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He had chosen to follow me. I hadn’t asked why. Truly, I didn’t care. If he had died coming after me... Well, perhaps it would have been better for us both. I believe he’d had the same thought. But he had lived. To trail after me in this strange land where he knew no one else. I wasn’t about to turn to him as a confidant, however. He was alive, and he was permitted to remain in the temple by Merlin’s grace. That was more than enough, as far as I was concerned.
Merlin raised her hand to the massive oak doors and pushed them open.
As the doors yielded to her touch, I followed her into a room of the temple I had never been in before.
A grand chamber unfolded before us. Hewn from the heart of ancient stone, the room exuded an air of timeless mystery. Carvings of ivy had been cut into the stone walls. Tall, graceful columns stood sentinel-like around the edges of the room, their marble surfaces gleaming white.
But it was the object in the center of the chamber that caught my eyes and held dominion.
A colossal, round, stone table, its surface worn smooth by the caress of countless centuries. Etchings of thorns and roses were carved into the table's stone perimeter, flourishing for all eternity.
Looking at the table, one could almost hear the echoes of hushed deliberations and whispered discourse as the destinies of kingdoms and fates of rulers were shaped and history inscribed, all around the border of this circular stone.
Gradually, I realized the table was not empty. Those seated around it had risen to their feet and now stood, staring at me with a mix of expectancy and shock.
Unspoken questions hung in their eyes as I slowly looked from one face to the next, a lump growing larger and larger in my throat.
Sir Ector's was the first face I saw. His weathered, warm, brown complexion seemed unchanged, as timeless as the walls of the temple itself. His features were as familiar as they had always been, etched with the wisdom of years past. His polished onyx eyes, full of experience and compassion, looked into mine, and I swallowed hard. He was the compass I had not known I'd needed until I'd lost it. He was the steadfast rock on turbulent seas upon whom we could always rely. He was my protector, my mentor, my friend.
His tightly-curled, salt-and-pepper beard was, if anything, a little longer than I remembered. And perhaps there were deeper furrows around his brow than there had been when I’d left.
But the same could be said of Merlin.
The strain of war had left its mark. A few deeper creases here. A few more white hairs there. What of the marks that were not so easy to discern?
Sir Ector smiled slowly at me, his eyes crinkling in the corners. A warmth started to spread in the center of my chest.
I looked past him to the young man standing by his shoulder, and that warm feeling vanished.
Galahad.
Gone was the laughing friend I had left behind all those many months before. A mantle of sorrow and solemnity had draped itself over Galahad's shoulders since our parting. His face, the same rich, warm brown hue as his father's, was now etched with tributaries that hinted at untold tales of loss and sacrifice. His lips, once always curved in a ready smile, were now straight and contemplative.
Only his eyes still held a hint of their former sparkle. And as he looked at me, I watched his lips turn up ever so slightly.
Then he glanced away, his fingers grasping the familiar talisman I remembered. The little sun symbol that hung around his neck on a leather string, the symbol of his faith. Some things had not changed. Galahad may be burdened beneath new sorrows, but if he had retained the talisman, then he had retained his faith—and a source of comfort I had always envied.
My eyes lighted upon the woman beside Galahad.
Dame Halyna. I had to suppress a grin. The woman had all but terrified Lancelet and me when we were younger.
Lancelet... I resisted looking across the table where I sensed her standing.
Instead, I met Dame Halyna's gaze and nodded respectfully. The weathered knight slowly nodded back, her eyes watchful. She looked much the same as she always had. Short, cropped, light brown hair tinged with a touch of gray. Her expression stern as stone and just as unwavering. Her fair skin had always been touched with red and was weathered with crisscrossing lines and scars, like a battle-worn flag that bore the colors of a life fiercely lived. Sturdy and athletic, every sinew in her frame spoke of the lifetime she had spent honing her skill. She was a master of the blade. She had trained countless knights before Lancelet and I had even been born.
Unlike Sir Ector, Dame Halyna still wore her royal armor. The silver suit had been polished to a fine gleam. A cloak of deep crimson flowed from her shoulders.
I thought I understood. Even as she stood on the precipice of rebellion, her armor was a testament to the honor she had sworn to uphold. The honor my brother was lacking.
My breath caught in my throat as I saw the man who had risen from his seat to stand beside Halyna.
Caspar Starweaver. Master of Potions. My uncle.
The hooded, purple, velvet robe he wore hung loosely on his frame. I watched as he smoothed his long, white, braided beard and then clung to the edge of the stone table for support. His hawk-like nose and weathered, creased skin had always suggested knowledge and wisdom to me.
But now his once-proud stature had given way to frailty. His hands trembled where they touched the table.
He looked at me with a wry expression, then, with an effort, lifted his hands palms up.
