Page 46

A Call for Aid

After his induction into the Tribe of Dana, Tristan returned to la Joyeuse Garde and spent the rest of the summer learning the otherworldly sword-fighting techniques that Lancelot had mastered while training with the Elves of Avalon.

Every day, Lancelot and his knights Judoc, Darius, and Gael drilled Tristan mercilessly.

He loved every minute of it. But now that summer was ending, Lancelot and Tristan were sailing back to Britain in the morning, in time for the autumnal equinox in Camelot and the final year of training to become a Knight of the Round Table of King Arthur Pendragon.

This evening, the Blue Knight of Cornwall sat with his host Lancelot in the vibrant banquet room on the final night before their sea voyage.

Servants were clearing away platters of roast boar, refilling goblets of rich burgundy wine.

Lively music of fiddles filled the jasmine scented air as knights and their ladies began to dance in the adjacent ballroom under the soft candlelight of the sparkling crystal chandeliers.

Couples strolled in the moonlight along the glistening lake, where the pair of swans swam among the water lilies.

Lovers kissed under the wisteria vines as Tristan and Lancelot sat contentedly at their table amidst the music, gaiety, and romance.

Tristan saw Judoc kiss a lovely brunette in a deep blue gown.

He thought of Nolwenn’s long dark hair, lithe limbs and intoxicating amethyst eyes.

His body stirred at the memory of the delicious welcome into the Tribe of Dana.

His tongue loosened by several cups of wine, Tristan leaned towards his companion, his mouth curved upward in a smug grin.

“You never told me how you became a member of the Tribe. How did the legendary Lancelot of the Lake get inducted?”

Lancelot leaned back in his chair and extended his long legs. The White Knight of Avalon took a long pull from his goblet of wine, swirling it in his mouth to savor the dry fruity flavor. With his boyish grin, he fixed Tristan with blue eyes filled with mirth.

“The Priestesses of Dana are the guardians of the sacred waters, wielding the divine curative powers of the Goddess. Laudine is the Lady of the Spring—the sacred fountain where you and Esclados summoned the storm.” He took another mouthful of the fine burgundy, smacking his lips as his eyes twinkled in delight.

“When I was sixteen, living in the Forest of Brocéliande in my mother’s Chateau de Comper, a young priestess named Lysara had just been appointed La Dame du Serein —the Lady of the Fairy Waterfall.

” He took another large swallow of wine and grinned at Tristan.

“She wasn’t at Landuc this summer, but you might meet her next year.

She’s petite, brunette… beautiful.” Lancelot’s deep blue eyes swam in the soft light.

“My mother Viviane created a magnificent moonstone necklace—imbued with magic—as a protective talisman for Lysara. A gift to celebrate her becoming a Priestess of Dana.” Lancelot retracted his legs, reached his arms over his head, and stretched his broad back.

He glanced out at the dark lake, glimmering in the moonlight, his thoughts lost in the past.

The music played in the ballroom, the fragrance of wisteria blossoms wafting in from the open doors overlooking the courtyard and lake. As he gazed at the moonlight reflecting on the gentle waves of the deep water, Tristan envisioned the young priestess with her enchanted moonstone necklace.

“Dwarves inhabit the forests of Bretagne . Like Bédalis, whom you slew to save Laudine,” Lancelot continued.

“Many of them practice dark magic. They try to obtain our sacred objects—like Lysara’s magic talisman.

A dwarf named Gorin learned of the necklace.

He knew its value was immeasurable, because of the magic my mother had imbued into the moonstone gems.”

A servant refilled their goblets of wine. Tristan leaned back to enjoy the rich, earthy taste, enthralled by another of Lancelot’s captivating tales.

“One day, when Lysara was bathing in her fairy waterfall, she laid the necklace on a nearby stone. Gorin, spying in the woods, grabbed it and dashed off into the forest. Lysara came running back to my mother’s castle, hysterical with grief, desperate to retrieve her precious talisman.”

Lancelot gulped from his goblet and smirked.

“I flew into the saddle, raced through the forest, and tracked him down. I slew him as he crouched over it, laughing greedily, muttering to himself.” Pride gleamed in his warrior eyes.

“I was invited to join the Tribe for saving the precious talisman.” He took another gulp of wine, a big grin illuminating his bemused face.

“Lysara showed her appreciation by welcoming me into the Tribe.”

Tristan, remembering the luscious night with Nolwenn, returned Lancelot’s wicked grin.

He raised his chalice, spilling wine on his tunic as he swayed slightly in his chair.

“To the warm welcome of the Tribe of Dana!” The two knights clinked goblets, emitted a guttural laugh, and drained the rest of their wine.

The revelry was winding down as the musicians stopped playing.

Guests were heading off to their respective chambers; the servants were tidying up.

Stretching his arms in a luxurious yawn, Lancelot bid goodnight to Tristan as they parted ways until morning, when they would sail for England with the tide.

Tristan lay in bed on this last night in la Joyeuse Garde , the cool chill of autumn air blowing through the open windows.

He observed the full moon in the night sky, the salty breeze from the brackish river reminding him of the impending sea voyage home, reflecting on the events of the summer which was ending.

He’d traveled to Bretagne —the craggy coast of northwestern France, where he’d honed his skills as a swordsman, training with Lancelot’s knights, learning the techniques of the Avalonian Elves—the fiercest warriors in the Celtic realm.

He’d defended the sacred Fontaine de Barenton and rescued the Lady Laudine.

He’d become a member of the Tribe of Dana and been welcomed by the goddess Nolwenn.

All were chivalrous pursuits worthy of the most gallant knight.

As he finally drifted off to sleep, Tristan enjoyed a sense of pride of accomplishment—and, for the first time in many years, a true sense of belonging.

* * * *

The return sea voyage was uneventful, and soon Tristan and Lancelot—with the guards that had accompanied them to La Joyeuse Garde —reached the coast of Britain, where the horses had been stabled for the summer.

As they rode northwest to Camelot, the red and gold-colored leaves of the trees, the bite of the chilly winds nipping their faces, and the crisp woodland smells of fall reflected the subtle changes of the season.

It would soon be the autumnal equinox—the final nine months of training.

When Tristan would at last become one of King Arthur’s prestigious Knights of the Round Table.

Everyone who had gone home for the summer was now returning to Camelot to complete the final months of training with Lancelot of the Lake. Tristan spotted Vaughan unloading his saddlebags, alongside Indulf and Connor. He strode over to greet his friends with a hearty welcome.

“How was the summer in Kennall Vale? Hunting good?” Tristan asked, clasping Vaughan on the shoulder as he grinned from ear to ear.

“Not bad, not bad,” Vaughan replied as he unloaded supplies. “Connor shot an eight-point buck, and I got a twelve pointer.” One side of his mouth extending in a half smile, he joked, “Two more sets of antlers to adorn the study in Lord Treave’s stately manor.”

Connor grinned and shook Tristan’s extended hand. Tristan searched around to greet Indulf, but the blond knight had already left. Didn’t even say hello. The bastard.

Lancelot strolled over to greet to the new arrivals, whose squires were handing the horses over to grooms and hauling bags to take to their lords’ quarters.

“Welcome back, everyone. Tonight, there is a reception in the banquet hall. King Arthur wishes to extend his greetings. Today, we rest after our long voyage. Tonight, we feast. And tomorrow, we train. Good day, men. Until this evening!”

As the First Knight strolled away, Vaughan smirked, “Enjoy your séjour in Bretagne, Tristan? Fuck any French girls?” His eyes, deep brown like bitter coffee, held Tristan’s gaze with undisguised contempt.

“Elowenn sends her regards.” Then, with a grunt of disgust, he spat, “Not that you care.” Vaughan hoisted his bag over his shoulder and sauntered away, the ghosts of summers past haunting the deepening void between the estranged friends.

The feast was splendid, as the receptions in Camelot always were, and soon, autumn unfolded.

The knights adapted to the rhythm of training—engaging in mock battles, siege attacks, defense tactics and military strategy.

Occasionally, Lancelot would plan an outing, such as today’s hunting competition, to break the monotony and entertain the men.

Some of the more experienced knights, such as Bedivere, were joining them this afternoon.

Four teams of six were hunting wild boar and deer in different sections of the forests surrounding Camelot, with two teams pitted against each other in both divisions.

Every member of the two winning teams would receive a highly prized hunting falcon as a reward.