, too, and when she was done laughing, she blew him a big kiss. “Better than nothing,” said Donovan. “Besides, married just means I can't keep her.”

Albert was taken aback by that. “Jeesh...”

As they waited for their order, Donovan went over the wine menu; he had half a mind to ask the sommelier to come and give his advice on a bottle that would complement his veal order, but he knew Albert would resent such pretensions.

“So, just out of curiosity,” Albert began. “What did this Quinn Lang go into the clink for?”

Donovan looked down for a second. “You'll find out.”

“I'll find out from you, or I won't find out anything.”

Donovan's lips moved as he swore silently. Albert never bluffed. He did not want to tell the man, but he needed the FBI information. “I got him convicted of smuggling.” The answer was reluctant, and he knew instantly that Albert would recognize it as such too.

“But?”

“But what?”

“But there's something you're not telling me.”

Donovan sighed. “They have a sister, Mara.”

Albert nodded. He understood instantly. “You screwed the bitch and when they confronted you, you got one of them locked up?”

“Something like that,” Donovan muttered. He quickly took a sip of his Jack and Coke and looked over at the married woman again. He smiled at her. She was a gorgeous creature and he could see her looking at their table. She smiled and he saw her brush her fingers through her hair. His eyes flickered down and he noticed she was angling her leg at him too.
Hook, line and sinker
, he thought.

Their orders arrived and Albert tucked into his order with relish. They had always gotten along, but there was a clear difference between the two men. Albert leaned over his plate and scarfed up his steak while Donovan sat up straight and carefully cut up his veal and transferred the food gracefully to his mouth.

Storm Donovan was from an old family that had first come to America to live in the Rensselaerswyck. He could count Abraham Van Salee as one of his ancestors and his whole family tree was essentially a who's who of the elite of North America.

Albert was nothing of the sort. He had come from a farming town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. His mother had been a hippie who had tried to bring her commune into the town. When the commune had to face the reality of the U.S. society and broke up, his mother had not lost her liking for free love and found it the perfect way to supplement her income. Albert had never known which of the hundred or so men in the town had been his father. They moved around the country like gypsies and had “settled” in New York State when Albert was 6, 11 and 15.

Albert did not speak until he finished his meal, so Donovan entertained himself by casually flirting with the olive beauty in the swing dress. She really was a rare sight. He smiled as he recalled something from a British comedy about a nudity buffer. How it took time to figure out how a woman looked naked, especially trying to figure out her nipple type. It was something that kept him entertained though. Certainly more entertaining than watching Albert belch over his steak.

It took Albert a quarter of an hour to make the steak disappear and by that time, Donovan had drawn out his cigar case and his lighter. He only just finished his own food, but he knew already that he wanted a cigar. “You want one too?” he asked Albert the moment he sat back and rubbed his hands over his belly.

“Nah, I'm laying off them.”

“Why?”

“Wife and me are trying to get pregnant. Seems they are bad for sperm production.”

“Fuck that.” Donovan picked up the cigars and his lighter and got up. “By the way, your wife is trying to get pregnant, or you're trying to get her pregnant. Though looking at that gut of yours, she might have knocked you up already.”

“Fuck you.”

Donovan grinned and walked out onto the small balcony which was the only place they were now allowed to smoke.

The balcony was empty, but at least there were some comfortable seats. He cursed the smoking ban in New York. People had seemed to stop smoking altogether now. Maybe some smoked good cigars at home, but in public there was nothing of the sort any more.

He mused on it as he pulled out one of his Cohibas and smelled it. They were the proper Cohibas, from the plantations and factories founded by Fidel Castro, not the US/Dominican fakes. Not that those were bad cigars, but they simply were not the same thing.

With a sigh, he cut the cigar and flicked open his lighter. The large flame burned bright blue and he put it to the cigar's end. He sucked on it and rolled it around once or twice, making sure it was lit properly and then, clicking his lighter closed again, he sank back into the chair, puffing out a large cloud of smoke.

There was a noise behind him coming from the stairs and he looked up. He half expected to see Albert appear there, having changed his mind about his offer of a cigar, but instead it was the olive-toned woman. She brandished a slim cigarillo and smiled at him. “Got a light for me?”

Donovan frowned. There were not many women in NYC these days who smoked, let alone women who smoked high quality tobacco. “Sure,” he said and flicked open his lighter again. “It's a rare thing.”

The woman lit the cigarillo and puffed out a large cloud of smoke, then sat down on the edge of the seat next to Donovan. She crossed her legs and leaned her elbow on her knee, holding her smoke aloft. Donovan smelled the smoke and thought for a moment. “Sweet Java tobacco?”

The woman nodded, a smile on her face. “Dutch stuff, Mehari Sweet Orient. There are a few stores around here who sell them, but I mainly rely on friends to bring them over from Europe.”

Donovan smiled brightly and leaned forward, taking care not to breathe the smoke straight into the woman's face. That would be rude. But she smelled the smoke and her face lit up even more. “Cohiba?” she placed her hand on his knee and looked seriously at him. “You do know Cuban cigars are illegal, right?”

Donovan nodded, equally serious. “Quite illegal, but I won't tell the cops about your smuggled Dutch cigarillos if you don't tell them about my Cubans.” He broke out in a smile again then. The woman also laughed and she extended her hand to Donovan. “Naomh Walsh,” she introduced herself.

“Storm Donovan.” Donovan took her hand, turned it and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles, much to Ms. Walsh's delight. “Pleased to meet you.” He wanted to withdraw his hand, but she held on to it and looked into his eyes. Her eyes were twinkling. Her fingers stroked the palm of his hand.

She sucked another cloud of smoke out of the thin cigarillo and then lay it down in the ashtray. She uncrossed her legs, careful not to have a Sharon Stone moment, and stood up. Donovan was momentarily at a loss of what to do or say. His face was inches from her crotch and his hand was still in hers, very close to her hip. He saw her toned legs, the shapely thighs and the calves that were accentuated by her high heels, but he dared not look down or up too obviously. Then she stepped away.

Naomh Walsh walked to the stairs again and then looked back at him, offering him a flirty wink and a wave of her hand. Sure Donovan was looking as she went down the stairs; she gave a tiny wiggle of her pert behind as well.

Donovan was reeling. He was used to his expensive gifts to women being wasted, and he had resigned himself to the fact that this woman was spoken for, but obviously she had decided she was not spoken for after all. He looked at the ashtray and smiled even brighter. She had not stubbed the cigarillo out. Many cigar lovers, including Donovan himself, considered that a grave sin. A sin she had not committed. He also noticed now there was no filter. So she was less concerned about the health effects than about the taste.

He sank back in the chair, cigar in hand, as he thought about that. He could completely fall for a woman like that, he mused. Then he saw a bit of white poking from beneath the ashtray and he sat up again to grab it. It was a business card. “Naomh Walsh, O'Hourihane & Walsh PR” it said on the front, together with a logo. On the back there were two phone numbers and an address. “Call me,” she had written next to one of the numbers in a loopy handwriting, using a thin pencil.

Half an hour later, there was only a few fingers of his cigar left and the smoke that he drew into his mouth was becoming hot. He laid down the cigar and walked back down to the table where he had left Albert. As he sat down he looked over at the table where Naomh Walsh and her friends were seated. The bottles of wine were empty and as he watched them the waiter brought another bottle.

“They're well-oiled by now,” Albert said.