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Chapter Text

The Albion wasn’t the nicest tavern in Kamelot proper, but neither was it the worst. The air was syrupy with the scent of liquor and bawdy conversation. The main room and its balcony overhang were crowded. People were in every chair and pressed against the tables, either lost in a game of cards, dice, or whatever else tickled their fancy. They may not have even known their fellow tablemates, but they were becoming fast friends who would fade into pained memories as the hangover inevitably wiped away this camaraderie.

What was nice about the Albion was the fact that it was warm on these cold nights. The tall walls nearly obscured the dark blue sky and the festering green moon from shining in from the cool windows. The stars were hard to see as the runes from the menhir lifted listlessly in the air—keeping the wyrdness at bay. There were days that Esyllt was glad they were protected, but there were also days that she wished that the wyrdness would eat them all. Today was one of the latter.

Things had gone—poorly, to say the least. Her fellow knights were either lost in their own agendas or missing from the round table entirely. She felt like she was yelling into a room full of statues when she tried to get them even to address what was happening. The Red Plague, the Dal Riata takeover of the All-Mother’s Temple, and the failed retrieval of Cuanacht’s menhir. Esyllt knew these were all symptoms of a far larger problem—the wyrdness. She was assured that the Red Priests on the Island Asylum were working on that, but it was said so dismissively that she nearly picked up her goblet and threw it at Galahad’s head. That would have just ended poorly for all of them, so Esyllt just sat back down.

Now she was trying to see what the bottom of every tankard of ale looked like at the Albion. The seat across from her was empty, and probably the only empty one in the entire tavern. Yet, every time someone went to sit, she’d glare up at them and glower. Apparently, it was frightening enough to scare them away. She wasn’t in her knightly armor. So, it’s not like they knew who she was. Just a tall woman from Cuanacht in a simple blue dress with black hair that was tightly braided to the back of her skull. However, it was probably the fact that she had laid her sword on the table that spooked them more than anything. Weapons weren’t usually allowed in Albion unless you knew how to use them and use them well. The owner, Branwen, knew precisely who she was, which afforded her some leniency and some credit.

She hadn’t been paying attention to the empty chair across the way, more intrigued by the fight that was happening in the central area. So, when she looked up from it, to see a new tankard placed in front of her and a man sat in the seat across from her, she was surprised. Yet, she couldn’t turn away the free ale, and he didn’t seem to be minding her anyway. His eyes kept darting to various individuals in the tavern as if he were looking for someone. Was he tracking them? The way he tried to lean forward and blend in, yet also melt into his chair, made her think that he was the one being tracked. Would explain why he didn’t seem to recognize anyone here.

Esyllt took the tankard and raised it to him, taking a long drink from it. “Thanks, Stranger.”

He looked at her, puzzled, and then pointed to his ear. Right, it was bloody loud in here. So, she stood, leaning over the table a bit—“thanks, stranger!”

The man also leaned forward, the lights on the tables further illuminating his appearance. He had dark auburn hair that was pulled away from his face. A few strands had become dislodged and fell across his tan skin, drawing attention to his pale green eyes. They were the color of clean, still water glistening atop white pebbles. His lips were wreathed in a well-kept beard that did a good job of framing his face. There was something odd about his looks. His features reminded Esyllt of the old drawings of the Knights of the Round. His stark, strong structure, coupled with his aquiline nose and angled cheekbones, was reminiscent of old Avalonians. Either he was from really, really old money, or from somewhere beyond the known cities. No matter what it was, she had to admit he was pretty handsome. Then again, she was also quite drunk.

“Your sword is old,” he remarked.

“Your face is old,” she snapped back. Honestly, she didn’t know why she was suddenly defensive of her weapon, or that calling it antiquated was an insult—but it was her first inclination. The sword was old.

The man just laughed. “You are not wrong, but I suppose you are lost as to why that is.”

“How long have you been drinking?”

“I have not been.”

“Oh, then the fancy smancy noble talk is just how you sound. I’m going to tell you now that your pretty little nose is going to be bashed in by any one of these fellows.” She gestured around her to the many other men in her vicinity, all of whom were larger than the one before her.

“And what of you? Are you going to unsheathe Caliburn in a place like this?”

“What?” Esyllt pulled away from him and stood. How did he know what the sword was called? No one knew the name of her weapon. Usually, all they ever remembered was Arondight, but it’d been buried with its owner over five hundred years ago.

The man said something to her, pointing at the blade as he spoke. His words were eaten by the merriment all around him. So, Esyllt abandoned her seat and walked to the other side of the table. Her hand rested on Caliburn’s sheath as she moved it with her, not pulling it from the top of the table.

Now that she was face-to-face with the man, her initial assumption about him had been wrong. The armor that he wore, coupled with the garments underneath, was not as simple as she had first surmised. They were also old but well-maintained. There was a gleam of wyrdness to them as if magic had touched them. Yet, he wore them without issue. Esyllt hesitated in her march.

“I was just saying, I’m quite the historian. I’ve seen quite a few renditions of the sword. That’s a wonderful replica.”

“It’s not—” Esyllt went to say before realizing that was the entire point of approaching him—to make sure that he didn’t know who she was. She always wore a helmet when out in public. No one knew what she looked like underneath all the armor. That’s why she could get away with having a drink at Albion. She huffed before turning around to see that someone had taken her chair. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

The man had gone back to ignoring her, his eyes still flickering across the various patrons in the tavern. He did have a drink, but he was sipping from it like a child unsure of its taste. The fact that he just turned his back on her told her he was either foolish or confident. Esyllt wanted to say he was both.

“Well, since you made me lose my seat,” she announced before plopping down in his lap. He elicited a noise that was half surprise and half anger. A few patrons around him gave a soft cheer before they went back to what they were doing. Esyllt took the drink from his hands and started downing it, the forgetful amber liquid easing the tension that racked her body so tightly.

“What do you think you are doing?” he asked but didn’t make any move to remove her.

“You’re trying to hide,” she half-whispered. “Whoever is looking for you knows you’re a fancy boy with a stick up your ass. Why would a fancy boy with a stick up his ass have a woman in his lap?” She leaned in. “He bloody wouldn’t.”

The man snorted. “Very well, but you’re quite heavy.”

“And you’re strong enough to handle it.” She ran a hand across his arm. “Or are all these muscles for show?”

“And what of yours,” he remarked to her covered arms, that even trapped the long sleeves of her dress, flexed against it with ease. “Tell me, what do you think of the knights?”

“Assholes,” Esyllt responded.

“All of them, or is there one in particular you don’t care for? I hear that the new Lancelot is very disliked.” He lifted his hand to wave an alemaid down and gestured for a drink, and then changed it to two and then to three.

“Lancelot is trying her—his—best. It’s the other ones that are a pain in his side. Galahad is constantly trying to light all of Avalon on fire to purify it. Maybe to match the fire in his loins, because he is far from pure, if you know what I mean. Perceval is just gone. Fucked off to investigate a temple of the All-Mother, and no one has seen her since. Gawain is up his own ass tending to Kamelot’s defenses. Galehaut is the same, but tending to Kamelot’s outer defenses. Bors is… gone? I think he’s looking for the Grail. Who the fuck knows? And don’t get me started on Palladeus—she’s knee deep in whores all the time. Honestly, except for Perceval, they all are.”

The man’s eyes had gotten wider while she’d spoken, and at the end, he let out a curt laugh. “So, I take you’re Lancelot?”

Esyllt pressed her finger against his mouth. “I realize I walked into that, especially with the sword. But you keep that to yourself.”

“I promise upon my mother’s grave I won’t speak a word of it.”

“Because if you do, I will call you a liar and accuse you of eating babies or having the Red Death or getting the Red Death from eating babies.”

“Sounds like a convoluted way to get a disease, but I promise, much like you, I am trying to keep a low profile.” He paused. “I realize I don’t even know your name.”

“Esyllt Lace,” she replied. “And yours?”

“Caradoc, just Caradoc.”

“No wonder you know so much about the knights, your parents named you after one. But we’ve never had a Caradoc in my recent memory.”

“Well, they have to be dead to be honored, correct?”

“Yes, but tell me, what knights would be alive after six hundred years?”

“That is true. I suppose there hasn’t been much written record about his death. Maybe he’s been trapped in some magical confines or lost in the wyrdness? The battles for Avalon were strange and mighty.” He sighed. “But I don’t want to talk about the past or knights.”

“Good, because neither do I,” Esyllt said, scooting further onto his lap. She had to admit his legs were not comfortable.

Caradoc grunted and gave her a look. “While Kamelot has lost a lot of its splendor, there’s still some to be found here and there.” She saw that his eyes were not firmly on her face anymore but had trailed down her bosom. Being a tall, strong woman from Cuanacht had not endowed her with any significant assets, but given her active lifestyle, they were quite pert. Honestly, as much as she was pissed off that he was looking—she couldn’t fault him. She had dropped into his lap without asking, and he hadn’t laid a single hand on her since. There was also a small part of her that appreciated it. He had paid her a compliment.

“And I enjoy looking upon their sturdy structures. They may not be a lot to look at, but my my are they pinnacles of tradition and knowledge.”

“Not much to look at?”

“They have nice eyes.” She smiled.

“The last person to compliment my eyes said they were tired and dead. Then again, we weren’t really ending things on good terms.”

“Oh, does Caradoc have a mistress, a wife, or a lover?” She paused. “Do I need to get up?”

“I had one, but that is quite old history. She said I was a bit too obsessed with the mission.” He tested the water a bit and slid his hand around her waist, pulling her back into his lap. She hadn’t noticed that she had been sliding down his legs until now. He didn’t remove his arm, and she didn’t ask him to. “You’re fine where you are.”

“Oh, and what is your mission?” Esyllt asked, pulling the tankard to her lips and finishing it off before firmly putting it atop the table. She draped her arms over his shoulders, looping them around his neck.

“Maybe it’s to seduce pretty knights in dresses.”

“Oh,” she said with a soft lilt. “Not run away from the guards and try to hide in a tavern?”

“I’m not hiding from guards.”

“Damn, I was so close. So not hiding from the guards but definitely hiding from someone that he can’t go to the guards about.” Esyllt lolled her head to the side, whispering that in his ear.

About that time, the alemaid came by, dropping three tankards onto the table and scooping up the empty ones. She looked up and saw Esyllt. Her eyes went wide. It was unlike the tavern regular to be draped all over a man that she had never seen before. “Essie, you alright? Maybe you need to call it a night, eh?”

“I had a real rough day, Myfanwy. Don’t worry, my sword is right there, and he hasn’t tried anything I haven’t let him do. I can make good decisions.” She reached for one of the new tankards.

“You’re drunk, m’dear. No decisions are good.”

Esyllt lowered her head. “Do you interrupt every wayward dalliance in the Albion, Myfanwy. Or am I just special?”

The woman sighed. “Fine, but do let me know if you need anything. Don’t use the sword.”

Esyllt saluted with her free hand, almost sliding off Caradoc’s lap. She steadied herself as she took a long draw from the tankard before setting it back down.

“I hate to agree with your friend there, but mayhap this was not a good idea.” Caradoc leaned over, removing his hands from her waist and taking a tankard for himself. He downed it quicker than his previous reservations implied. Esyllt imagined it was to keep it away from her.

“My my, is Cardoc a good person?” she asked, surprised. “Maybe I guessed you wrong.”

“I,” he paused, “am not a good person, Esyllt. And this was an amusing farce, but I’m afraid it must come to an end.”

“Oh, but I haven’t even given you anything to be afraid of yet,” Esslyt remarked as she pulled away, only to drag her leg precariously over his lap and to the other side of him, straddling him in the chair. Her eyes caught on Myfanwy, tending to another girl in the tavern and tugging her out of the arms of someone far more vile. In this situation, Esyllt felt more like the man than the woman. “No, I’m sorry—I’m just trying not to think about everything that is going on. I want to save Kamelot. I want to save Avalon. Yet, I don’t know where to start. There’s so much wrong. And I shouldn’t pile onto that by drawing a stranger into my drunken distraction from misery.” She started to pull away, some sense clattering into that head of hers.

Caradoc placed a hand under his chin and turned her attention towards him. “Had you said anything else, this evening would have been over. However, I agree with your words, sentiment, and drive. You asked what my mission was. I want to save Avalon.” ‘

Esyllt leaned in. “Well then, maybe we can save it together?”

It was then that Caradoc kissed her. The first one was soft, his beard scratching against her tender cheeks and chin. Yet, she reciprocated in turn, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him into her. She tasted ale on his breath and on his tongue as it parted her lips and quickly conquered her mouth. He was not coy. Esyllt returned in kind, nipping at his lip as she pulled away to take a breath. Her chest heaved.

Caradoc’s eyes were pressed on her, almost confused as to why she had cut it short. Maybe he didn’t need to breathe, but she did. Moreover, she had to ensure they were not causing a scene. No one around them gave a shit; they were so in their cups that some were sleeping while others sang loudly. So, Esyllt tangled her fingers in his hair, loosening it from its tie. Her nails scraped against his scalp as she turned his head to the side, tracing the side of his cheek with her lips before kissing his ear and then down his neck. She could feel the rumble of a groan in his throat as she did. Yet, the larger indicator that she was getting a rise out of him was when she felt his cock swell in his pants, right underneath her. There was still a dress tucked between them. Almost as if realizing that, Caradoc pulled at the edge, releasing it. It flowed over his knee, completely obscuring his lap. He then came back and grabbed her ass, pushing her down on top of his growing bulge.

Pleasure spiked down through her, starting at the tips of her breasts, gliding down her belly, and sliding across her clit and then into her. She became wet as they continued. Her lips had stopped teasing his neck as she focused on rubbing herself against him. By the All-Mother, his cock had to be huge for it to be still growing. The flimsy piece of silk that paraded as breeches quickly became soaked through, making the friction all the worse.

She looked at Caradoc’s face; it was flushed, and his eyes were dewy with lust. Apparently, it had been a while since he’d called it off with his last lady. “They don’t have rooms here,” she remarked and kissed him. Her lips were swollen and tender, and all it took was him returning her rough kiss before she started to rub her thighs together. It was bad.

His hand came up and grasped her breast over her dress, his thumb gently gliding over the tip of her nipple. They were already hard, but this was excruciating. Esyllt had to pull away to breathe yet again. Heat pricked against her skin in waves, and she knew she was becoming damp with sweat. “I do live close,” she remarked.

“And you think either of us is fit to stroll through the streets of Kamelot like this? Much less even stand up from this chair?” His voice was breathy in her ear. Caradoc was right. Her legs felt lifeless as her nethers practically burned with need.

“How much shame do you have?” she whispered into his ear.

“You’d be surprised at the things I’ve done and walked away from,” he whispered back.

Her hand darted from around his neck and under her dress, using the piled-up fabric to hide it. Fortunately, he was wearing simple leather leggings. There was no armor or other pieces of protection for her to fight through. Her fingers grabbed at the laces and pulled. He grunted as she almost seemed to tie him up in them before they came undone. His cock practically unlaced them the rest of the way down. She had better luck with his undergarments, tucking them underneath his balls. Damn, they were huge. Her hand then came to dick—strike that, his dick was huge. She held it for a second, feeling the tight muscle underneath, texturized by thick veins and foreskin. Esyllt then released it, bringing her digits a short way to herself, sliding two fingers deep inside of her, and wetting them before returning to his dick. There she started to pump it up and down, her fingers rhythmically moving along the girthy shaft, occasionally letting her nails tickle along the base and across his balls.

Esyllt glanced around, noting that the patrons were thinning, but those that remained were very drunk. No one paid them any mind. Yet, that didn’t mean they needed to dawdle. Caradoc leaned over his shoulder and grabbed the last remaining tankard of ale. He took a swig of it, but she knew why he was doing that—to muffle the moan coming from his mouth. He then sat it down, barely a drop drunk. His hands came back around to her ass, and he held it firmly, lifting it ever so gently in the air. That gave her enough height to grab his cock and press it against the labia. Of course, she still had her pesky underwear to contend with. She released his dick, and honestly—she was unsure what to do. Her breeches went down to her knees and had laces around her waist. There was no way for her to remove them without causing a scene. So, she did whatever made sense to her in that fevered moment. She grabbed a pin from her and slid it underneath her dress. Caradoc stared at her, almost as if he thought she was going to do something far worse down there. Instead, she used the pin to pluck at the thread before unravelling it. The underwear was not well-made and unfurled with the slightest effort. Her hand returned to his cock, and she guided him towards her.

Slowly, he lowered her, and she gritted her teeth. He was stretching her out in a way that any of her male lovers hadn’t before. Yet, with the pain, the soreness, and the heat came toe-curling pleasure as soon as she sat all the way down on it. The noises they both made as that happened were covered up by acting as if they were laughing at something. No one cared. This was purely for their peace of mind.

Caradoc still held her ass, gyrating her hips in a steady but forgiving rhythm. Usually, Esyllt would take it upon herself to clench to hold the dick tight, but she barely had to do that as she rocked with him. They started to pick up the pace. And honestly, from the outside, it had to look exactly like what they were doing. But if either of them cared, it was hard to say. Esyllt lifted herself, sliding up and down his dick as he rocked into her. Occasionally, he’d push all of him into her, and she’d grunt as his balls slapped against her covered ass.

His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her bottom, and she knew she was going to be sore back there tomorrow. Yet, the current Esyllt didn’t care. Instead, the pleasure was building up inside of her, and he slammed her down repeatedly—the curve of his shaft pressing into her deep, sensitive spots. She clenched hard on his cock. What felt like a thousand butterfly wings playing against her skin began in her vagina as it convulsed and tightened around his cock, milking it. The pleasure moved up, across her clit, up through her naval before exiting her mouth in a whimper she muffled by burying her mouth into the crook of his neck.

It became unbearably slick down there, and apparently that was all Caradoc needed as he pressed her down fully on him. He cut off a long groan as his dick twitched and started to erupt inside of her. She could feel the heat climbing as his molten hot cum laced her insides. Esyllt knew the moment she stood that things would only get messier and messier. Yet she enjoyed this moment, being so full of him amid a tavern of unknowing patrons. There was a thrill to that that no opponent had ever given her. She breathed into his ear. “I will stand, you buckle yourself back up, and then we’re going to my place.”

“You move fast, don’t you?” Caradoc whispered into her ear.

“I usually have a lot more of a measured approach to things. You’ll see once we get back to my abode.” She smiled.

“And then we’ll save Avalon?” he asked with a humorous lilt to his voice.

“It’ll keep for the morning.”

Chapter Text

Esyllt woke with a start. She didn’t know where she was or what she was doing. Just that one moment, she was in a murky swamp of sleep—bathed in darkness and sweat—and the next the sun bled through her large glass windows and directly into her eyes. She wondered what had awoken her when another loud bang came from her front door. She glanced around, trying to locate something that her brain seemed upset about. What was it? Her head stung, her eyes ached, and her mouth felt like it was filled with chewy, wet cotton. The banging on the front door continued. She dragged a large robe over her body and tied it around the middle. It wasn’t quite up to the standards of meeting people, but wearing anything else would take more brain power than she had to spare at the moment.

She made her way through her home, not a large and sprawling estate. It was crammed between a carpenter’s shop and a painter’s workplace. The fumes from both wafted in daily, so she always had vases of fresh flowers littering the surfaces. Esyllt usually stayed in the quarters of the other knights, but occasionally she liked to handle more personal business here. And so, it was no surprise that everything had a thin layer of dust across its suffocating ornate posh. It reminded her of Cuanacht that way. Things clung to you there and rooted you into the vivid land around you.

Another bang sounded out before Esyllt ripped the door open, the sun searing her eyes and churning her stomach. She felt like she was going to throw up on whoever this was. It was a Kamelot guard. He looked nervous as he saw her, letting her know that she had to be ghastly. But he kept his back stiff and his helmet lowered. “Lady Lace,” he said—asked really.

“Tis I, why are you at my door so early in the morning?”

“Um,” the guard glanced at the sky. She followed his gaze, no matter how much it hurt to do it. The sun was on the other side of the church’s tower. It was well past noon. Neither of them commented on that. There was a silent agreement that she had been asleep and felt like shit. “Your presence is required at the round table.”

“Tell the lot of them that I am ill. More importantly, that we just met yesterday—don’t they have better tasks to be tending to?” She rubbed her head.

“Apologies, milady, but,” the guard leaned in, “your presence is mandatory. Knight Gawain is dead.”

The door snapped behind Esyllt as she dropped her keys on the other side. She twisted the metal hook through the catch and called it secure. It was dark in her home as she hadn’t been there in quite some time. Drunkenly, she stumbled forward, sliding her hands across the entrance way table, knocking over something made of metal, before she found a candlestick. The long-tapered candle ended at a still functioning wick. She then patted the side of her pockets, trying to find where she put the little spark thing she used to light these. “By the All-Mother,” she grumbled, checking a different pocket and then moving back to that one.

She felt a presence next to her, and she could barely make out in the pitch dark him waving a hand over the wick. A small flame appeared, igniting the candle, which caused Esyllt to squint a moment before seeing the details of her home.

“Look at you,” she remarked.

“I actually cannot—considering how dark it is. How about we get you to bed, eh?” Caradoc placed his hand on the small of her back, leading her forward.

“I’m not that drunk.” She grabbed the candle and held it. “My legs are just tired for some unknowable reason.”

“Truly a mystery,” he said with a chuckle. “Still, it’s late and I’m tired as well.”

With a bit of errant navigating, Esyllt was able to lead him up the stairs. It spilled out into her bedroom. Two stories had always been a bit of a misnomer when it came to her home. Like many of the places she’d visited and lived in, it only held the essentials and nothing more. The world outside the cities was dangerous; there wasn’t much room to expand.

She gently set the candle down next to the bed and fell onto it. A small layer of dust floated up from the top of the sheets, but she sank into their majesty. Hands found her hips and pulled her further onto the bed, and lips pressed to hers. Kissing him was intoxicating, which seemed impossible considering how drunk she already was. But this was a different kind of drunkenness. Clothing was shed like leaves from a tree in autumn, and next thing she knew, the coldness that sank into the house nipped against her exposed flesh. The cold was but momentary as his lips warmed her, causing her body to twist and writhe in need.

It was hazy how much of her he kissed, but every time she tried to return the favor, he placed his hand on her chest and laid her back again. He inevitably slid her legs over his shoulders as he leaned into her, entering her once again. His hands pinned her wrists to the bed, and she couldn’t wiggle out of it in the slightest. There she was, laid bare for him to ravage her. And oh, he ravaged her—several times that night.

Inevitably, they fell asleep in a tangle of limbs and each other’s juices. Esyllt had a vague memory of him getting up well before there was light outside and slipping away. She didn’t think much of it; this was not a moment she thought would perpetuate into the coming day. Yet, she had thought it strange he’d pushed back the curtains of her room and had taken to searching around in the faint moonlight. At the time, she figured he’d lost a boot or something, but as she woke up further, she realized he had taken something very important from her.

“And what do you have to say for yourself, Lancelot?” Palamedes asked. The round table sat in the middle of the Castle of Kamelot, proper. It was not in the royal wing nor where the courts were usually held. Though one had to go through it to get to the throne room, which had remained empty since King Arthur’s death. Kamelot was ruled loosely, in a sense. The knights protected Avalon, the nobles protected the wealth and the distribution of it, the craftsmen protected the trade, the guards protected the people, and the people—well, they protected their interests. Or at least, that was how it was supposed to be. Things were skewed a bit in favor of the nobles in this day and age, as the knights had far too many disasters and fires to put out across the land.

The table itself was a large circle, empty in the middle, a symbolic gesture to show that they were without their king. No one had ever stepped up to claim the mantle from Arthur, and honestly, with his fleeting resurrections, no one dared. Once this hall had been filled with knights whose duties covered many things. Now, there were but a paltry few of them, and fewer still since many had left on missions.

Palamedes stood over her chair; her long braided hair fell over her shoulder. Her quicksilver eyes shone brightly against her dark skin. She was the shield of Kamelot, and as much as Esyllt gave her grief, she did protect the people to the best of her ability. None of them were without guilt when it came to their proclivities, and Esyllt knew she was a hypocrite for thinking that she was above it. She was reminded of this as her head throbbed and all she wanted was water and a nap. Still, she stood in her shining armor, her helmet sat out before her. Caliburn was on her hip—thank the All-Mother she hadn’t misplaced her sword.

“I did not murder Sir Gawain,” she said. “Sure, Aled was a shit, but I would never raise my sword against another knight. And if I did, it would not be him.” She shot her gaze over to Galahad’s empty chair. He was off on another mission of purification.

Palamedes crossed her arms. “You do not stand accused of murdering Gawain—Aled as we know him. You stand accused of letting your seal be stolen and used in the murder of him.”

“Oh,” Esyllt said. She’d not been completely listening. Well, it was good that she wasn’t on trial for his death, but her negligence didn’t help the matter. And unfortunately, she had a feeling that she knew who killed him. “Saving Avalon, my ass,” she grumbled.

“Gawain’s body was found in the royal library, which can only be accessed with our seals. When we found him this morning, the doors were wide open, and your seal was in the lock. We don’t suspect it is you, because he was killed with an arrow. And we all know, Lancelot, you are ass with a bow.”

“Really, Palamedes, that’s what is keeping me from standing upon the gallows?”

“Yes, and you should be glad that we came to that conclusion,” she said, gesturing towards Galehaut, Tristain, Bedivere, Bors the Lesser, and Bors the Greater—oh, Bors the Greater was back. Esyllt figured that she owed some of her innocence to him. “It also doesn’t hurt that you look filthy and ill. So, whatever whore that you took home last night must have had some hand in this.”

“The assumption is that my evening dalliance—which is none of you lots concern—is the one that killed Gawain? Why? How—even? He was as drunk as I was.” She paused. “At least, I thought he was.”

“So, you admit to having someone in your home?” Galehaut asked. He still sat, looking bored. His blonde hair was pulled up, showing off his imposing pale features to match his imposing pale frame. Many assumed he had Dal Riata ancestry, but no one spoke it aloud.

“Oh, that was up for question?” Esyllt placed her hands on her hips, the metal of her gauntlets rubbing against her armored hips. “Yes, though I can’t tell you much about him. I don’t believe he gave me his real name, but I can describe him for you.”

Palamedes gestured. “Please do.”

“He was a little taller than me, with auburn hair, a beard, pale green eyes, and had an accent I couldn’t place. He wore this armor that was quite old and reeked of magic. I don’t remember him having any weapons.” She exhaled. “And he said his name was Caradoc.”

Palamedes placed her hand on her chin. The others were a mix of boredom, distrust, anger, or sadness. Honestly, they were all a bit saddened by it. Esyllt hadn’t cared for Aled, but he was still one of them. And he was the only one with any noble lineage. His father would cause more trouble than the wake of his death would.

Bors the Greater was the only one who had a strange look on his face—as if he recognized what she’d said. Bors the Greater and Bors the Lesser, in old Avalonian legend, had been father and son. Now they were just two different knights who held similar principles to their original counterparts. Bors the Greater had been loyal to Arthur to a fault, while the Lesser had viewed him with skepticism. And it was skepticism that kept people honest.

“Well, a description of such a man doesn’t bring anything to my mind. Does this Caradoc personage sound familiar to any of you?”

There was a grumble of “no”s from everyone but Bors the Greater, who just waved the question away.

“Very well then, Lancelot. Since you are the only one who can recognize him, it’s on you to avenge Gawain’s death. In penance for your transgressions, you are to find this Caradoc and kill him—for Gawain’s honor.” Palamedes looked at the others. They’d apparently discussed it before Esyllt had arrived. This was their move, and she’d walked right into it.

“But I don’t know a thing about him, and he could be anywhere.”

“Well, you cannot return to the table lest he is dead. And to assure that you have not lied to us that the deed is done, you are to return to us with his head.”

“I’m supposed to lug a head through Avalon back here and hope that it doesn’t fester beyond recognition?”

“Fair point,” she remarked. “His eyes then. Find some formaldehyde from a Red Priest and drop them in there. That will work well enough.”

Bors the Greater stood. “And may I ask that Lancelot also return with the book that was stolen?” Esyllt wanted to say something, but she had a feeling there was more to this than Bors was letting on. Maybe this stolen book could help her in her quest, because assuredly, there was no way she was getting out of it.

Palamedes smiled. “That’s right, I’d forgotten about the book. Yes, that as well. Do you have any objections, Lancelot?”

“Oh, just a fucking ton,” she bit back. “But if it is the decree of the rest of the knights, so it shall be done.” She then pointed at the lot of them. “But I hope each and every one of you eats shit in my absence.”

Tristain choked back a laugh. Esyllt hadn’t noticed that empty cups surrounded him until then. Well, at least one of the knights was having a good time, because she wasn’t.

Palamedes sat back down, “Very well. Everyone is dismissed. You have till sundown to get your affairs in order, Lancelot. After that, I'd better hear from Galehaut how you have departed Kamelot.”

“What if Caradoc’s still in Kamelot?”

“Then, we’ll catch him and notify you. But he’d be a fool to stay around after committing such a heinous crime.” Palamedes smiled. “Good luck on your journey, Esyllt.”

“Fuck right off, Rhiannon.”

The knights’ chambers were far nicer than Esyllt’s home. Of course, they were smaller, but they held the amenities one would need to perform their duties. More so, everything was gilded with gold and accented with polished dark wood. The rugs were lush, the bed overstuffed, and the wall tapestries were immaculately restored. It lacked the homeliness of her house, but it made up for it in sheer elegance.

Esyllt grumbled as she finished fastening down her pack. Clothes, survival gear, coin, a little bit of food, some alchemical supplies, a bedroll, and instruments to perform upkeep for her armor and weapons. There was something she was missing, but she had enough wealth to purchase it on the road. Fortunately, she had a horse, so overpacking wasn’t a concern.

There was a soft tap on her door, and then it opened to reveal Bors the Greater—Griffin, being his actual name. Griffin was on the larger side and wielded quite a mighty axe. He was still smaller than Galehaut, but made up for it by being an immovable opponent. His complexion was slightly lighter than Palamedes's, but not by much. His hair was naturally tightly coiled, and he wore it pulled atop his head with a magnificent beard underneath it. Silver tinted his temples and a corner of his beard. His eyes were a dark, warm brown, and his laugh could fill a room. It was no wonder that he was married to one of the most gorgeous women in Kamelot and had a house full of children. Honestly, Esyllt couldn’t imagine him any other way.

“Come to bid me away?” Esyllt asked.

“Yes,” he said with a deep sigh. “I do not envy you and the quest you are about to undertake, but I must ask why do something so foolish? You knew Palamedes and the other knights were against you. They were looking for a way to remove you from the table.”

“Which seems so odd since they nominated me for my position.”

“At the time, you were one of the best swordsmen in all of Kamelot, maybe Avalon, but no one knew that you had such a vile vocabulary and a tendency to yell.” Griffin laughed. “Or that you had such lofty ideals for Kamelot without knowing its politics or ideals.”

“Ah, yes, folly on me for trying to make everyone’s lives better.”

“If it truly were as easy as you made it out to be, I’d be more than happy to follow you into that battle. But unfortunately, that’s not how things work here. We must do what we can with what we are given. And in Palamedes’ defense, she does do her best. She was far more competent than the last one we had.”

“And yet, Galahad ‘the Butcher’ persists.”

“That he does,” Griffin said. He took a seat in one of the many unnecessary chairs in the room. “Look, Esyllt, I did not come here to tell you things you already know. I came here to caution you. I have heard stories of a man named Caradoc, and while they can sometimes be inflated past the truth, none of them smack of an opponent that is easy to deal with. He apparently had a mission, and I believe Gawain was just in the way.”

“Right, you mentioned a book.”

“Yes, while I’m unsure of the exact one, considering the royal library is not small, it was in the section dealing with strange alchemy and old druidic rituals. There’s a reason only we have access to it, because it had to contain profane magic. More so, magics about the soul. Whatever he is planning to do with that book, I don’t think it’s to add a niche collection.”

Esyllt sighed. “Well, shit, Griffin.”

“’Well shit,’ is right, Essie.” He stood and approached her, pulling something from the pouch around his waist. It was her seal—the seal of Lancelot. “Though I doubt you will be needing this, I figured it needed to be returned to you.”

She took it from his hand and held it. It was a small, round piece of metal that would look innocuous to anyone who didn’t know what it was. The runes carved into it were old and magical, and it was made to slot into many of the doors around the castle. It had to go in a certain way, and turned to a certain degree based on the knight it was to represent. Lancelot’s was easier than most because his just turned in a full circle. Still, it wouldn’t be common knowledge. Caradoc had known a lot—too much, really.

“You think he might have been the original Caradoc?” Esyllt asked.

Griffin sighed. “Were it any other name or any other set of actions, I would be doubtful. But who knows, really. The tales about him fall off before his death, and with the wyrdness and the foredwellers and the tribulations surrounding the conquest of Avalon—it’s hard to say.”

Esyllt pocketed the seal. “It would explain why the sex was so good. He’d had many years of practice.”

“Essie, I did not need to know that.” Griffin turned away from her. “If you did not remind me so much of my daughter, we might be having a different conversation. But for now, I’d like to remain in the dark about your proclivities.”

“Sorry Griffin but thank you. For the seal, the information, and honestly, all the years of kindness.” Esyllt wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m sure we will see each other again.”

“I will pray to the All-Mother that we do, Essie."