Sons of Camelot: The Complete Trilogy (22 page)

Minerva settled on a rock and stared at the water thinking about the appropriate thing to do. She knew too much about the depth of Naida’s feelings for Rhys to ignore her friends suffering, but she remained unsure of Rhys’ true feelings towards Naida.

As she sat, she thought and searched the recesses of her mind for every helpful piece of information she had.

“
Erunanethiel
!” she exclaimed. “Give me power, grant my wish, and bestow the answers!”

She slid from the rock and walked slowly towards the water repeating the words of the spell deliberately. She didn’t stop when her feet entered the pool. She waded down to the deepest part of the water and stood motionless.

“This can work, it has been done before, but Mab will not grant this to Naida if Rhys’ heart is not true. How can I be sure of his intentions?” she wondered to herself.

She began to turn around in slow circles as she thought deeper and harder. She chanted the incantation louder and faster. Suddenly, she stopped; her eyes wide.

“Your journey will take you deep into the North Country; you must be properly prepared…” a soft voice said. Minerva listened intently to the sound of the disembodied voice. It was as if it was whispering into her ear. Looking down, Minerva saw an image forming on the water’s surface. It was Rhys and there was an older man speaking to him. They were discussing a voyage that the older man described as a ‘coming of age’. The image shivered and dissolved.

“The North Country,” she thought as she continued to gaze at the water’s surface. “A journey to Keswick.”

“How do we test him, Minerva?” the dragonflies asked her.

“Who shall we enlist with the task?” the trees whispered.

“Quiet!” Minerva ordered impatiently “Allow me to think!”

Immediately, a silence fell over the glen which was as deep as Death itself. She resumed her slow turns in the water then suddenly stopped again. She smiled and as she descended into the depths of the pool and she answered them all with a name.

“Rinnah!”

***

Rhys gathered his things and went out in silence. He ate a sparse breakfast and joined the men in the corral. They would be departing for home but he would spend the rest of the day with the friars in the library at Sheffield’s Abbey and ride on to Leeds the next morning. He put Emrys’ halter on and tied a feed bag with oats and barley over his mouth. He led the horse over to Celyn and handed him the leads.

“Take him safely back to Kenilwurt for me Celyn, I would prefer to continue with Broderick.”

“But Sir, the distance is long and the hard riding may be too much for a charger to manage.”

“It does not make sense, I know, but I will need to hunt and I feel that I may require Broderick’s speed to survive this journey. Take Emrys back with you.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

Rhys said his goodbyes to his father, Celyn and the men of Nottingham’s household, then watched as they rode out of the yard and onto the road. His uncle stood beside him until they were out of sight then turned to the boy and gave him a fierce hug.

“I am off to Camelot, Rhys.”

“I know, Uncle. Ride safely and I will see you at Kenilwurt when I return from the north.”

“Aye, Rhys,” he mounted his black destrier stallion and looked down at the boy. “You will be victorious. You are a dragon already.”

“Would you take a letter with you, Uncle?” Rhys asked. “It is for Erasmus.”

“Surely, I will,” he responded, “I will take it myself as far as Gloucester, then on with a rider to Avalon.”

“Thank you, Uncle. Godspeed.”

The day passed quickly with the friars as they gave him lessons about the history of his family. They had come from western pagans but their traditions, being from royal roots, were maintained by the SheffieldAbbey monks. The Abbey had been supported by the Wledig of Dumnonia for generations and half Anlawdd’s wealth had been given to the abbey to keep them funded when Cunedda had inherited. They kept the oral history alive year after year so that they could pass it on to the next
Ddraig
boy making the pilgrimage.

When their lectures were finally at an end, Rhys lingered in the vast library of the monastery with only one thing on his mind; the story of Calamity. He stood and walked around the outer shelves in hopes of locating the appropriate section when he came upon a door. Over the lintel, hung a sign that read, ‘Ancient Historie”.

Creeping in through the large door unnoticed was easier than Rhys had thought possible. He had watched from a dark alcove outside the room for a long time before he was finally sure that all the monks had departed from the library. He observed the last man as he descended the main staircase and turned towards the courtyard exit. From the window, Rhys saw him cross the open yard and disappear towards the stables.

There was no one else reading there that day and the day’s lessons were all completed. He scanned the shelves quickly and found several books referring to Babylonian lore. Running his finger over the spines, he chose one at random, retrieved the huge volume and carried it up into the third level corridor. He went directly to the reading alcove at the back which was hidden from the entire library and lit the candelabra there. No one would know he was even here. He placed the book carefully on the table and rested both his palms on top of the book. He closed his eyes and raised his face towards the ceiling whispering to himself. “Please, please, please,” he pleaded, “Let me find something.”

He opened the book and sat marveling at the detailed pictures of the different scenes in history. He traced his finger over a drawing of a beautiful woman in strange clothing being crowned by a winged man in equally strange garb. It was so beautiful. He turned the pages ardently trying to see if there was a record of the story but he found none. Even as the last few pages were turned, he sat back and heaved a sigh.

Then a thought came to him; he reopened the giant book and turned to a picture of a terraced stone structure in the midst of what appeared to be a desert oasis. It was made of cut and carved stone walls but it was not a building. The walkways had no coverings and only sections of the top levels had roofs. Each angled pathway was lined by gardens in elevated terraces. Everywhere plants overhung the walls and vibrant flowers bloomed. Pillars lifted each level of the structure creating another elevated patio which resembled open verandahs with planters on every border. A wheel lifted water from the river and deposited it into an aqueduct at the top of the structure. The water followed canals delivering irrigation to every flower bed and planter within the gardens. Birds nested in the taller trees while butterflies, bees and other insects were abundant. Statues and relief carvings portraying Lamassu, the winged lion-man of Assyria, were set throughout the gardens.

He read the pages depicting the tragedy of Calamity and her lost lover, Zarek. The details were magnificent but one particular passage caught Rhys’ attention.

“Calamity knelt before the dais in the Throne room of the Ernil Vuin.

The Queen and her Prince were tearful as she rent her skirts and pleaded with them.

Her love for Zarek was plain and the maiden was not embarrassed by it.

Mab and Oberon rose from their thrones. They moved as if they were moons orbiting the same sun. Together they brought her to her feet and embraced her.”

Rhys’ eyes widened as he read the story further.

“Mab stroked Calamity’s hair and whispered her questions to the girl.

“Is your love for Zarek true?” “Is his love true for you?” “Will you survive without him, or him without you?” “Are you willingly choosing to give up your immortality?” “Will he accept you in your human form?”

Calamity answered sincerely and Mab knew it was so through the Truth of Touch.

She asked Oberon to summon Titania and the Priestess’s Council so they could set the task for Zarek.

To Calamity she said, “Take heart, dear one, for I send you into the realm of Earth to wait for your true love. When you arrive on Earth, you must send Zarek into the desert to seek out the Silver Orchard and the Keeper. He must heed her words for without the instructions he will not meet success. She will pose the riddle to him and if he is successful she will ring the silver bells and transport him to us here in Eon. Your task is to find and retrieve the Cup of Truth from the line of King Cormac ua Cuinn and to us here. Remember to be swift child, time passes for us differently on Earth than it does for humans who are in Eon. If you are too slow you might come back to us in your old age. With the tasks completed, he will belong to you and you to him.

You will both be free to seek your destiny together on Earth.”

Rhys read the pages over and over until he had memorized every phrase. He went to the shelves and found parchment which he used to make a copy of the page for Naida. He selected a scrap piece from the rubbish pile and scratched the phrases “Touch of Truth”, “Priestess’s Council”, “the Keeper”, “Cup of Truth” and “Silver Orchard” on it, folding it and stuffing it into his jerkin. Heaving a long sigh, he closed the book and returned it to the shelf. He rolled the parchme
n
t and put away the quill and ink. As he closed the door behind him, Rhys realized that another quest was beginning. It would be a daunting voyage but maybe if he could finally put all the puzzle’s pieces together, he would have everything his heart desired.

That night, Rhys slept but he was disturbed by strange dreams. Repeatedly, he saw the shadow of a man in a long, hooded cloak moving like a ghost through a house. The figure stopped to touch people in the room, but took nothing from them. Rhys called out to him, “Ho, there.” And the man stopped. He turned and looked directly at Rhys. His eyes shone red and bright and then he vanished from the spot.

End Book Two

To be continued in:

Creatures of Acadia

Return to the Table of Contents

CREATURES OF ARCADIA

Sons of Camelot Book 3

by

Steve Rollins

Creatures of Arcadia

Published by Steve Rollins

Copyright © 2015 by Steve Rollins

All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Sons of Camelot

by

Steve Rollins

BOOK THREE

CREATURES OF ARCADIA

“Dreams that come when the moon is dark are messages from the cosmos. They are not to be ignored
.”

-Queen Mab, Fae of Eon

511 A.D.

The Twelfth Age of the Glastenning Sisterhood

Prologue

Glastonbury Tor, Somerset, England.

The messenger’s blood boiled in his veins, frothed at his lips and mingled with the tears of terror on his cheeks. Anebos watched curiously as he died. Humans. So fragile, so weak. Anebos loathed them more than he did the Fae; immortal scoundrels that they were. Beyond life and death, he had stalked the worlds of Eon and Earth and several more that bore no name and existed only as the dreaming nightmares of fanged, winged, nameless creatures beyond size and comprehension. The messenger fell to his knees, dropping the letter he clutched in his death grip. Anebos waved his hand and the parchment caught fire, curling and twisting, smoke rising from the paper as it combusted, describing swirled patterns in the air, that the cambion read like runes. They spelled out his future; they revealed the nature of things that no human could conceive without losing his grasp on sanity.

“It is done, Lord Oberon,” he hissed into the air, although there was no being near to him to hear. He was in a clearing in a forest far to the south from where he had been spying on the upstart whelp, Rhys of Gascogne. Knowing the back doors between the worlds was useful, although Anebos was growing tired of following orders in the service of an outcast fae. What cared he for kings, or petty wars? He was a cambion. An ancient nightmare, a terror, the death beyond death and the
only one of his kind left; as far as he knew. Oberon asked too much – and offered too little – for his service; of that he was sure. Perhaps Oberon himself would feel the burning death soon enough. It was almost like being free, slaying like this. Almost free again, away from the shackles of the Unseelie Court. Soon, the war would be done, Mordred would be victorious, and the barriers between worlds would fall. The Lifetree will wither and rot. Anebos smacked his lips, tongue lolling. The scent of the blood pooling at his feet was almost irresistible, but he could not allow himself to feed. Not yet.

Anebos cast his mind into the aether, to the invisible shade of himself he left watching the sleeping Rhys of Gascogne. The boy was tossing fitfully. Did his dreaming self somehow know that his uncle, the man known as Owain, now laid dead, the life choked out of him? Perhaps. Anebos hoped that somehow he did. He tapped the corpse of Owain with his clawed foot. The man looked surprised in death, as if he had expected life to end another way. They all did. The wind rustled in the treetops, and Oberon’s voice came with it. It came as the hustle and bustle of high leaves, in the creak of branches, in the patter of scuttling animals. He’d intercepted Owain just outside of Glastonbury. Too close to his destination for Anebos’ liking, but that had not stopped him from annihilating the threat of the message being delivered.

“Well done, Anebos,”
Oberon said from beyond the veil of the world..
“Avalon must be kept out of the fight ahead. The Glastenning will continue to wane in power, until the time of the thirteenth has come. Even so, their fae power is still formidable, and their allegiances with Mab will bring them to declare war upon us, if they know all. Go now. Mordred begins to march south.”

“Yesss, milord,” muttered Anebos. His forked tongue flickered. Mordred was in Ayr, a far step for a human to make from where Anebos stood, barely a league from Avalon itself. But, Anebos was no human, had never been human, and had the command of the magicks of fire and blood. The cambion knelt and swirled the pool of Owain’s blood with his fingertip.

“
Shul-tar-eagh, Shul-tog-na-gig, Failt-augh-loc-milq!”

The words of the spell hissed from his lips, shaped well enough by his forked tongue. The blood shimmered with ripples not caused by any apparent touch. The cambion dove headfirst into the shallow pool, disappearing into the half inch of blood as easily as a cormorant plunges into the sea in search of fish. Owain’s body lay silent.

Leagues away, Rhys stirred in the breaking dawn. In Eon, Naida watched by her pool, and Queen Mab stirred in her dream-sleep; again troubled by the visions of
Nestaron
, of the end of her people, of the end of the Lifetree. Morgan la Fae dreamed the same dream, but dreamt of her nephew, of his death.

In Arcadia, Lord Oberon sat in the fae dawn, gazing into his own seer’s pool. The high court of the Unseelie lay, sat or floated sleepily around his dais. He clenched his ebony mail-clad fist, and disturbed the black waters. It was nigh, after all those countless ages. It was time for his revenge. His pawn, Mordred, would sweep the land of all Mab’s allies, and with it any hope she had of renewing Eon. Justice.

***

The most infuriating fact that governs the human existence is that of frailty. That was the only thought that came to him as he lay there with his eyes still closed, breathing in the scent of her skin. He exhaled, thinking that if he had it to do it all again, he would. For him, it would be a delight. For him, everything was worth the pain, the strife. He held her across his lap, stroking her long hair just as he had when he pulled her from the water. As he did this, he realized that her pointed ears – the most obvious sign that she was not human – were becoming more rounded now. He hoped that the possibility of her leaving him, not being able to stay there with him forever, had truly passed. She coughed and moved a little, resettling her weight in his lap as if to confirm that she had no plans to go anywhere. Her rosebud mouth was closed, pursed lips that were the rosy pink he adored. She rolled over on his lap to face the bright rays of the sun and he laid her golden hair out over his thigh so the sun could dry it along with her skin and dress, never taking his green eyes away from her face.

With her eyes closed like that, she looks ethereal
, he thought.
She breathes as if it is the first time she has done so; well perhaps it is.

She was mesmerizing him. Her almond-shaped lids fluttered, her violet eyes searching, trying to find his face.

“You have done it, Rhys,” Naida whispered. “You have achieved all you set out to do. Everything for yourself, your family, you have done so for me as well.”

“Naida, it is you who has achieved it all,” Rhys answered. He stroked the hair back from her brow as he spoke. “You were the driving force, the magic, the undying perseverance, the love. You are my love, forever.”

“And you are mine,” she echoed.

He placed her gently down on the soft grass and lay down beside her, stroking the flaxen curls that fanned out around her head. He put his lips to her ears and she closed her eyes again.

She sighed as he whispered:

How beautiful you are, my darling!

Oh, how beautiful! Your eyes are doves.

Your hair is like a field of wheat descending from the hills.

Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon; your mouth is lovely.

You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.

She sighed again and replied:

All night long I looked for the one my heart loves;

I looked for him but did not find him.

I went up into the city, through its streets and squares;

I searched for the one my heart loves.

When I found my heart’s love, I held him and would not let him go.

Rhys woke with a start and wiped the tears from his eyes angrily. It seemed these days that even his dreams fought against him. There was a hard road ahead for him and for all the other Sons of the Round Table. Nothing had made that more clear than the news that Derrick of Liverpool had gone ahead to Kendal instead of waiting for their arrival. The news they had met on the road – which must have been similar to what Liverpool had heard – was grim and frightening, and yet they rode forward to the inevitable battle.

Chapter One

Ayr, Ayrshire, Scotland.

The frozen air from the mountains blew through the castle. ‘Castle’ was perhaps too kind a word for the blackened, ruined battlements of the fort at Ayr. Mordred stamped his feet, and ordered more wood to be placed on the fires. Dawn was breaking over Scotland through mist and fog, barely bringing enough light to let the few birds remaining in the trees know that it was indeed time to wake and sing. When they did, though, their songs were mournful. Their songs echoed the hearts of the peasants, displaced and scared away when Mordred took the lands.

Mordred, natural born son of Arthur and rightful heir to the throne of all lands north and south, was for once in a hale and hearty mood. The preparations for war were going well, the Sons of the Round Table had been stymied at every turn, and his own force was swollen with the wild Pictmen, Celt clans and Viking mercenaries. He had invited their leaders to break their fast together, on coarse brown bread, thick cuts of salted pork belly and black beer, but was interrupted in his meal by the appearance of his servant, Donal.

“My liege,” Donal stammered. “
It
is here, and craves an audience with Your Majesty.”

It
had always un-nerved Donal. The shrew-like serf had attended on Mordred for a decade, and had blankly witnessed many terrible things committed by Mordred and his forces in the name of his quest for retribution and revenge. Only Anebos had ever installed fear in him. Whether Donal was numb to mortal terrors or simply superstitious and afraid of faefolk, Mordred never asked. He put his trencher down, sourly regarding the uneaten meat. Ragnar Lodbrok, leader of the Viking warriors, regarded his employer with surprise. It must be a mighty thing indeed to draw a future king away from his meal. The Pict chieftains did not raise their faces from their meals, slavering and gobbling like the pigs that had provided their morning meat. Mordred stalked away with long strides, closing the heavy oaken door of his quarters behind him. The fire in the hearth was low, and his breath condensed on the preternatural chill of the air. The cambion stood in front of the fire, barely a shadow, almost impossible to see, save from the corner of Mordred’s eye. To look at it directly was to see a skittering nothingness and to sense impending death from hidden attackers that were surely right behind your shoulder. Mordred despised the undead thing, this Wight of the ages. Why had he been sent this creature? No doubt it had proven itself to be a spy and assassin of some great power, but Mordred felt like he was being maneuvered. Manipulated.

“What do you disturb my breakfast for, ghoul? Come to tell me more tales from your master? I grow weary of waiting on Lord Oberon’s commands.” Mordred drew himself up to his full height and regal bearing. The cambion hissed softly to itself, and brought itself into better view. Its shadowy form thickened, blotted out more of the fire behind it, but still fell short of full opacity. Mordred could at least see the dead thing’s face, red-eyed and wan-skinned, pointy-eared and long of tooth.

“Ssssoooo, Lord Mordred, he who would be king,” Anebos spoke with a false sweetness. “You would do well to remember that I am not your subject, and you are not my king. Even more so, you would do well to thank those who do you favor, and quickly, before they make you beg on your knees.”

Mordred scoffed. “I fear you not, demon. I am the son of the greatest warrior of our age, blessed by birth and of pure blood. My father’s blood courses through my veins as does the blood of Uther, my grandfather. Twice over, in fact!” Mordred gave an evil chuckle at his last comment. Anebos snickered mockingly.

“Oh, you laugh? Arthur may be my sworn enemy, but he
is
a great warrior. Only a fool would deny the power of the blood of kings. I command you again, what brings you here? What message does Oberon send?” Mordred drew his short sword from the scabbard, and pointed the black iron blade at Anebos’ throat. “Speak! Quickly! I command it!”