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Gawain grinned. “The goddess Marzanna is a fickle lady.” He reached down beside him and lifted a sizable leather wineskin, then sang, “Spring is here, the sun is warm, the flowers are in bloom. So drink you must, drink you must, drink to your watery tomb.”
“Your singing voice is an offense to the Three if I ever heard one,” Lancelet said drily. “Not to mention, the song makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Is that really what we’re toasting to?” Guinevere asked, sitting down on the log and looking curiously at Gawain. “A watery grave?”
“I’ve always thought it strange that Marzanna was the goddess of death but her festival was in the spring,” Lancelet observed, moving to stand closer to the fire.
“Well, it’s to celebrate the end of winter, I always thought,” I said.
I remembered a time when Lancelet and I had stood on the riverbank in the spring alongside Merlin and Galahad and watched as children sang the very same song Gawain had just mangled. The laughing children threw a burning effigy of the goddess into the churning waters. As was tradition every spring for the goddess’s festival.
It seemed so long ago now. Another lifetime.
A watery tomb. I had believed I might drown in a watery tomb once. Vesper had pushed me into the pool in Meridium. Instead, I had awoken in my sister’s prison.
I pushed the memories away.
“Just what’s in that wineskin exactly?” I said, trying to strike a lighter tone.
Gawain hesitated. “Fae wine, as I’ve said.” He looked over at Draven. “Of Rychel’s making.”
Draven gave a low whistle. “Mermaid’s Song.”
I remembered the green-blue liquor his little sister had poured into my glass at her home as we all feasted and celebrated Draven’s success in the Bloodrise.
“In that case,” I said, forcing a smile, “Guinevere is in for quite a treat.”
“Do we have enough glasses?” the curly-haired young woman asked cautiously.
“Glasses?” Hawl gave a deep resounding laugh. “Pass that wineskin over here, Gawain.”
The red-haired warrior complied quickly. Hawl tipped the wineskin back.
“Excellent stuff, though a tad overly sweet,” Hawl observed, brushing a paw across their brown-furred face as they lowered the wineskin. “Here. Pass it along.” They handed the flask off to Guinevere who held it a moment then took a small sip.
“Delicious,” she remarked, then held it up... to Lancelet who had appeared beside her.
I watched their eyes meet.
Silence fell around the campfire for a second time that evening.
The sun was setting in blazing streaks of pink and orange, the fire was crackling, the sea breeze was blowing... and Lancelet and Guinevere were staring at one another as if they were the only two people in the world.
Gawain cleared his throat, and the moment was broken.
Lancelet snatched the wineskin and took a long chug that turned into a sputter.
Draven clapped her on the back as she pulled the skin back with a cough. “Good goddess, this stuff is potent.”
Gawain’s face was red from laughter. “Rychel’s homebrew. Vela only knows what she put into it.”
“Phoenix tears and mermaid melodies,” I remembered.
“If anyone could find a mermaid, it would be Rychel,” Draven murmured. He took the flask from Lancelet and tipped it back.
It was my turn. The Mermaid’s Song wasn’t cloyingly sweet. There was a savory hint of something nutty to it. As the liquid spread down my throat, a golden warmth went through me, and almost instinctively, I looked over at Draven.
“Do try not to set the tent on fire tonight,” he murmured.
