Prince Arthur & the Quest for the Holy Grail
by Soledad
Author's notes: This is the chapter in which both series canon and legendary background get a serious twist. So does the mythology, which does have some Celtic roots but has otherwise been made up by me. I hope it will make sense in the context of this story, though.
I couldn't figure out where the Lake of Avalon, the Valley of the Fallen Kings and Lord Godwyn's castle are situated within the series' geography, so I just chose a random direction – except that the Lake, of course, had to be in the West.
Chapter 06 – The Valley of the Fallen Kings
The object of Morgana's curiosity was, in the meantime, riding through the forests south of the Lake of Avalon, heading northwards, with one thoroughly confused knight as his company.
"Would you mind telling me something about these Fallen Kings before we blunder headfirst into their cursed valley?" demanded Lancelot in mild exasperation.
"You're asking me?" returned Merlin with wide-eyed – and quite obviously false – innocence. I'm just a farm boy, remember? I hadn't even heard about them until recently, when Arthur dragged me into the blasted Valley, half a year or so ago."
Lancelot eyed him suspiciously. "Now why would he drag you into a cursed valley?"
"We were being chased through the woods," explained Merlin unhappily. "As usual, whenever the royal prat gets the glorious idea to go hunting."
"Oh, yeah." Lancelot had heard of such adventures and couldn't help but smile. "Everyone in Camelot knows that whenever the two of you venture outside the castle gates, you inevitably run into footpads."
"It's Arthur's fault, really," insisted Merlin. "He knows I hate hunting – and yet he insists on taking me with him every time, instead of the castle's huntsmen, who would actually be of some use… just to make my life miserable. Only this time it wasn't footpads chasing us. This time, they were mercenaries."
"Is there a difference?" asked Lancelot, and Merlin nodded energetically.
"Oh yes, there is! Footpads are easy. They're unorganized, and they get bored with the chase after a while. Also, they're superstitious and would never enter a cursed valley."
"Which was the reason why Arthur sought refuge exactly there." Lancelot was getting the gist of the story.
"Yeah." Merlin's face darkened with unpleasant memories. "But, as I said, this time our pursuers were mercenaries, and those won't shy back from a cursed valley."
"They followed you right in?" guessed Lancelot.
"They followed us right in; and then they shot Arthur in the back with an arrow," Merlin sighed. "After that, they simply left; their orders must have been to kill Arthur, plain and simple. We never figured out who had hired them, but my guess would be King Odin."
"Not Cenred or Morgause or both?" asked Lancelot in surprise. Merlin shook his head.
"They wouldn't have granted him such a quick and clean death. They'd have wanted him to suffer first. Odin just wanted to see him dead, to avenge his son, and since his assassin had failed last year, he tried a different approach."
"But apparently, the mercenaries failed, too," said Lancelot. "The arrow wound couldn't have been fatal, or you wouldn't have been able to heal it."
"I couldn't," replied Merlin grimly. "For some reason, I seem unable to heal Arthur with my magic. Other people, yes – like I've healed the broken arm of my mother – but never Arthur. It is truly strange."
"Perhaps not," said Lancelot thoughtfully. "Have you ever been able to heal yourself?" Merlin shook his head mutely. "There you are, then. Perhaps the two of you are bound too tightly by destiny. Perhaps the same forces that won't allow you to heal yourself don't allow you to heal him, either. Couldn't that be?"
"Perhaps," allowed Merlin, though he didn't seem completely persuaded. "Although I never heard of something like that. I'll have to ask Gaius once we get back. He knows a great deal about the strangest things."
"And yet he never told you about the Fallen Kings," teased Lancelot.
"There was never a reason for him to do so," replied Merlin with a shrug. "They're dead; have been for at least two hundred years. I'm surprised that you haven't heard about them, though. You're the one with the noble birth; and it has been my experience that nobility values the tales about past glory and feeds them to their children."
"They likely would have done so, had my nurse not chosen the moment of greatest despair to steal me and raise me as any other country lad." Lancelot's face was hard like grey stone. "So forgive me if my education doesn't quite meet your expectations."
"I don't know if I can," returned Merlin, completely unfazed by his mood, eyes twinkling merrily. "I've got a reputation to consider, you know. After all, I usually keep company with princes, great ladies and the noblest knights of Albion."
For a moment Lancelot tried to glare at him, but as that tactic never worked for Arthur, either, he didn't really have any other choice than to laugh. Merlin laughed with him, content with his efforts to lighten his friend's mood, and then Lancelot picked up the conversation again.
"So, you really don't know anything about the Fallen Kings?"
"Actually, I do know quite a bit, but not from Gaius," Merlin grinned at him. "It was one of Arthur's lecturing moments when he explained it to me. Perhaps he wanted to impress me with the most heroic deeds of his ancestors; as far back as he could count them."
Lancelot snorted. "As if that would ever work with you!"
"Not very likely," agreed Merlin readily enough. "In any case, according to his royal pratliness, the Fallen Kings were all the scions of an ancient family of sovereigns; a family called the House of Don."
"The Sun god of the Old Religion," murmured Lancelot, and Merlin nodded.
"Yeah. They all had their petty kingdoms, every single one of them, and ruled under the overlordship of a High King. The last High King was apparently someone by the name of Rhydderch."
"The one who had the old castle built in the first place?" asked Lancelot. "The one where the Round Table originally stood?"
"The very same," said Merlin. "He was also the one who founded the Brotherhood of the Round Table, unsurprisingly. Now, Master Geoffrey told me that the House of Don had fought a long, embittered war against the House of Llyr…"
"… the Sea god of the Old Religion," Lancelot finished for him.
"Exactly," agreed Merlin. "No source can tell for certain what the cause of the war had been – perhaps it had something to do with the battling elements of fire and water, I'm not really sure – but the fact is that both sides used magic heavily, and in the end, only one family remained standing on each side: King Vortigern's from the House of Don and King Leodegrance's from the House of Llyr."
"Wait a minute!" Lancelot stopped him. "Wasn't King Vortigern Uther's father?"
"His great-grandfather, actually, unless I'm mistaken," corrected Merlin. "The 'Son of Vortigern' is only an honorary title. But yes, Uther is the descendant of the Kings of old – and so is Arthur."
"And what about the descendants of Leodegrance?" asked Lancelot. Merlin shrugged.
"No one seems to know what happened to them when Leodegrance supposedly fled to Cymru, more than two hundred years ago. Legend says, however, that all daughters of the House of Llyr were great enchantresses, while the sons of the House of Don were all great war-leaders. And that there could only be peace in a united Albion if the last son of the House Don wed the last daughter of the House Llyr."
"That would mean, though, that Arthur must marry a sorceress," commented Lancelot. "Somehow I can't see Uther condoning that."
"Neither can I," replied Merlin. "He must have known the ancient prophecy, though; why else would he have tried to get Arthur to marry Princess Elena at all costs?"
"That is something I've been wondering about, too," admitted the knight. "Why Princess Elena of all people? There are countless petty kings in the neighbourhood with beautiful daughters of marriageable age, most of them richer and more powerful than Lord Godwyn. Why Elena, who's said to be as far away from being a perfect princess as one could possibly be?"
"Because, if Master Geoffrey has his facts right, she is descended from the house of Llyr, on her mother's side," answered Merlin. "Not from Leodegrance directly, true, but she still comes from the royal bloodline; and she's most definitely not a sorceress. Uther must have thought her safe enough to fulfil the prophecy without making allowances towards the use of magic."
"I see." Lancelot mulled over that bit of news for a while. "So that's why she's called a princess, even though her father is not a king?"
"That's right."
"And you're sure she's not a sorceress?"
"Very sure. Were she one, the Sidhe would have had a much harder time keeping her under control," Merlin smiled. "She's not so bad, actually. Quite pretty, too – when she doesn't forget to comb her hair or lace up her gown properly – honest to the bone and a great horsewoman. Arthur could have done a lot worse, had he not been… otherwise interested already."
"You know, you're making me curious," commented Lancelot, suppressing the all-too familiar pain caused by the thought of Gwen with practised ease.
"You'll get your chance to satisfy your curiosity," promised Merlin. "We'll ride by the Castle of Gavant on our way home; after all, we'll have to rest somewhere, and what better place for a Knight of Camelot than the fortress of a stout ally?"
"Speaking of a rest," Lancelot glanced at the setting sun, "don't you think we should stop for tonight? We've ridden without halt since we left the Lake of Avalon, and I'm tired."
"So am I, to be honest." Merlin brought his horse to a halt and slid off the saddle with legs stiff from the long ride. "Let's find a suitable campsite before it gets completely dark, shall we?"
Lionel, late-born and utterly spoiled son of the late Lord Leontes and his Lady Madelyn, was not a happy young man. The mere idea that he, the younger brother of the First Knight of Camelot and scion of a family with almost-royal blood in its veins should serve in the infirmary would have been enough to make said almost-royal blood boil.
That he should be dressing wounds, supporting the slowly recovering knights to the privy hidden behind each curtained bed in its own small niche, emptying the chamber pots when they were done, washing them as they still were too weak to take care of their personal hygiene alone – it was unimaginable. The fact that he had to do so while following the instructions of some middle-aged peasant woman from a rural village was only adding insult to injury. Even if that peasant woman was the court physician's niece and mother to Prince Arthur's personal manservant.
It wasn't as if Mistress Hunith had been ordering him around out of spite or giving him unnecessary chores to do. But the tasks he was given were menial, meant for a servant, not for a future knight, and Hunith seemed completely unimpressed by his birth and family, not showing him the due respect a mere commoner owed the son of a noble House.
"It must run in the family," his eldest brother grinned the one time when Lionel tried to complain to him. "You should hear Merlin talk to Prince Arthur! I don't think anyone else has ever dared to call him a dollop-head. Or a clotpole. And Gaius, for all that he is deferential to King Uther, is known to have said uncomfortable things straight to the King's face, at times when other men would have been summarily beheaded for such boldness. Mistress Hunith is just true to her heritage, I suppose. Besides, she could easily be your mother; perhaps you should consider showing her some respect."
With that, Leon clearly considered the matter closed and left, going to his many duties within the Citadel. Lionel understood that he could not expect any understanding from his brother and sought the alliance of his fellow squires instead. More so as they were supposed to train together in the afternoons, being beaten up by Master Gregory, the captain of the Castle Guard, every time… and with humiliating ease.
Gareth was the only exception. He actually managed to beat Master Gregory half the time, which was no small feat, even if he was the oldest and best-trained among the squires. Few could even come close to Master Gregory's skill with the blade; as the weapons master of the Guard, he needed to be the best. But Gareth had apparently talked Sir Gwaine into showing him a few of his dirtier tricks, and that clearly helped a lot.
"You've asked Gwaine to teach you?" exclaimed Lionel in shock. "A rogue and a notorious drunkard?"
Gareth gave him an unfriendly look. "That's Sir Gwaine to you, boy; and I don't care who his parents were or what he's done before. He's the best swordsman I've ever seen, and that includes Prince Arthur and Sir Kay. There's no shame in learning from the best – you'll see when Sir Lancelot returns."
"I cannot wait," muttered Lionel darkly. "Have you been assigned as Gwaine's squire then?"
Gareth suddenly flashed him a wide white grin. "Oh, no… not yet anyway, although I'm working on it. For now, though, Sir Kay sent me to the kitchens. Said I'd benefit from learning how food is prepared."
"You? In the kitchens?" Lionel could barely speak from outrage. "But – but you're the son of a king!"
Gareth laughed at his scandalized expression.
"The more reason not to let that fact go to my head," he answered cheerfully. "Besides, the kitchens are a fun place. There may not be much food prepared these days – where is there? – but that only means that the maids have more time for a little tryst or other."
With that, he laughed and headed back to the castle, leaving a frustrated Lionel behind.
"He's right, you know." Ivaneth, the oldest of the pages, just about to be promoted to a squire, walked up to Lionel, taking off his gambeson on his way. "Some of the maids are truly… generous when it comes to spreading their favours."
"I don't think Prince Arthur would approve if we started harassing the female servants," said Lionel condescendingly, because Ivaneth was quite a few years younger than him and of considerably lower birth.
"No," countered the page. "He prefers to marry them these days."
His scathing tone surprised Lionel, until he remembered that Ivaneth had been the personal page and a trusted aide to the Lady Morgana for years. That he had to perform the same duties around Gwen now must grate at him. While Gwen had not moved into the Lady Morgana's abandoned chambers – that would have been truly pretentious, and besides King Uther would never tolerate it – she was given her own rooms in the court ladies' wing. Ivaneth, who had once served the King's Ward, had now been assigned as Gwen's page, until his promotion – to her who had served the same lady… only below him.
Lionel had grown up with Gwen and quite liked her, despite the differences in birth and rank that, in his opinion, should never be bridged over. Nonetheless, he could understand Ivaneth's frustration. He fought the same frustration every day. There he certainly had a potential ally.
"Lionel!" he heard his name called and had barely time to catch the sword his middle brother, Bors was tossing at him, complete with scabbard. "Leon wants you to take this to Sir Elyan's smithy. Something or other with its balance; Elyan will know."
"Why not to the royal blacksmith?" asked Lionel. The thought of a Knight of Camelot standing at the forge, hammering away on some bent piece of armour, made him uncomfortable.
"Because Elyan's forge is the best in the whole of Camelot; and because Leon said to bring the sword to him," replied Bors, waving to Sir Girflet who had come to spar with him. "You still remember where their house is, don't you?"
"Of course I do, I'm not addled in the brain!" said Lionel indignantly. "I just…"
But Bors interrupted him. "Then I suggest that you move now, before you're needed in the infirmary again."
Unlike Leon, Bors had very little patience with his little brother's antics, and Lionel found it better to obey without any further argument.
"Come with me then," he muttered to Ivaneth. "Let's see what the noble knights of Camelot are doing in their spare time."
They left the Citadel through the southern gate and walked down to the lower town where most craftsmen had their shops and houses. The metalworkers' street ran on the eastern side of the district, near the town wall, as they needed to keep a certain distance between their fire pits and the mostly timber houses perched tightly together. Aside from the blacksmiths and farriers, mostly bronzesmiths, weaponsmiths and armourers lived in this street, as related crafts always tended to stick together – partly for the safety in numbers and partly to keep a wary eye on the competition.
Elyan's work area was near the end of the street, around a slight bend. Behind it a long, chest-high stack of split wood leaned against the fence. As a rule, every blacksmith would have preferred to use charcoal, but due to the recent turbulences, the charcoal burners (those who hadn't been killed, that was) just could not produce the required amounts. So even the smiths had to return to the use of firewood eventually, although it could not produce the same heat as charcoal.
The house of the blacksmith stood on the street front. Lionel had been there often enough in his childhood to recognize it. He remembered the back porch and the flower garden on one side; he had played there as a child with Master Thomas' children… one of whom was now a knight and the other of whom might become his Queen one day. Another garden patch, this one for vegetables if memory served him well, was further back behind the stables.
The whole place smelled of horse dung, charcoal and soot – typical for a blacksmith's shop and stables. Lionel briefly wondered how it was that he could never pick up those smells around Gwen who, until recently, had lived here. How did women do that?
The house's front door was closed and no smoke curled up from its pot chimney, so they passed along it and the second woodpile lining the fence on this side, back to the smithy: a small sandstone building with its door wide open to provide the smith with some light. As they entered, they found themselves in a surprisingly large room: the forge itself.
Despite the open door, its illumination came from the glowing forge mostly, which cast the room and the men working at the benches and fire pits in a sweltering glow. Tools and pieces of metal were spread across the workbenches, and the air was baked with the smell of iron and coal; Elyan was probably using up his late father's last reserves of charcoal, as swords could not be properly forged by inferior heat.
When the two young squires entered the forge room Elyan looked up from the half-finished sword he was hammering and handed his tools to one of his helpers. He was wearing his coarse working garb and a long leather apron, his dark face glistening with sweat, his bare arms smeared with soot. In the red glow of the forge he had a strange, almost demonic look to him. Lionel had visited Master Thomas in his forge a few times but never before had he noticed the dark magnificence radiating from a smith's strength and almost magical work that could turn glowing metal and stone to shining swords.
"Lionel," said Elyan with a courteous nod. "What brings you to my humble abode?"
In their youth, even a year ago, he would have said Master Lionel, as a commoner was supposed to call the still under-age son of a noble family. But due to Prince Arthur's hasty decision to make of a simple blacksmith a knight, they were equals now. In fact, Elyan even outranked a squire, regardless of family or birth. Moreover, as a member of the Brotherhood of the Round Table, he even outranked most knights in the kingdom.
Lionel was well aware of that fact, and it did nothing to improve his already sullen mood.
"My brother sent me to bring you this sword," he replied with a thinly-veiled scowl and showed the smith the weapon in question. "He says you'll know what's wrong with it."
Elyan pulled the sword out of the scabbard and turned it back and forth a few times in the firelight; then he made a few experimental thrusts and slashes, his mouth twisting downwards unhappily.
"I see what he means," he said. "The balance is off indeed. I don't think it's an error that occurred when the blade was made, though. Rather while the sword was repaired at some time in the past."
"Can you hammer it out or something?" asked Lionel impatiently.
"Afraid not," replied Elyan with a dark flash of his eyes. "It needs to be re-forged; the damage goes too deep. Tell Sir Leon that I'll take a look at it as soon as I find the time – right now, we've got more urgent work to do."
With that, he took back the tools from his helper and continued his work with the still glowing sword, the heavy hammer dancing in his strong hand, beating a strange, almost musical rhythm on the ringing anvil. The firelight painted his gleaming face the colour of molten iron.
Unable to deal gracefully with the fact that he had just been dismissed by a commoner, Lionel stomped off, red-faced and furious, Ivaneth hot on his heels. Benet, one of the journeyman blacksmiths who had fled to Camelot from an outlying village, looked after him thoughtfully.
"He has much pride and anger in him, that one," he remarked. "You'd better keep an eye on him, Master Elyan."
"He's young and hot-headed," replied Elyan with a shrug. "He'll come down in due time. His brothers have, too. Now, see that you finish repairing those iron bonds on the apothecary's strongbox. His apprentice will be here to fetch it within the hour."
"You like her, don't you?" asked Benet with a smile on his soot-smeared face. Elyan shrugged again, trying to look casual – and failing miserably.
"What's there not to like? She's small but feisty; and she has a good head on her shoulders. How many girls get accepted as apprentice by an apothecary? Even if their father was a physician."
"I was right," said Benet, his smile growing from ear to ear. "You do like her."
Elyan gave no answer, just hammered away on the glowing sword with all his might.
It took Merlin and Lancelot more than a week to reach the Valley of the Fallen Kings – mostly because Merlin had no clear memories of its location. Which was understandable, considering that last time – the only time he had actually been there – he had been running for his life, following Arthur blindly.
"Can't you do something to find the right direction?" asked Lancelot in exasperation, after they had come to a dead end for the fourth time in as many days. "You know, ask an oracle, cast a spell, call that dragon of yours to come and take us there... that sort of thing."
"Kilgharrah is not a horse," replied Merlin absent-mindedly, "and I don't really think there would be any oracles in this godforsaken forest that we could ask. But I guess I could try a tracking spell… although I'm not sure it will actually work."
"Surely not, if you don't even give it a try," pointed out Lancelot with infuriating logic.
Merlin gave him a shrug and an embarrassed smile – he wasn't used to doing magic in front of an audience, although he had to admit that it was liberating that he could at least discuss it with Lancelot freely. Then he extended his hand, his fingers spread wide and concentrated.
"Beo pu lechte bewunden!" he whispered in a harsh voice, his eyes flashing gold. "Scin scirl!"
For a moment, nothing happened. Then one of the forking paths before them began to glow with a pale yellow light. To be honest, Merlin was greatly surprised that the spell had worked – it was one he had never tried before. Lancelot, on the other hand, looked as if he hadn't doubted for a heartbeat that he would be able to do it.
"You really need more practice," was all he said, already turning his horse to follow the gleaming path deeper into the darkening forest.
They followed the magical trail Merlin had conjured up for another day, with very short rests only, as Lancelot was worried about taking too long. To be perfectly honest, Merlin, too, was worried about leaving Arthur behind on his own, without protection.
Without the protection only he could provide, that was – from any common danger his knights would protect him efficiently. Sir Leon would see to that. But in case of a magical attack Arthur would be vulnerable. Even with his sorcerer's skills rekindled, Gaius was simply not strong enough against Morgause and Morgana in the long run. They could only hope that the sisters would lie low for a while yet. At least until Merlin could get back to Camelot.
So he was greatly relieved when, the next morning, the tracking spell finally led them to familiar territory. The track of pale light ended directly before a narrow archway that seemed like a mere fissure in the enormous, weathered rock-face, between two great pinnacles or pillars of stone, carved in the shape of two knights, clad in old-fashioned scaled armour the likes of which had not been used in Camelot for many hundred years.
Tall and sheer and ominous they stood there, upon either side of the narrow gap in the rock, rising like towers above the two riders. Giants they seemed to Lancelot, vast grey figures silent and forbidding, and still they preserved, through the forgotten years of a fallen kingdom, the likenesses in which they had been hewn. With wide-spread legs they stood there, their blurred eyes turned to the entrance with never-ceasing watchfulness, their longswords pointing towards the ground.
"The Immortal Guardians," whispered Merlin. "I've read about them in one of Master Geoffrey's forbidden books; the ones kept in the secret chambers of the library. Legends say that these were carved by the hands of giants, and that the court sorcerers of the House of Don planted a mighty spell within their stone hearts. As long as the spell was renewed every twelve years, no one could enter the Valley without the Kings' leave. After the fall of the House Don, however, the protection spell lost its power, as no one remembered the words to renew it."
"So we can get in then?" asked Lancelot uncertainly. Merlin nodded.
"Anyone can get in, now that the spell has expired."
"But if the Valley is cursed…" Lancelot began.
"It's not," Merlin interrupted him. "It's just a superstition; a false memory of something that once blocked the way of any unwanted visitors. The Guardians have lost all their power – they're just a memento of Camelot's former power. Come on, we don't have time to waste!"
He rode forth, through the narrow gateway between the mighty stone warriors. Even in the saddle, his head barely reached to their knees. The crumbling stone hands, grasping the sword hilts that had been fashioned in amazing detail, were bigger than his head. And yet he pressed on fearlessly, like someone who was coming into his own.
Perhaps he was, thought Lancelot, following him with a feeling of awe and vague dread. The Guardians might have lost their power, but he could still feel a high level of awareness emanating from their huge forms; and watchfulness and wrath. They might no longer be able to protect the Valley, but great majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished kingdom, and they still seemed to know when someone entered it uninvited.
The Valley had been a place of old, sometimes destructive magic, after all. Old wives' tales, whispered from mouth to ear under the mantle of the night, stated that in some places that darkness had never been lifted. If that was indeed so, the only safe way to enter the Valley was probably in Merlin's company.
The arched doorway led to a long, narrow path between sheer walls of grey, weathered rock. There were strange shapes half-carved out of the rock surface: faces and forms of people and creatures whose stories had been lost in the mists of myth. Lancelot was careful not to look at them directly, just in case they, too, held some sort of enchantment.
He had other things to worry about at the moment anyway. The path was, in fact, a stairway that led down to the Valley itself, made of flat stone steps not too close to each other, but even so, they had to dismount and lead their frightened horses on the reins. When they finally reached even ground at the lower end, Lancelot saw with concern that the magic path did not continue beyond the entrance of the Valley.
"Your tracking spell has expired," he warned Merlin.
The warlock gave him a brilliant smile. "We don't need it anymore. Where we're heading is the birthplace of magic. I can feel its pull as we speak. All I have to do is to follow it."
Lancelot was still a tad sceptical about that, but Merlin beheld right. They did find the narrow fissure in the rock wall that served as the entrance of the caves without further delay. It did not look very spectacular from the outside, Lancelot thought. He even said so, but Merlin just grinned.
"Wait till you've seen it from within. I was blown away when Taliesin showed me the way in."
"Taliesin," repeated Lancelot thoughtfully. "Do you think he'll appear again?"
Merlin shrugged. "I don't know; it's hard to tell with a man two hundred years dead. He said our meeting had been long-expected and foretold many years ago – but he never spoke of any other, future meetings."
"Perhaps he was only meant to guide you to the Cave and show you its purpose," guessed Lancelot. "And to save Arthur's life, of course."
"Perhaps," allowed Merlin. "We'll see."
They left the horses in a well-hidden little clearing nearby and entered the Cave. At first, there was almost complete darkness, and yet they could see that the walls were not rock on the inside but rows upon rows of blue and white crystals, glinting and glittering in a light that wasn't even there. Perhaps it came from the crystals themselves; just barely enough for them to find their way in the cavernous subterranean labyrinth.
In any case, the place was awe-inspiring. Even Lancelot, who had little to no affinity for the supernatural, could feel the tremolo of ancient magic vibrating through every single shard.
Taliesin did not appear.
"This place is beautiful," breathed Lancelot, barely able to map out the dimensions of the Cave in the darkness, although he had the impression that it must be enormous.
Merlin nodded. "Beautiful… and dangerous. Should the crystals choose to show you anything, you must be very careful how to interpret what you've seen."
"What do you mean if they choose to show me anything?"
"Taliesin told me that the future is hidden to all but a very few. It may be that you are one such person – but it may be that you're not. The crystals contain futures that are not yet born; if they reveal to you any secrets, they would be unique to you. But you must be really careful, for they are treacherous."
"Do I hear the voice of experience speaking here?" asked Lancelot. He had not been told everything that had happened during his absence from Camelot, but the bitter tone of his friend's voice hinted of an unpleasant event.
He could rather feel than actually see Merlin nod.
"Gaius had warned me, just as I've warned you," murmured the warlock. "But I was so determined to prevent something bad from happening that I didn't listen. I nearly killed Morgana; then I made Kilgharrah mad at me by forcing him to help save her; and in the end, I could barely stop her from murdering Uther," he sighed. "I thought I could alter the future, but instead, I caused it. I've made a possible future become reality."
"And yet you still chose to return here?" wondered Lancelot.
"What else could I have done?" replied Merlin simply. "The crystals can show me what might happen. What I make of it is up to me."
"That's what frightens me, to be honest," said Lancelot. "Are we truly meant to tinker with fate? Even someone as gifted as you are?"
"Perhaps not," admitted Merlin. "But there's no one else who could do it."
"Fair enough," said Lancelot after a long moment of consideration. "Well we're here. What now?"
"Now we wait," answered Merlin.
Lancelot gave him a bewildered look. "What for?"
"For the crystals to show us whatever they choose to reveal," Merlin told him calmly.
There was nothing else they could have done, after all.
Princess Elena, the lady of Gawant, woke up in a really good mood. To tell the truth, she had been in a fairly good mood ever since her father's failed attempt to get her married to Arthur Pendragon, the Crown Prince of Camelot. Whatever that old court physician of King Uther's might have given her on the morning of her failed wedding, it seemed to have made her a completely new person. Not only had it cured her of her wind problem and her strange cravings (she now bodily shuddered at the memory of eating frogs), she seemed to become less clumsy with each passing day.
While before the only thing she had been able to perform flawlessly was riding, now she suddenly found herself capable of dancing quite gracefully, which was a pleasant surprise. Her hair, always unruly and often dry and brittle like straw, was now silky and shiny and stayed within the confines of combs, nets and other headdresses. Her embroidery had greatly improved since she wasn't stabbing herself with the needle at the most unexpected times. She even had begun to practise with the hunting bow again and quickly became better at it than ever before.
She was still awestruck by her own new, improved looks, all well-dressed, well-groomed and graceful. When she looked into the mirror, she saw what she had never seemed to be before: a perfect princess. She wished her mother could see her now.
Or Grunhilda… even if Grunhilda would find the idea of a perfect princess perfectly boring. She really missed Grunhilda at times. Her tiny nurse might have been a little odd – some people said she hadn't even been a woman at all, but a strange, magical creature up to no good – but she had fond memories of her. Grunhilda had always been there for her, had always covered her mistakes, had taken care of her, entertained her, encouraged her, kept her company. They had had so much fun together!
She felt a bit lonely without Grunhilda. She loved her father with all her heart – she would have married Arthur Pendragon just because she knew how important it was for her father to cement the old, unofficial alliance between Camelot and Corbenic – and she knew the feeling was mutual. But her father, King of Corbenic in all but crown and title, was a very busy man, ruling and protecting their small realm, and had little time for her. Grunhilda, on the other hand, had always been there for her. She had been the closest thing to a mother Elena had ever known.
She had been looking for a tirewoman ever since their return from Camelot, but it was near impossible to replace Grunhilda. There were many women who wanted a place in the royal household, but none of them seemed to have what she wanted from a constant companion. She had only now begun to realize the many skills Grunhilda had possessed and how hard it would be to find those – or at least some of those – in one woman again.
The arrival of the elderly healer, Mistress Alys, a couple of weeks earlier had truly been a godsend. At first Elena had been a bit sceptical. Alys seemed too old to master the multiple tasks of being the tirewoman of a princess. But they really needed a good healer in Gawant, and she soon showed amazing skills in that area. Also, while she might not be as much fun as Grunhilda had been, she was a kind, calm person, with great knowledge that went far beyond that of a simple healer. Elena found that she enjoyed learning new things from her – or rather very old things, as the case might be.
Her grandson, the lad Gwilim, was a tad sullen, true. As if he had expected more from his life and been disappointed time and again. But he was good at handling the horses, and he turned out to be surprisingly good with that broadsword of his, too. So Lord Godwyn had appointed him as Elena's personal groom, who was to go with her whenever she happened to leave the castle. More so as he seemed to have an almost uncanny ability to find his way back, no matter how lost they happened to get while hunting.
On this clear and chilly autumn morning, however, hunting wasn't what Elena had on her mind. It was two days before Oidche Shamna, the Eve of Samhain, today, and as preparation for that greatest of all festivals, she wanted – like all other maidens of Corbenic – to visit the holy well of Llyr that lay about a day's ride from Gawant, to ask the local oracle about her future.
Unlike in Camelot, such a visit was perfectly acceptable in Corbenic. Lord Godwyn might have been an old friend and steadfast ally of Uther Pendragon; he was not even particularly fond of magical practices. But he did not forbid his people to follow their old customs, as long as those did not do any harm.
Very old those customs were indeed, older than the Old Religion itself, and they came not from the cult of any forgotten gods but from the people's unbreakable bond with the land in which they lived and which fed and sheltered them. And if the rituals gathering around the beginning of An Geamhrad, the dark winter season of Corbenic, made people feel safe, Lord Godwyn saw no reason to rob them of that safety. It was not sorcery, after all. It was their way of life. It had been before the Kings of old had emerged, and it would still be there when even the memory of those Kings was long forgotten.
Elena had learned quite a few things from Grunhilda about the dual forces of existence: of darkness and light, night and day, cold and heat, death and life. She knew though that all that had only been the beginning. She might not be an enchantress as her ancestors had been, but as the last known daughter of the House of Llyr, it was her sacred duty to do everything in her power to ensure the safety of her people and that each new harvest would be a plentiful one.
That was a heavy burden for a young girl without a mother to guide her; moreso as it included finding a proper husband and bearing children – preferably a daughter, in whom the House of Llyr could continue. So she was going to the holy well of her mother's family today, to consult the oracle and the Druids serving it, and try to catch a glimpse of the future. Even though Mistress Alys, who seemed to be well-versed in ancient lore, solemnly warned her to be careful.
"The Oidhche Shamna is the most sacred night of the year," the wise old crone said; "and also the most magically potent one. It is the night when the boundaries between our world and the Otherworld are broken and the dead can return to the places where they have lived… which is why many of the ancient rites involve providing hospitality for dead ancestors."
"Like putting out food and drink for the dead with great ceremony?" asked Elena, remembering having seen such odd practices among the simple folk. "Or leaving doors, gates and windows unlocked to give them free passage into the house?"
Mistress Alys nodded. "Exactly. Yet not all spirits are friendly, so you'd do better if you had your house warded against unwelcome visitors from the otherworld."
"But-but wouldn't that involve magic?" asked Elena, more than a little shocked. While magic hadn't been condemned in her father's realm the way it had been in Camelot, it had become an ominous undertone when people spoke about it.
"It would," admitted the crone. "Not all magic is evil, though, no matter what Uther Pendragon might say. And even if certain kinds of it are evil – should you not be warded against it, instead of facing it unawares, like a lamb faces the shearer? Had your lady mother warded the house before your birth, she would have spared you a great deal of inconvenience."
That was only true, of course. Although, if the Sidhe had not found a way to her, she'd never have met Grunhilda, whom she truly missed. That did not mean she wanted to repeat her mother's mistake, though.
"What am I supposed to do, then?" she asked.
Mistress Alys brought her a strange charm: a ring made of willow-bark, from which crystals and feathers of various sizes and colours were hanging on thin ribbons.
"This is a dream catcher," she explained. "The spirits can only enter your home through your dreams – this charm will filter out the malevolent ones and keep them away from you. Each of these crystals bears an elemental sign. When enchanted, they resonate and pacify the visiting spririts, letting through only the friendly ones. We'll hang it up in your bedchamber to keep you safe."
"What about Father and the others?" Elena worried.
"They're quite safe," said Mistress Alys. "They cannot serve as a gateway for the spirits; only a daughter of the House of Llyr can. The spirit guards people carve from turnips and set before their doors will take care of the rest."
"So, can I go to the holy well and talk to the Druids, then?" Elena pressed on.
"You can – if that's what you truly want," replied the crone with a sigh.
"It is," said Elena, her gentle face hardening in determination.
Mistress Alys nodded. "Very well then. I shall send Gwilim with you. Mark my words: he'll be of more use to you than a dozen knights. But you'll have to return before the night of Oidche Shamna falls upon us."
Merlin and Lancelot spent the whole night in the Cave, waiting. The crystals seemed in no particular hurry to reveal anything, though, and the knight was getting impatient.
"Are you sure something will happen?" he asked. Merlin just nodded. "And what makes you so sure about that?"
"The fact that I'm not leaving this place until it happens," Merlin told him calmly.
"You think you can out-stubborn stone?" Lancelot couldn't quite suppress a sarcastic laugh.
Merlin just shrugged. "If I have to… Besides, they're crystals, not stones."
"Yes, because that makes such a big difference," returned Lancelot – but suddenly he felt the breath catch in his throat.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a gentle glow that had not been there before. One of the crystals started to emanate a pale golden light. It was beautiful, like moonshine caught in glass, and as it reflected thousandfold from the other crystals, it illuminated every inch of the cavernous room, bathing it in unparalleled brilliance that was nonetheless soft enough not to hurt the eye. It was mesmerizing… a man could have gotten lost in there forever.
Lancelot shook his head to free himself from the crystals' pull and looked around in slight confusion. "All right; where do we look?"
"It doesn't matter," said Merlin quietly. "Any one of the crystals can show you the same images – if they choose to do so."
"Voice of experience again, huh?" the knight tried to jest, but Merlin just sighed.
"You have no idea my friend… All you have to do is to choose one of them and look at it… really look. If there's anything for you to know, it will be revealed."
Lancelot shrugged and did as he had been told. He approached a randomly chosen crystal and tried to look into its unmoving depths. The crystal flashed, as if recognizing him, and its inside lit up with the same pale golden light – this time of its own – but that was basically it. He saw no pictures within.
"Would it be dangerous to touch the crystal?" he asked, not quite willing to give up just yet.
"Most likely," replied Merlin. "I never actually tried that, but… no, Lancelot, don't!" he cried out warningly, but it was already too late.
Lancelot reached out to the crystal and touched it, wondering how it would feel. Light flashed immediately, like lightning, shot out at him and hit him in the chest with such force that he staggered backwards.
In the next moment, strange pictures flashed through his head. He saw an ancient castle on a rocky promontory, its round towers capped with lead. He saw the throne room of Camelot, decorated for a great feast, with Arthur and Gwen sitting side by side on twin thrones; Gwen was wearing Morgana's crown. He saw a sweet-faced girl ride a temperamental white horse with a skill that would have put most knights to shame, her great sheaf of dark blonde hair floating behind her in the wind. He saw the same girl standing at an ancient well, talking to him, smiling at him in a way Gwen never had. In a way he had always wanted Gwen to smile at him: with love and longing.
Then everything went dark and he passed out on the floor of the Cave.
To tell the truth, Merlin was a bit shocked when he saw Lancelot drop to the ground like a stone. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure whether he should hurry over to the unconscious knight and check him for injuries… but then he could feel the irresistible pull from deeper within the Cave. There was something he needed to see; he was very sure about that. Perhaps even some answers to be found. He needed to go on.
Still, he could not leave Lancelot behind without knowing whether the knight had broken anything. So he did a quick check, noted with relief that neither skull nor ribs nor limbs seemed to be broken, nor could he see any bleeding wounds. So he turned back to where the magic pull was coming from. He recognized the rocky path – surprisingly enough, paved with flat, dark stones – that led down to further hidden depths. It was the same one along which Taliesin had led him not so long ago.
Learning from Lancelot's misfortune, he was careful not to touch the crystals, not even those that still seemed dormant. Luckily, there was no need for that. The crystals themselves provided enough light to see where he was going – well, more or less. This was a true labyrinth, and the myriad refractions on the crystal surfaces were not helping. The only way of orientation was to follow the pull of magic – not that he would have been able to resist it anyway.
And so it came that – after some uncertainty – he discovered a hidden archway on his left. Well, not as much hidden as rather well-concealed among the crystal formations: just a narrow fissure that would probably have been overlooked without careful inspection… or without the strong pull of magic that had called him to this very spot. It was a passageway into another chamber of the cavern. One he had not seen during his first visit to the Cave.
One he felt sheer irresistible urge to explore, now.
After a quick look back over his shoulder, he ducked under the archway – and came into a relatively small chamber. It was roughly circular in shape, with a low ceiling that almost touched his head, and the crystals lining its walls were white. Sparkling white, like a sky so full of stars they blotted out the dark background.
Upon his entrance, they flashed awake, as if greeting and welcoming him, throwing uncounted rays of pale gold in all directions. A cavalcade of colours, pictures and scenes emerged within the crystals, as if he were looking at them through Gaius' magnifying lens – and, unlike before, this time they were all different.
Merlin stepped into the centre of the chamber, slowly spinning to take in the different scenes as he would do when looking down at the lower town from the highest tower of Camelot. It was a most curious spectacle indeed.
There were Arthur and Gwen, sitting on the twin thrones as King and Queen, Gwen decked out splendidly in the most precious robes and wearing Morgana's crown. But her eyes had turned completely black, like those of Alice, Gaius' lost love, while under the spell of the manticore.
There was Morgana, standing on a battlefield, clad in shining armour like whenever she had ridden out with them on some adventure, with a huge, black raven sitting on her shoulder. Behind her, the ruins of the Castle of Fyrien rose ominously, and the battlefield around her was strewn with dead bodies, wearing the coats-of-arms of Camelot and Cenred's realm, respectively.
There was Morgause, lying on something that seemed like a slab of crystal, dead or in some enchanted sleep – it was impossible to tell.
There was Gwaine, riding on his beloved steed Gringolet, his shield emblazoned with a five-pointed star, the points bearing the ancient symbols of frankness, fellowship, cleanness, courtesy and compassion. He looked very different from the vagabond Merlin had met in that tavern less than a year ago. He looked every bit the noble knight Merlin had always known lived somewhere deep behind the persona he usually showed.
There was a castle, strong and menacing with its square towers of grey, weathered stone. And in the graveyard behind it, there was a slab of stone, bearing a strange prophecy: This slab shall never be raised by the efforts of any man's hand, but by him who shall conquer this dolorous castle, and the name of that man is written here beneath.
Then the gloved hand of a knight (if the arm in chain mail was any indication) lifted the slab effortlessly, revealing these words etched on its underside: Here shall lie Sir Lancelot of the Lake, the son of Lord Ban of Benwick.
There was Lancelot again, battling many knights and emerging victorious, to be escorted by an old servant into that grim castle.
The next image showed Gwen again, being attacked by masked men on her way somewhere; then her again, being escorted before a tall, dark-haired, richly clad man with a golden crown upon his brow and with more than a passing resemblance to the late King Cenred. Then her again, a third time, bound to the stake rising from the middle of a pyre, with a Knight of Camelot, whose face Merlin could not see, holding a burning torch to the pyre to light it.
There were Lancelot and Gwaine, facing each other with swords drawn.
Another image showed Percival, riding alone towards a gleaming castle, with servants of that castle coming out to welcome him with great honour.
Then he saw himself at a fountain in the middle of some strange forest: at a stone-lined pool, the water of which was bubbling, as if it would boil, and yet he showed no sign of pain when he dipped a beautiful chalice into the water, to pour some of that water onto a slab of stone. As soon as the water hit the stone, it promptly called down a thunderstorm… and with that thunderstorm, the crystals suddenly went dark again, barely illuminated by their natural glow.
For an indefinite length of time, Merlin stood in the darkened chamber, trying to make sense of what he had seen – only he could not. The only thing he felt strongly about was that he needed to return to Camelot, immediately. It seemed that Cenred had not been entirely without kin, after all, which meant that someone would come and claim his lordless realm, soon – and that someone would mean great danger for Arthur and his future Queen… especially with Morgana on the warpath and probably still hiding in the Castle of Fyrien, on the border of Cenred's realm.
There were other aspects of the vision that he found highly alarming: those concerning Gwen and Lancelot and a possible deadly confrontation between Lancelot and Gwaine, the reason for which he could not even guess. All this only served to strengthen his decision to return home by the shortest possible way.
He also had the unexplained feeling that Lancelot was not meant to return with him just yet. That made things a bit more difficult, as the knight would not be willing to let him ride through these dangerous woods alone.
Fortunately, Merlin had a way to get back to Camelot almost immediately. But that way was only open for him, not for any other man – or for horses. It was the perfect solution; all he needed to do was to make the knight see it the same way.
Ducking through the small passageway again, Merlin headed back to talk to his friend – and to see whether Lancelot needed any help.
~TBC~