New Camelot

My venture towards teen/young adult fantasy.  I like Percy Jackson, maybe even more than Harry Potter.  I enjoy reading Artemis Fowl.  I like the books that are targeted toward this age group, especially as I have kids this age.

            Nimue felt restless.  Normally immune to emotions, she did not deal well with anxiety.  It had been so long since she had felt it, since she had felt anything, she'd entirely forgotten how annoying and troubling it was to really feel.  It disturbed her that she felt this way, that the course she had chosen would lead to this unease.

            Again she strode through the pavilion, carefully inspecting the wide array of items on display.  Her hand lightly brushing a display case containing a small wood-bound book, hand copied by Irish monks centuries before Columbus found this new world.  One of her treasures that few appreciated.  Here a plate and cup of fine porcelain, once held by Queen Elizabeth, the one from the 16th century.  And in the back of the pavilion, her arms and weapons from centuries of British warfare.  The multicolored canopy held a treasure of history few would truly understand.  And yet it was all a cover, for more important matters.

            The tour organizers hadn't understood her insistence on choosing this out of the way locale for a stop on her collection's tour of the United States.  They considered this a backwater of no relevance to what she had to show.  They just did not understand that this stop was the purpose of the whole trip.

            Lady Nimue Waters, eccentric Welsh heiress of a modest fortune and minor noble title, possessed a remarkably preserved and complete collection of British Medieval and Renaissance artifacts.  Curators across the country, across three countries, were stunned to learn just what she held.  They jumped at the chance to host her collection on it's first tour in centuries, or ever for that matter.  Museums across Great Britain, the United States, and Canada vied for the chance to show her display.  She graciously accepted most invitations, and had only really insisted on the one stop in Connecticut.  An oddity explained by a old friendship between her family and the Morgan Estate, the oldest residence in the small town of Castlemere.

            Built on the shores of a small lake, the Mansion house of Morgan Estate gave the small town it's name.  A wrought iron gate in a brick and iron fence opened onto a winding gravel drive.  Green lawns and sculpted hedges parted for a tree lined drive which opened up in the old carriage circle loop so common in 17th and early 18th century estates.  The grand loop circled a greenway now topped by a large multicolored tent, the pavilion, which only partially blocked the view of the large mansion behind.  Still the imposing structure caught the eye. 

            Red brick and white stone formed the majority of the building, The main front four stories high with equally imposing wings turning back at each side.  On the whole it gave the impression of a castle, complete with towers at the corners and crenellated battlements.   It stood on a small hill that dropped down to the lakeside.  When the grand hall was first built the locals quickly took to calling the lake Castle Lake.  When they had organized the town they modified it to the more grand sounding Castlemere. 

            Lady Waters smiled as she gazed around the grounds, with the pavilion in front and hung with pennons and banners, it took little imagination to see oneself in England during the middle ages.  The image brought memories back, memories buried deep in the past, but never forgotten.  Though there had not been quite so much color then...  Abruptly, she shook herself out of the reverie.  How could she let her mind wander overs such trivialities?  Her restlessness grew.  So close now.

            This morning, local political and business leaders had received invitations to attend a private showing.  Even now they finished up taking a light lunch in the manor itself.  This afternoon, they would be followed by students from the local schools.  All blissfully unaware of the guests of honor at this presentation.

            A sharp cold breathe of air suddenly gusted past Nimue and she shuddered. Almost reluctantly, the old woman turned back to the far corner of the pavilion.  A lone suit of dark armor stood at attention, guarding an ancient iron bound chest.  On top of the chest lay a set of jewels resting on a dark red velvet stand.  Simple in design but of exceptional craftsmanship, the jewels were inevitably a highlight of the show.  A light crown, jeweled pendant and three stone ring; they glowed as if with a life of their own.  Any other observer would have sworn that they reflected and refracted the ambient light in inexplicable brilliance.  Nimue knew better, she knew the light came from within the gems.  Again she shuddered, knowing even as she turned out of the pavilion who she would see.

            A sports car drove quickly up the gravel drive, turning sharply into a designated parking spot.  The driver pushed the car to it's limits and spun gravel as they drove, but never lost control for a moment.  The shock Nimue felt at seeing the driver was not because it was a girl, but because of who the girl resembled.  After all this time it was impossible, but at the same time it could not be denied.

            She was beautiful, on that there was no doubt.  Her long hair pulled back loosely in a pony tail reflecting the morning light.  Her fair skin accented near perfect features.  Even the eyes matched.  Icy calm and missing nothing.  Full of intelligence, full of confidence.  Full of herself.

            She was one of the unknowing guests of honor and her presence brought fear to Nimue for the first time in years.  Naked, bald, fear.  The strange welsh woman calmed a trembling hand, troubled yet again by the possibilities opened in the course she'd chosen.  But now it was too late to stop.  Lady Waters turned back into the pavilion as the beautiful young lady walked toward the entrance.  The Gems in the jewelry display flashed with a brilliant inner light, but they gave no warmth.  The gust of wind suddenly blasted through the door of the tent, stealing away the last of the warmth that Nimue felt, and a light step announced the arrival of her first guest.

            Morgan Plume glanced almost dismissively around the pavilion's interior.  This fading pile of memories held little interest to her.  She was all about the future.  In her first year at MIT, she had not expected to return to this detested town anytime soon.  Except for the gilded personal invitation, she'd never have considered the trip, yet something about the personal invite had drawn her attention and piqued her interest.  She smiled graciously at the old woman standing before her, completely missing the fear that momentarily flashed through her eyes.  But the fear was quickly masked, and an aged hand rose to meet her own.

            "Ah, Good morning!  How may I help you?"  Nimue surprised herself with the even voiced query.

            Morgan extended a gilded personal invitation.  "My name is Morgan Plume, I'm here at the personal invite of Lady Nimue Waters for a private tour of the exhibition."

            A gravelly voice responded from behind Morgan.  "Welcome Miss Plume.  Lady Waters.  Sorry I'm late."

            Morgan turned, somewhat irritated.  This man she knew.  Everyone in town knew him.  Hank Maxwell, the caretaker of the Morgan estate, a distant cousin to the real Morgan family as he told it, yet very particular and not a little grumpy about his duty.  It seemed he'd been born old.  Yet he only showed his age in outward appearance as he strode lightly into the pavilion.  Nimue's face flashed relief at his presence, something missed by the young lady.

            "I meant to welcome you, Miss Plume, and introduce you personally to Lady Waters.  She's been kind enough to include us in this stopover of her collection and requested that you be invited for a personal tour, being family of the local sponsor, Mr. Drake."

            Morgan's smile twisted momentarily.  She despised her stepfather.  But one must always maintain appearances.  She recovered gracefully and extended a hand to the old man.  "I appreciate the invitation and the kindness of your hospitality, Lady Waters, Mr. Maxwell."  All of them noted that Hank came last, as Morgan meant them to notice.  She'd never like Hank Maxwell, a rough and tumble nobody who did not belong anywhere near an estate of this magnitude.  Only an accident of birth could have arranged this, but Morgan knew all about accidents of birth.  She had to deal with one personally far too often.

            "It's a pleasure to meet you Morgan Plume," murmured Nimue.  "Please allow me to show you around personally."  And when Morgan moved to demure, she followed up, "No, Please.  I insist."  Lady Waters felt that she had to follow through on her commitment at this point.  She was far past the point of no return.

            Now that she was here, Morgan felt little real desire to see the collection.  A small part of her actually felt unease now that she had entered the pavilion, yet she saw no polite means of escape and this lady was titled nobility in the United Kingdom, and Morgan prided herself on being an anglophile.  She hesitated only a moment before falling in at the old woman's side.  She pointedly ignored Hank as he fell in step behind them.  She thus failed to see Hank slip his hand inside his coat to check the handgun hidden in his belt at the small of his back.

            Morgan only half listened to the explanations her guide offered as they moved through the exhibit.  She didn't notice the tension in her hosts, only halfway paying attention, on autopilot for this social function.  And Morgan had a talent for social navigation.  Daughter of a wealthy family, she had been raised to do this, to act this way.  She had the skills to meld with just about any group at any function.  But she had a mind far beyond normal.  Morgan was brilliant, and she knew it.  She would graduate top of her class at MIT and enter Harvard Law, following up with Oxford.  Then she would crush her most despised enemy, her stepfather.

            The man, William Drake, had earned her enmity by stealing her mother away from her father.  Drake had never kept his interest in her mother a secret.  He had journeyed often from the US to London in several attempts to woo her, never mind her involvement in a difficult marriage that led to a painful divorce.  Morgan barely remembered her father, victim of a car accident mere hours after the divorce was finalized.  Morgan still harbored doubts and questions about the accident, all the time wanting to believe that Drake secretly arranged it.

            And then, throwing all thoughts of propriety out the window, within weeks of the divorce, her mother married the American scoundrel.  She still heard the off comment referring to the scandal.  She always felt a shame at those moments.  A shame that deepened into hatred for the man who, in her mind, caused the travesty. 

            Thoughts of revenge and her ultimate victory were never far from her mind.  Even now, as she politely nodded to the half perceived narrative of her hosts, her mind teemed with thoughts of revenge, as was fitting for the event that would rapidly transpire.

            The strange party reached the corner of the pavilion with the armor, the ancient chest, and the gems on display.  Morgan froze the moment her eyes touched the jewels, and the cold wind flared into the pavilion, gusting and swirling around her, yet she gave it little notice except to brush back a few vagrant strands of hair.  The gems mesmerized her.  Hank Maxwell stubbornly stood his ground behind her, no longer hiding the fact that his hand was on his gun.  Lady Waters shrank back and turned away, momentarily overcome by the forces unleashed at that instant.

            Something sang in Morgan's mind, in her veins, in her heart.  Something seemed to waken and arise within her.  A complex rhythm and harmony, so long discordant and off key in her life, suddenly seemed complete.  This time the light did not flash from the gems, but from Morgan's eyes.  The suit of armor shifted, leaning imperceptibly forward toward the young woman.  Without thinking Morgan raised her hand and motioned for it to stop.  "Not just yet..." she breathed.  And the armor complied!

            Morgan shook herself out of her sudden trance, a wild light not quite dying in her eyes.  She stammered quickly, as if momentarily bewildered by her surroundings.  The cold wind stopped abruptly and a shadow descended toward her.  Hank drew his gun out, half raised, ready for use.  Morgan stiffened and shuddered at the touch of the shadow, fingers of darkness leaching into her.  She gasped in a sharp breathe and jerked her head back, eyes open and staring, unseeing but fierce all the same.  Just as quickly the shadow stiffened and a high shriek sounded, almost beyond hearing.  Morgan wrenched herself free of the shadow which splintered and fell away, dropping soundlessly into the earth, save for a few vagrant tendrils that slipped unnoticed into the girl's slender form.  Morgan staggered a few steps reaching out for support, her hand unconsciously on the chest in front of her.  The chill passed quickly and she raised her head, again showing some signs of confusion.  It took her a few seconds to gather herself, seconds that Hank used to stow his gun and Nimue used to recover her position at Morgan's side.

            Morgan showed no real sign of comprehension that anything had happened to her.  She hadn't noticed any of the untoward actions of Lady Waters or Hank. 

            "I'm sorry," she began.  "My attention wandered for a moment..." she trailed off.  A hint of the light suddenly showed in her eyes and she frowned, as if suddenly remembering something.  Something long forgotten.  Her eyes once again flashed to the jewels, then the chest, then the armor.  This time they paused on a gaping hole at the top of the breastplate in the armor.  The thrust of a spear had clearly penetrated the breastplate.  Morgan's eye tightened momentarily.

            "Again, I am sorry."  She turned back to Lady Waters and for one moment a sort of recognition showed in her gaze, an awe.  Nimue steeled herself to meet the gaze and search her eyes, unsure of what would be found within.  The moment passed.

            Morgan smiled graciously, "Shall we continue?"

            Lady Waters returned the smile and calmly continued the tour, never showing the agitation that she felt.  Hank stayed were he was, eyes on the display before him.  He would wait here, he decided.

            Nimue concluded the tour and took Morgan to the front hall of the Mansion house for refreshments.  Morgan entered only after satisfying herself that her step father, present at the earlier tour, had already departed.  She showed no signs of the bizarre events in the pavilion.  Lady Waters returned quickly to the pavilion, finding Hank seated on a stool in front of the jewel display.

            "She refused the shade!" declared Nimue.

            "Yes, but not the power," countered Hank.  He motioned to the display.  Nimue turned and quickly inventoried the display, only then noting the absence of one item, the ring.

            "Oh my..." breathed Nimue.  "She took the ring!"  She reached out her hand toward the remaining gems but stopped short at a creaking sound.  Again, the armor had moved almost imperceptibly, but the sudden air of menace was clear.  Nimue would no longer be permitted to touch the items on the chest, or even the chest for that matter.  They were now beyond her reach.  The first act for which she had come here to Connecticut had just completed.  For a moment she felt old.  Lady Waters carefully withdrew her hand.

            "They belong to her now," muttered Hank.  "She rejected the shade, so that is behind us.  That gamble paid off.  But that power, tainted as it is..." he trailed off.  Then shaking his head he looked up into Nimue's eyes, "Lady, I know something of that girl.  The seed of that tainted power found fertile ground.  The storm is just starting, all over again!"

            "Arthur Drake!  Sit down!"

            Art swiveled his head around quickly and found Miss Ector glaring at him from the front of the bus.  He winced and quickly sat back down next to his best friend David.  It was never a good idea to get on Miss Ector's bad side.  One of the sternest teachers in school, she taught all grades in Castlemere High School, English of all things.  She could make his life miserable for a long time.  No, it would not do to make her mad unnecessarily.

            David smirked at Art.  He was the one who had gotten him to stand up in the first place, mentioning Jenny Abbott like that.  He probably timed his prank so that Art stood just in time to be spotted by Miss Ector.  It did no good when he tried to punch David either.  David just expertly deflected the blow and ended up giving Art a painful jab in the ribs.  No, as long as Art had known David; five years now, no one had ever managed to beat David in a fight, nor even lay a finger on him.  He was just too agile and quick, not to mention well trained.  He had studied martial arts since the age of four, just after his mother had died.

            Their bus trundled down the road, carrying the high school students on their way to visit a special exhibition.  Some old, rich, and obscure noblewoman from Wales had up and brought her collection of Medieval Artifacts to tour the United States.  Slated to appear in several major museums across the country, the eccentric old maid had insisted on including a rather obscure location on the tour.  Her choice seemed odd, but the tour planners chalked it up to age and tolerantly complied.  The lesser known location happened to be Morgan Manor.

            The Castlemere High School group was fortunate in the fact that Morgan Manor lay just at the edge of the township.  35 acres of idyllic Connecticut countryside that even bordered a small lake.  Called Castle Lake or Castlemere by locals, it had given the small community it's name.  They were on their way now, accompanied by the cranky old teacher who acted as chaperone.  But their tour would take several hours and it sure beat staying at school.

            The road wound around, passing the lakeside residences.  Remote from the majority of major thoroughfares, most of the area homes had started as rural Connecticut vacation homes for wealthy New York and Boston families in decades past.  But in the five years since Drake Software opened it's doors, permanent occupants outnumbered the summer residences.  Two separate year round subdivisions now bordered the lake, nestled next to the older estates and summer homes.  Although tastefully designed and following strict rules from the HOA, the older residents still grumbled at the incursion.

            Art just grinned as he gazed out the window at the lake.  His father had founded Drake Software.  Five years ago Drake had won a large contract with the defense department and had established the Castlemere location to fill the contract.  Every year the contract renewed and the company grew a little more.  The local township had grudgingly absorbed the influx, built a high school, and forged their own small Connecticut community.  It was a beautiful location to grow up.

            Up over a final rise and the bus arrived at its destination, Morgan Manor.  Through the large iron gate in a brick and iron fence the bus labored onto the winding drive.  Eager heads turned as they meandered up the grand loop around the greenway.  The fluttering pennons atop the large tent could not help but catch the eye.

            As the students pushed to see out the windows and chattered back and forth excitedly, Art caught sight of the old caretaker, Hank.  He leaned against one of the columns on the front porch, watching the arriving bus.  His gaze passed across the awed faces of the kids with a sort of glee.  Hank had a reputation as a crabby old man who disliked kids and tolerated few shenanigans, but Art and David had passed some time with the old man, even fishing off the dock the Morgan Manor had on the lake.  They liked him.  Hank saw Art looking at him and winked at the young man, then turned quickly and disappeared into the Manor. 

            The bus finally pulled to a stop and the driver sourly opened the doors.  Eager to be free of the restraint of yet another symbol of school, the kids piled off, quickly separating into groups and studiously ignoring for as long as possible the increasingly strident efforts of their English teacher to bring them to order.

            Art and David drifted toward the back of the crowd, Art vainly trying to push David off balance, but to no avail.  Both boys secretly watching to make sure that any girls in the group were watching, especially Jenny Abbott. 

            Suddenly Art shivered as an odd blast of cold curled around him and he felt,  well... malice.  And it was clearly directed at him!  He turned away from his horseplay searching out the the strange feeling.  Someone was angry with him, but it was no trivial anger.  This came deep, bone deep, and it had a feel of years behind it, even ages.  He could actually feel the old throbbing, brooding hatred.  It shocked him and he suddenly felt scared. 

            His head swiveled around searching for a source, an explanation for such an threat.  All he saw was the flapping door of the pavilion on the green.  Yet for a moment something sinister seemed to ooze out of that opening.  Suddenly this whole field trip lost a great deal of its luster. 

            Still, at the same moment, he felt something rise within him, a strength surging up in answer.  A sudden resolve steeled his nerve and he determined to face this unseen threat and overcome it.  The resolve and burst of inner fire surprised Art.  It did not quite feel like these sentiments were all his own.  Yet he welcomed them and even found himself taking a step toward the threatening pavilion.  Better to face and know this threat, counseled a quiet but firm voice, than quail and let it grow upon him.  His surroundings faded into the background, all save the pavilion.  The ominous nature of the pavilion drew him onward, he now had to deal with this threat before it could affect others, and effect them it would...

            A familiar voice shook him out of this bizarre state.

            "Artie, you need to wait for the rest of the tour before going through the pavilion."

Art started, part from coming out from under the strange spell, part from genuine surprise at hearing the unexpected voice.

            He spun toward the speaker. 

            "Martin!  What on earth are you doing here?" he cried, almost flinging himself at his cousin.  The two threw their arms around each other and a great deal of back slapping ensued.  Martin Plume grinned.  He was Art's favorite cousin, even though several years his senior.  The only son of his mother's older sister, Martin seemed to be the glue that held the Plume family together.  Raised in London, he had nonetheless spent two summers in Connecticut, visiting with his relatives while he 'studied abroad' he claimed.  For a time, he had been the only member of the Plume family willing to speak to their errant daughter, sister, and aunt.  He had great talent for smoothing over awkward situations.  Martin seemed to have talents in just about everything at which he tried his hand.  It almost seemed a waste to throw this talent away studying dusty old history of all things, even if it was studying at Oxford. 

            "I took this job, see.  One of literally hundreds of applicants and they picked me.  Assistant to the curator of this old, dusty, collection of Welsh artifacts."  Martin's eyes twinkled as he spoke.  "Course the job included travel.  I'm accompanying this exhibition around the U.S. and Canada.  Really great opportunity.  But I must say that I was really surprised to learn we were coming here.  I just decided to keep it a secret from everyone but your mum.  I'll actually be staying with you for the next couple of nights, but wanted to surprise you here."

            No news could have been better for Art.  But then came the catch.

            "I just missed Morgan, she left just a bit ago.  I guess that I'll see her tonight.  But your mum will have to tell her that I'm here to get her to come to dinner.  Spoil the surprise."

            Art grimaced.  Morgan.  She never let it be forgotten that they were merely half siblings.  Emphasis on the half.  At one time it had seemed like she had cared for him as a brother, but for years now she merely treated him like a particularly nasty yet resilient toe fungus.  Something that one had to acknowledge existed, but definitely did not want to dwell too much upon, and something that one absolutely kept under wraps.

            Still, the combination of mother and Martin, that would bring her out the house for dinner.  And with Martin present, dinner might even be bearable.

            "Let's get back with the group," Martin added, "It looks like they are about to get underway."  Miss Ector had restored a semblance of order and was herding the group of her charges toward the front hall of the manor, eager to meet the benefactor of these proceedings.

            Hank Maxwell greeted them gruffly in the entry way, warning them in no uncertain terms to mind their manners and respect the value and generosity of the display now on Morgan property.  He gravely introduced the young people to Nimue, who did not fail to impress them with her demeanor and carriage.  She naturally seemed to charm and overawe those around her.

            Lady Waters surprised the assembly by appointing Martin as the official tour guide for the school group, but Martin rose admirably to the task.  He began, still in the entrance hall of Morgan Manor, with a quick yet informative introduction of the display they were to see.  He wasted little time and in short order the group moved outside and down toward the pavilion.  Hank Maxwell and Lady Waters followed at a discreet distance.  At the door to the pavilion Martin stopped the group for a final explanation and to give the courteous yet direct injunctive against messing with any of the display items inside the pavilion.  Hank took the opportunity to pull Art back and introduce him personally to the Welsh noblewoman.

            "Lady Waters, this is the young man I told you about, William Drake's youngest.  Arthur Plume Drake.  Art, this is Lady Nimue Waters from Wales.  She's a very old friend of the Morgan family."  His eyes twinkled with mirth at the age jibe, but Lady Waters clearly did not notice or care at the joke, she had eyes only for Art.

            She extended her hand toward the young man and Art could not help but notice a tremble.  But here eyes were what really drew his attention as the intensity of her gaze almost overpowered him.  He somewhat hesitantly took her proffered hand and gasped at the sudden strength in her grip, her hand trembled very strongly for one moment, then steadied as she found her voice. 

            "I bid you welcome Sire!" she declared formally, tears actually starting in her eyes.  Hank, clearly taken aback at her behavior, extended his arm to the old woman, a quizzical look directed toward her, sparing a quick apologetic look and half shrug to the stunned Art.

            Uncomfortably, Art responded with an awkward shake of his hand, American style and a stammered, "Uh, Thanks."

            Lady Nimue smiled and released his hand, shaking off Mr. Maxwell's attempts to help and nodded toward the entrance of the pavilion.  "Arthur, I think it is time for you to follow your group into the display.  I think..." She trailed off, then started again.  "I know that you will be surprised to see what we have to show you today."

            Art turned, surprised to see the pavilion entrance open and empty in front of him.  The rest of the group already inside.  He had no idea that he had paused so long with Lady Waters.  Unsettled, and feeling a little off balance, he noted the return of the strange foreboding that had seized him earlier.  He shook it off as best he could, squared his shoulders and entered the display.

            His classmates were scattered about inside, marveling at the myriad of items, and their well preserved state.  Small placards in front of each item noted the age of the piece, but the condition generally belied the age.  Clearly, this collection was well cared for.

            "I was just about to come hunting for you!" said Martin as he spotted his younger cousin.  Then he saw Art's companions.  He gave a small nod to Hank and sketched a quick bow to Lady Waters, murmuring a quick acknowledgement to them both, then turned his attention back to Art.  "I guess that you were acquainting yourself with Lady Waters so I'll forgive you missing my great and spell binding explanation of the displays.  I can fill you in on the details tonight."

            Lady Waters seemed to enjoy watching the two of them together.  She stepped up to the two taking each by the arm.  "Oh, Yes.  It has been quite fortunate for us to have Martin as part of this tour, and I am pleased at the chance that I could bring two cousins together like this."

            But Art suddenly felt like this was anything but chance.  Behind Lady Waters, Hank Maxwell rolled his eyes, confirming that to him there was less chance and more collusion behind this.  Martin also looked somewhat doubtful. 

            At first Art chalked it up to gratifying a large donor of the for the tour, but something deep inside Art felt it more than that.  He felt something with Lady Waters.  She apparently recovered from her almost emotional display outside.  Now, with her surprising strong grip on his arm he felt the strength and power the Lady radiated.  At this moment she seemed not old, but ageless.  He felt something that seemed to gather around him, almost a presence, reassuring and strong.  He did not feel a 14 year old boy, but older, more able, more wise, but also he felt a deep sense of loss and sadness balanced by a growing hope.  It confused him.

            As he looked past Lady Waters to Martin, he was suddenly struck by a sense of power that radiated from his cousin.  There was something new and interesting about his cousin since last they met.  What was more, he saw a similar look on Martin's face.  Maybe he looked different.  Maybe this Lady Waters was having an effect on both of them.

            Abruptly she steered them deeper into the pavilion.  "Gentlemen, I want to show you an artifact that is quite possibly my favorite in the display.  After which we will see what is clearly the most important."

            Art found himself standing before a table with several swords laid upon it.  Many of the young men in the group had gravitated to this table, admiring the trappings of knighthood from an almost forgotten age.  Just as young men of every age felt their hearts fill with excitement, these young men felt stirrings at the thought of knights, armor, and swords.

            David loitered near the table, entranced by the weapons in front of him.  Art felt little surprise there.  David likely know how to use these weapons effectively.  He actually had several swords of his own at home, his favorite being a replica Samurai Katana, made by a sword smith in Japan.

            A mixed circle had developed around David.  A couple of football players eyed their favorite swords and next to them a few bookish types, nerds and geeks really, and next to them one from the high school tech program, an automotive enthusiast.  Each seemed drawn to a specific sword, and suddenly they all seemed a natural part of the same group, despite their differences.  For a moment Art's head swam, and he seemed to see noble figures, specters really, standing approvingly behind each figure.

            This day was certainly proving itself a strange one, and it would shortly get much stranger still.

            Lady Waters stepped to the small gathering at the table, pulling Art and Martin with her.  Without preamble she addressed them all, rather formally. 

            "Each of these swords belonged to a knight.  Each knight, a man from a different background, but sworn to uphold the same principles.  Each of them began as young men much like yourselves.  Each accomplished great deeds, and faithfully served their principles.  Remember that in coming days."

            There followed none of the normal guffaws that a group of teenage boys would usually express.  There came no sense of embarrassment, in spite of the strange makeup of the group around the table.  The overwhelming feeling was solemn, almost reverent.  And building beneath it an electric feeling of power.  That feeling was enough to awaken the other presence in the pavilion.

            Stand lamps lit the display, electrically powered yet cleverly designed to look like medieval candelabra.  At once almost half of them sparked and went dark.  A cold wind whipped through the pavilion and several of the girls in the tent screamed.  Art felt the cold penetrate to his bones.  Behind him her heard a sharp hiss of rage and anger.  Dull creaking and groaning, as if from something long unused finally coming back to life, sounded from a dark corner of the pavilion. 

            Art turned slowly and found himself facing shadows.  Within them, a large silhouette of a man moved slowly toward him.  He was only vaguely aware of the commotion receding from the tent as most of his classmates moved rapidly toward the door, now the major source of light to the surroundings.  Some remained where they stood however.  The sharp smell of burning electrical circuits registered, but only as a background fact.  More important things were at hand.  The group of youths stood waiting for what would happen next.

            Abruptly, Art noted the absence of Lady Waters.  She now stood behind the group of young men; observing now, no longer a participant.  Hank Maxwell stood next to her, face grim.  But all Art's attention turned swiftly back to the dark shape approaching him.                The shadows reached out to touch him and Art's vision seemed to dim.  The pavilion faded from his view and Art found an ancient battlefield rise before his eyes.  His view was canted off to one side and had spots out of focus or clouded out in darkness, as if he were seeing someone else's memory that did not quite fit inside his own head.  Noise and confusion reigned.  There was smoke, always smoke.  The clang of swords on shields and the groans of injured men sounded around him.  He felt anger, frustration, despair.  A swirl in the smoke uncovered an advancing figure, clothed head to toe in steel.  Filled with a grim resolution Art advanced toward the armor clad figure. 

            They engaged in a blur, but then he felt a sharp stab of pain in his brow.  The initial shock faded quickly, fading to a dull ache remembered from long ago or as if he were somehow feeling pain that belonged to someone else.  For a moment he felt a brush of remembered steel in his hand.  He needed to strike, to bring the enemy to bay.

            The battlefield faded, but not his sense of motion, the need to act.  He took a step forward, ignoring the cloud of cold fear brought on by the darkness, focusing instead on a feeling of steadiness and purpose growing inside him.  A man's urgent voice sounded clearly in his mind, "Not yet, the blade is near but not yet at hand!"

            He almost faltered then, but suddenly became aware of Martin on his right hand and David directly to his left.  A fey light seemed to shine around Martin, and David stood with a sword in hand, held low, ready to strike.  The shadow in front of the three deepened, growing in menace.  Martin abruptly raised one hand crying aloud, "Confuto!  Cessum!"  At the same moment David swept the sword up, directly into the shadow.

            In a flash, the shadow was gone.  The interior of the tent, lit only by the daylight filtering in through the main door, seemed suddenly bright.  David stumbled when the swinging sword contacted nothing, and Art risked a severed limb in catching him as he fell.  All the others still in the tent seemed to shake themselves out of a trance. 

            Art was startled to find himself looking unexpectedly into the faces of Jenny Abbot and Elayne Lake, concern clearly showing in their eyes.  Their presence came as a surprise, seeing that all the other girls, and most of the boys, had beat a hasty retreat from the darkness and shadow.  Only his classmates at the table and these two girls had remained.  They had seen everything.         

            Art found his heart racing.  Jenny Abbot was the prettiest girl in school, Elayne only just behind her in looks.  Jenny, a born leader; Elayne, a natural athlete.  The two had been close friends as little girls, and although their interests had differed as they grew older, they still got along well with each other.  No young man at their school could look at either of them without an increase in pulse.

            Their sudden proximity only added to the momentary confusion.  Suddenly the ridiculousness of their present situation leaked in, and if the memory of what had just happened was not so sharp and clear, Art might have laughed.  Lady Nimue stepped lightly into the midst of the group once more.  She faced the group of young man at the table and swept her hand up toward them, curiously excluding Jenny and Elayne from her gesture.  Hank scurried over to Art's side.

            "Recedet Memoria!" chanted the small welsh noblewoman.  The air seemed to ripple around the group still gathered around the sword table, then as one, blank faced and staring, they turned and filed toward the doorway.  Once they were gone, Lady Waters, radiating calm and solemnity turned back to those remaining, Art, Martin, David, Jenny, Elayne and Hank Maxwell.

            David hastily returned the sword to the table, red faced and stammering apologies.  Lady Waters merely smiled. 

            "Do not fear, David Lance Albion," she declaimed, "Bearing that sword is your right.  After all it belonged to your predecessor."  David's eyes widened as he looked at Nimue.  "How do you know my name?" he asked, but got no answer.

            She turned to Martin, who stood with troubled eyes, staring toward the diminutive woman.  He flinched at her gaze but did not back down.  He asked the question that many of them felt.

            "Why do I suddenly fear you Lady?  Something now warns me to be wary around you.  And I feel inclined to heed that warning.  But it almost seems too late."

            "I do what I do out of necessity," she sighed in reply, a sense of sadness entering into her bearing.  "You may be right to mistrust me.  To bring my purposes to pass, I also aided your enemy.  You can sense this now, as the awakening has started.  I aided her first, as you would have likely tried to stop me had I started with you.  Now, however, the deed is done.  Your challenge lies before you."

            She turned to all of them, "The others need not remember immediately what has happened today," she motioned toward where the other witnesses to the bizarre occurrence had just exited the pavilion, "But their memory is merely suppressed for a short time.  They will recall what they need to recall, then they will come to you.  You however need to remember.  Your tasks already begin."  Her eyes suddenly seemed to glow with an inner light.  "All of you felt a touch of something from outside yourselves.  Heed that touch!  Your predecessors pass on their knowledge in the limited manner allowed them.  Their choices are now done, and yours begin."

            Hank Maxwell stepped forward, "Nimue, we need to explain some things to them now..."

            Lady Waters interrupted him, the sadness deepening in her eyes.  "Hank Morgan," she stressed the last name, "that task is yours.  I have but one task left, which I will delay for only a few hours.  Then I must retire as an observer only."  She stepped to Hank, whose face clouded with anger.  "I'm sorry to deceive you Mr. Morgan.  You have seen hard use at our hands, but it is necessary use.  Necessary to our purposes."

            With that she turned and left the pavilion.  Hank swore under his breath.  He scowled around the tent and said in a gruff tone, "What a fine kettle of fish we've landed in.  Used by her again, and after I warned myself not to fall for it."

            Hank turned to Art.  "I'll need to talk with all of you, right now inside the manor.  You may not believe what I tell you, but you have to hear it.  That is about the only way that I can prepare you for what's going to happen."

            "For what's going to happen?  What just happened?" asked Martin.  "What did we just see?"  As he turned toward where the shadow had been he raised his arm with a gesture, freezing in mid motion.  At the back corner of the pavilion a jagged rent admitted fitful flashes of daylight into the half lit interior.  The dark armor, the chest, and the jewels on top of the chest were all gone.

            Hank stepped forward with a scowl.  "We haven't got time to waste.  We need to talk now.  I'm going to talk to your teachers, buy us some time, but you need to hear what I have to say, and you need to hear it now!"

            A short time later Art found himself in a sitting room off the entry hall of the manor.  He stood at the door, impatient for the old caretaker to return.  Hank was busy explaining the brief delay to their school teacher and explaining why he needed to talk with some of the students.  His explanation, they had been present during an act of vandalism on the lights, followed by what appeared to be a theft.  He needed any information they could provide, it would only take a little bit of time.  Authorities were on their way even now and the school trip would have to wait for them anyway.  Hank just wanted to find out what he could right now.

            Martin stood not far behind Art, lost in thought.  David slumped in a nearby chair, twirling a coin across the back of his hand.  Jenny and Elayne sat on a divan against a window, sharing a whispered conversation.

            Hank reentered the room, his face a thundercloud.  Known as a bit of a grump, it appeared that the odd happenings of the day were bringing out the worst in him.  Miss Ector followed on his heels, doggedly questioning him.

            "...are they in trouble?  Do you think they had anything to do with the theft?  You have no right to hold and interrogate my students!  I will file a complaint with the police as soon as they arrive, just you wait!"

            Hank rounded on the teacher in the doorway.  "No one is in trouble!  This is just to share needed information.  They'll be out in no time, no time at all!"  He tried to close the door on her.

            She stepped firmly into the doorway, her foot purposefully blocking the door open.  "No one 'shares information' with my students!" she declared.  "They are in my care and I take that seriously."

            For a moment, Hank looked like he would explode.  Art held his breath, along with everyone else in the room.  Everyone except Martin.

            "Mr. Maxwell?" he asked stepping toward the door.  "Perhaps Miss Ector can sit in on our discussion?  I think that we do need to talk about just what happened, and this is likely the quickest way to accomplish this discussion.  Wouldn't you agree?"

            Miss Ector gave a quick nod, "That's fair to me!"  Hank's face became thoughtful, with just a hint of a hunted look around the eyes.  Finally, seeing that he had little overall choice, he admitted defeat and allowed the teacher into the room.  He began to pace back and forth, grumbling to himself and casting half glances at the other occupants in the sitting room.  He stopped in the middle of the room, threw up his hands in resignation and stated flatly, "You're going to think that I'm crazy if I try to explain any of this!  I'm not the one who should be doing this!  Where do I even start...?"  The old man trailed off mumbling to himself.

            An idea surfaced in Art's head, almost as if placed there from outside himself.  "Perhaps..." he stammered at first, then his voice strengthened, "Maybe we can ask questions about what happened... as a place to start?" he suggested to the room.  Heads nodded in agreement and all eyes turned once again to Hank.

            Hank was studying Art with a sudden intensity, as if weighing the young man.  What he saw seemed to calm him and provide a glimmer of hope.  His lips actually gave a twitch of a smile.  "Very well.  Ask away, I'll answer as much as I can."

            Jenny asked the first question.  "What was that shadow?  It was more than just the lights going out.  Something, no someone, was in that shadow.  He scared me, really scared me.  He hated me.  I could feel it!"  Again the heads nodded.

            Miss Ector interrupted, "Shadow?  What shadow?"  She turned on Hank, "You didn't say anything about a shadow, or about anyone threatening my kids!"

            Hank waved her to silence.  He continued to study Art, finally offering a surprising suggestion.

            "Art, perhaps you can tell Miss Ector what happened, not just inside the pavilion, but since you got here today.  Leave nothing out.  Then I'll do my best to answer the question Miss Abbot just asked."

            Art reluctantly nodded.  He paused to gather his thoughts and then began the story.  He surprised himself with the details he remembered.  He also felt a vague sense of surprise at the ease he felt in recounting the tale.  Normally he didn't feel at all comfortable in the spotlight, he shied away from it truth be told.  But this time felt different.  He felt confident, practiced, polished, even experienced at this type of speaking.  It felt odd to him.  One look at David's surprised face showed that he wasn't the only one to notice.  Art pointedly did not look at Jenny, knowing that his crush on her would send his newfound confidence into an unrecoverable tailspin if he even so much as glanced her way.

            Disbelief showed in every feature of Miss Ector's face as he finished speaking.  Only after she scanned the room, receiving nods of agreement from everyone else did her visage soften.  Even then if fell far short of belief, perhaps only reaching perplexed before she returned her gaze to Hank, "Okay, Mr. Maxwell, now it's your turn.  Answer the question.  Just what was that shadow?"

            Hank looked slowly but steadily around the room, his expression unreadable.  "Maybe you kids can answer the question yourselves.  Think on that shadow, and then tell me the first word that pops into your mind."

            Art shivered at the memory of the darkness.  He remembered the hiss.  Rage had been in that hiss, rage and hatred.  But a voice had given that hiss, and the voice behind it seemed so familiar.  A voice connected with an ancient enemy, someone bound to him by blood.  Unbidden a name came to his lips.  At almost the same moment, Martin and David spoke the same name.

            "Mordred!"

            For a moment Art felt dizzy and his vision blurred and swam.  He shook his head sharply, trying to dispel the unwelcome sensation. The room seemed to lurch suddenly, then all was still.  Time froze, leaving even the dust motes visible in the sunlight through the windows, hanging motionless in the air.  Only Art seemed able to move, although just barely.  As he looked about the room, he saw again spectral figures that seemed to stand behind his friends.  This time, however, the figures were clear.

            They wore splendid attire, rich and elegant.  Their bearing shouted nobility.  Each one emanated a sense of purpose and power.  All were handsome or beautiful.  Yet their faces were tense, taut with excitement and no little fear.  Art suddenly saw that the ghostly figures were restrained, held back against their will, all save one. 

            The figure appearing oldest in age stood freely beside Martin.  Nothing held this figure and there hung about it a sense of nonchalance.  He was a man, stooped somewhat and showing age.  His robes seemed almost plain in comparison to the dress of the others.  His face was the only one not reflecting suppressed panic.  On the contrary, he looked almost fondly at Martin, then chuckled to himself, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  He motioned toward Art, and had he been able, Art would have stepped toward him.  Only after a tall figure moved around from behind him did Art realize that the gesture had been meant for someone else.        

            The figure moved with some reluctance to the old man.  The two shared a word then the older man pivoted the larger figure forcibly to face Art.  Art felt a shock of recognition.  Somehow he knew this face!  The man was just into his middle age, tall and clearly still at the height of his strength.  Reddish hair fell to his shoulders, held back from his face by a simple gold crown.  Strong bones built the face, framing handsome features that centered around the piercing eyes.  Here stood a mighty man, a king.

            Somehow Art met the kings eyes and held his gaze, conscious of the almost desperate scrutiny.  The shade stared mightily at the young man, scarcely restraining himself from advancing.  All the while Art stood firm, willing himself to meet the scrutiny with minimal flinching.

            The great king's ghost, for Art was sure this is what he faced, gradually relaxed.  His features released their taut, fearful mien, relaxing instead into a thoughtful pose.  Then wonder flashed across the noble face.  Abruptly the king released a chuckle, then turning to the older man they laughed together as if at some great inside joke.  Obviously he liked what he had found in his scrutiny of the young Art.

            The two shades turned, beckoning to the others, and abruptly the room spun again.  Only then did Art note that each shade had moved around to inspect one of the other youths in the room.  Now they swept together in one group.  Art only caught a glimpse of the gathered faces before they swirled out of view.  Some held hope, others skepticism, but at the last moment all went willingly.  The room lurched again and time resumed its steady march, dust motes now drifting lazily in the air.

            A sharp snort then a guffaw brought Art's attention back to the moment.  A most unladylike laugh came from his English teacher.  Miss Ector looked at her students her eyes showing disbelief. 

            "This is ridiculous!" she stated continuing her nervous laugh.  When no one else shared her mirth, her features darkened somewhat.  "Very well, this joke is in poor taste.  I will have no part in this, but don't think that I won't put a stop to it."  She rounded on Hank, "I'm holding you responsible for this Mr. Maxwell!  This is a foolish joke and will be stopped!" she repeated.  Then she stormed out of the room leaving an awkward silence behind.  She was not gone long however.

            As she stormed into the entryway of the manor Miss Ector found Lady Waters.  The diminutive woman stood just to one side of the main doors, close to the sitting room, clearly positioned to listen.

            Miss Ector glanced back at the sitting room, then turned to the Welsh Noblewoman, "Lady Waters, did you hear any of that foolishness from in there?"  In her anger she momentarily forgot her manners, besides which Miss Ector was not one to take the peerage seriously, being such a staunch New Englander.  But her mannerisms and anger annoyed Nimue for another reason.

            Due to the stress of the day, what Nimue did next is understandable.  She met Miss Ector's gaze, and for the first time in centuries dropped the veil of disguise that she habitually wore any time she was away from her home.

            To Miss Ector, the frail old lady suddenly transformed.  All signs of age dropped away in a rush.  The eyes abruptly swept upward at the corners, the delicate eyebrows lengthening and sweeping up, drawing attention to suddenly pointed ears.  The skin, already unblemished, smoothed and took on the cast of polished marble.  The now full lips parted revealing an uncomfortably predatory smile.  The aged form slimmed and grew until the now regal figure looked down on the shocked human schoolteacher.                "Hillary Ector!  I am well aware of what transpired here today.  Indeed, I set the events in motion that led to this state!  I am Nimue, Lady of Avalon!"

            Even as she release her shocked gasp, Miss Ector watched as the commanding presence before her shimmered back into the diminutive, frail appearing, aged noblewoman.  Lady Waters stepped forward, reached out one hand and patted the trembling schoolteacher on the arm.  Miss Ector flinched back in shock.  Nimue paid it no heed.

            "You should really go back and finish speaking with Hank and the others.  Your help is needed in the coming days I am sure.  Tell those students to listen well to Mr. Morgan."  Then without a backward glance she turned and passed quickly out the main doors.

            Miss Ector staggered back into the sitting room just as the silence her recent departure had caused broke.  Martin and Jenny, both managing steadier heads than the others spoke at the same time to Hank.  Martin asking, "How is it possible that was Mordred?"  Jenny asking, "Why did Lady Waters call you Hank Morgan?"

            The sight of the stunned woman further interrupted the proceedings.  They quickly helped her to a chair.  But Jenny's question did not go unnoticed.  Even as she sat Miss Ector stared at Hank.  He just grimaced sourly in return. 

            "Lady Waters?" he guessed.  She nodded mutely.  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, breathing deep to regain control.  Then finally she made a curt request, "Please answer their questions Mr. Maxwell."  There had been a pause before she voiced his last name, and then the name was spoken with peculiar emphasis.

            Hank faced the assembled group, still not happy with the situation, but knowing that his time was running out.  He figured the best way, the only way, was to speak the truth boldly and quickly.

            An odd smile suddenly quirked his lips.  "You are going to think that I'm an inmate from the asylum when I say this, but here goes.  Lady Waters called me Hank Morgan because that's my real name."  Then noting the recovering English teacher's gasp he added, "And at least one of you understands what that name means."  Miss Ector's eyes were widening again in stunned contemplation of what he'd just said.

            He continued, turning to Martin, "That shadow really was Mordred, his shade."  Then noting the disbelief on the other man's face he continued, "Mordred, the son of King Arthur of Camelot and his half sister Morgana, Morgan la Fey."

            Art almost felt his hair stand on end.  Those names!  He knew the stories, who didn't know something about them?  But this time the names sent tingles and chills; shocks through his entire body.  The face of that noble king flashed in Art's memory and suddenly he couldn't breathe fast enough or deep enough.

            Hank looked at him sharply, his face quickly softening into something akin to commiseration.  "You know it now, don't you Art?" he asked softly.

            Art shook his head in denial.  But that only brought another sad smile to Hank's face.

            Flashing police lights came into view from the window.  After a quick glance outside, Hank headed for the door.  "I'm needed outside, but I'll be back just as soon as possible.  Wait here."

            He paused at the doorway.  "This is real.  That really was Mordred.  I'll ask Miss Ector to explain the story of Camelot to you, then we can talk more when I get back."  And he was gone.

            Several minutes passed in near silence.  It took some time for Miss Ector to compose herself.  The others felt more than a little overwhelmed by the startling events of the morning.  Miss Ector finally pulled herself together enough to begin.

            "King Arthur, by legend, was one of the greatest early kings of Britain; if there is any truth to his legends he's undoubtedly the greatest."  Miss Ector's voice still trembled, but lecturing was her thing and as she continued her tone steadied and she regained some of her lost composure. 

            "He was the son of Uther Pendragon and Ygraine, wife of the Duke Gorlois of Cornwall.  He was raised the foster son of a knight named Sir Ector..." she trailed off hesitantly, shook herself, then continued.  "Tutored by Merlin, at a young age, he pulled the sword from the stone following Uther's death, announcing his identity and right of kingship. 

            "Merlin, still acting as counselor and advisor to Arthur helped him become a good king.  It was with Merlin's aid that Arthur obtained Excalibur from the Lady in the Lake after the sword in the stone broke.  He always aided Arthur.

            "During his reign Arthur gathered many noble knights around him, establishing chivalry as a high code.  That is what originally set him apart.  To that point the rule had largely been 'might makes right.'  Arthur changed that.  He insisted that the strong protect the weak, at least to a degree.  He's most famous for the round table, a place where knights of renown could come to counsel, without anyone sitting at their head.  I suppose Arthur was first among equals at the table, but there were other knights there, some of greater prowess, such as Lancelot, and some of greater virtue, Galahad or Percival.  Each of them brought a strength to the table, to the group."

            They gathered around her now, the students listening.  All of them knew some of the story, but none so well as Miss Ector, except perhaps Martin.  And at this point, they felt a near desperate need for an explanation that made sense of the odd happenings of the day.  They needed what their teacher could give.  So she did what she was accustomed to, she taught them; this time about King Arthur and Camelot.

            "The Knights of the Round Table won great renown," she continued.  "Legends sprang up about their exploits.  Through it all they strove to live by a high code of honor, often times very complex and hard to understand.  Sometimes their adventures became convoluted, and sometimes did not seem to end very positively.  But the end result was that life got better for Britain.  Camelot came as a blessing to the people of England."

            Martin murmured darkly at this point, "Until Mordred.  Mordred destroyed it."

            "Yes, Mordred.  But not alone.  Mordred was aided by his mother, Morgana.  Daughter of Gorlois and Ygraine.  An enchantress, she had deceived Arthur and seduced him before he was king, before he knew who she was.  Her child, by Arthur, was Mordred.  Arthur reached out to him, but Morgana turned Mordred's mind against his father.  She tormented Arthur mercilessly, even stealing Excalibur and it's scabbard.  Arthur recovered the sword, but Morgana cast the scabbard into a lake, then hid by turning herself into a stone for a time.  She was an enchantress, one of the faerie..."

            Here Miss Ector trailed off, eyes widening at the memory of the recent encounter with Lady Waters.  The students noted her concern.  When pressed she simply shook her head and refused to speak further.  Martin picked up the narrative.

            "Morgana raised Mordred to spite Arthur.  Arthur tried to make amends with Mordred, even giving him a seat at the Round Table and allowing him to rule as regent while Arthur was away to war.  But Mordred betrayed Arthur and started the war that eventually brought Camelot to ruin."

            "The field of Camlann," interrupted Miss Ector.  "Mordred started a war that raged and destroyed.  A war that became so grave, both sides recognized it would lead to total destruction.  Both sides agreed to meet at Camlann to negotiate an end to it.  One of the conditions of the truce was that no weapon would be drawn.  Legend says that Morgana, able to change her shape, threatened one of Arthur's knights as a venomous serpent.  Unthinking he drew his blade to kill the snake.  The other side saw this as treachery and a final battle ensued.  During the battle, Arthur and Mordred fought, with Arthur fatally wounding Mordred with his spear .  Mordred struck a dying blow to Arthur's head.  The battle ended with the knight Sir Bedivere bearing Arthur away to a chapel, then at the order of the king casting Excalibur into a lake where the Lady of the Lake reclaims it."

            Jenny Abbott surprised the group when she piped up with a comment, "But that's not the only reason for Camelot's problems.  What about Lancelot and Guinevere?  She was Arthur's queen and betrayed him with Lancelot.  Lancelot felt like he lost his honor because of this and left Arthur.  He even fought against Arthur at one point."

            "Yes," came the now familiar gruff voice from the doorway, "Camelot faced a great deal of trouble from within!  I doubt Morgan and Mordred would have been able to pull off their treachery without all of the screwups from those on the inside!"  Hank spoke forcefully as he re-entered the room.  They saw a fierce gleam in his eyes, one that they would quickly become familiar with.

            "So where do you figure in all of this, Mr. Maxwell?" asked Martin.

            But Jenny answered, again surprising everyone else in the room.  "Not Maxwell, Morgan.  Lady Waters called him Hank Morgan.  That's your real name, isn't it?  This is your estate isn't it?"

            Hank nodded reluctantly.

            Martin and the others still didn't understand.  "Why is that so important?" asked Martin again.

            This time Miss Ector answered.  "Because he's the only one of us who has actually been to Camelot!  Somehow, he's the Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's court!"

            Art wanted to laugh, he really did.  Laughter would allow him to casually dismiss the ludicrous discussion.  He felt a desperate need to refute and ignore all that had happened.  But the events of that morning were too fresh, too real to deny.  As ridiculous as this whole thing sounded, he could not deny what he himself had experienced.  No laughter came.  But his fear grew steadily.

            Hank looked at him, stared at him actually, his gaze no less searching than that of the shade he had seen earlier.  Art actually saw pity in his eyes.  It made him mad. 

            "Why are you staring at me!" he found himself shouting.  He was afraid that he knew the answer.  All of it could not be a coincidence.  He'd put two and two together.  That armor, the shadow had been coming for him.  Again the skepticism and doubt that he saw in the regal king's face returned.  He knew now who the king had been.  He suspected what brought the pity into Hank's eyes.  He tried to deny it, but a growing inner sense made denial hard. 

            Art felt a moment of panic.  Hank scowled, but his gaze had shifted off of Art.  He stood lost in thought.  A restless shuffle sounded around the room.  All of his classmates, and his cousin, looked at him with troubled eyes.  More than one had put the events together and noted the circumstances.

            David broke the uncomfortable silence.  "Are we them?" 

            He stood off to one side, holding his coin upright on his clenched fist, it's edge barely grasped between the knuckles of his first and second fingers.  Abruptly he opened his fingers, causing the coin to fall, yet easily snatched it out of the air again.

            Again he asked his question.  "Are you telling us that we are them?  Art is really Arthur, and the rest of us are Lancelot, Guinevere, and the rest?"

            He turned a surprisingly steady gaze toward the old caretaker.  Everyone in the room found the old man's face inscrutable.

            "Not exactly.  But you have the right idea.  You're not those characters reborn, you're more of their heirs.  You have the potential to play their roles, now that it's necessary again."  Hank sounded hesitant in his response.

            David turned resolutely back to Art.  "Given the people in the room, I guess that makes me Lancelot.  I'm good with that, Art... I mean Arthur."  David scrunched up his features, "I don't care, I'm still calling you Art.  I've always wanted to laugh whenever I call you Arthur.  It's really a goofy name."

            "Not half as goofy as Lancelot!" retorted Art, more out of habit than anything else.

            Yet something had happened in that moment.  The simple statement by David had changed the whole tone in the room.  What he had done felt right.

            Hank actually gave a half smile.  "Well done, Sir Lancelot.  Arthur always depended heavily on Lancelot.  They relied on each other.  That's what made them both great."

            "But that's what made the betrayal all the worse!" exclaimed Jenny.  She had a haunted look in her eyes.  "When Lancelot and Guinevere betrayed Arthur.  That's why it was such a tragedy!" 

            "Easy Miss Abbott."  Hank's voice sounded soothing.  "You are right, that's why it was such a tragedy.  But that's one of the main reasons why you are here now.  You aren't them!  They all made the choice to pass on the torch, give up their mantles, so to speak.  Merlin convinced them..."  He trailed off.

            Miss Ector spoke to him with awe, "You really were there, weren't you?  You really did see them!  You lived it!"

            Hank shrugged dismissively, "Yeah, I was really there."  At there questioning glances he explained, "Merlin took me to Camelot.  He foresaw a need and acted accordingly.  Despite what's written in Twain's story, Merlin and I spent a great deal of time together, at Camelot and later..."  He trailed off again, clearly unwilling to explain further at that time.

            Hank turned his attention back to Art.  "You are who you are.  The rights and power of King Arthur could be yours, but you have to earn them."  He motioned around the room, " Always remember that you aren't alone in this either.  You have these others, who are really in the same fix you with you."  He looked around at all of them now.  "You may not like the situation.  None of you chose this, but believe it or not, you are equipped to handle this.  Each of you has at least the same inner qualities and, well, potential that the original cast of Camelot had.  But you know what went wrong with Camelot the first time!  You are not the same people, doomed to make the same mistakes.  You have each other and you have a clean slate.  That's what's important now.  That'll see you through.  Besides which, you also have good old Yankee ingenuity this time.  And what worked before will work again."

            Hank sat down, his face suddenly very pensive as he talked directly to Art once again, "Now let me tell you about your sister..."

            Morgan never could recall the drive away from Morgan Manor.  Her first real moment of awareness came as she pushed her Jaguar XKR-S up past 100 mph while rocketing into Worcester, Massachusetts.  Startled she quickly slowed the red sports car down and eased off the highway, expertly merging with local traffic.  Memories began to surface through her mental haze, not all of them seemed to fit with the morning, some even seemed to belong to someone else.  She felt suddenly confused and angry, she needed to cool off.  Without picking a particular destination she turned randomly and drove until she found herself in an upscale neighborhood, next to a park crowded with rich kids and their overpaid nannies.

            She felt a pang as she looked toward the children.  Much of her own childhood had been spent with a nanny.  And although she had strong feelings for the woman, nannies just were not mothers.  Yet often times they ended up feeling more for their charges than the absent parents.  It was wrong that children should be treated that way, cast aside by their parents as mere inconveniences!  Her mother had done it to her so she could be with that worthless scoundrel William.  Although not intending to, Morgan began to focus her negativity on a bench full of pleasantly chatting adults across the park.  Child caregivers, enjoying a pleasant morning outing with their young charges.  Resentment surfaced quickly and Morgan found herself fingering a large ring on the forefinger of her right hand.

            She frowned.  Where had this ring come from?  It was simple, yet well made, and had an old feel to it.  The setting drew her attention; a large, clear white diamond set off by a smaller ruby to one side, then what looked like an sapphire on the other side.  What a peculiar arrangement!  In the turmoil of her emotions, anger suddenly surfaced, what a foolish and gaudy thing to have!  She made as if to remove it, then watched in astonishment as the setting changed.  The stones seemed to melt and become fluid, flowing and streaming around each other, yet never quite mixing.  As she focused on the ring, her rage warm within her, she watched the setting harden, this time with a Ruby as the large stone in the center, set off now by a smaller white diamond on one side and now a black onyx on the other.  The ruby glowed with an inner fire.

            She felt drawn into the ruby and suddenly found herself looking at the ring, although this time on another's finger!  The hand was slightly larger than her own and a magnificent gown ended at the wrist, lace spilling from the end of the sleeve, halfway to the floor.  A man in odd clothes groveled before her, shying away from the extended ring.  Morgan recognized that she watched this from inside the eyes of the wielder of the ring.  She heard words of condemnation, then saw the ruby glow with a fiery light.  She somehow knew what would happen next.  The man cried out and fell writhing to the stone floor.  Tendrils of smoke drifted up from his thrashing form, accompanying a series of sharp cries. 

            Just as quickly as it started, Morgan was back standing next to her car watching the park.  Her hand extended toward the far off bench full of overpaid baby sitters, her rage directed at them.  One, an older woman screamed and grasped at her middle.  Morgan knew without being told that she was the source of this woman's pain.  She watched for another moment, then realizing that she knew how to turn this power off, she brought her hand down sharply. 

            Across the park the woman suddenly collapsed, sobbing, her companions surrounding her with great shows of concern.

            Part of her horrified at what she had just witnessed, at what she had just done, Morgan again made to remove the ring.  But as her glance drifted across the setting once more she was drawn into another memory, this time seeming to flow into the white diamond.

            Here she found herself kneeling beside a man in bloodied armor.  Great rents showed in the unknown knights shield and breastplate; his eyes, barely visible through his visor, rolled back in his head while blood flowed freely from his nose.  Quickly the hands came up and unbidden the knowledge of how to bring the power to bear to heal the injuries blossomed in her mind.  This time Morgan felt that it was her own yearnings that started the healing process.  The knight flailed and cried out, gasping with sudden renewed strength.  His head snapped up, eyes open wide and staring with near adoration at his rescuer.

            In a flash, Morgan again stood at the park, hand outstretched toward her unwitting former victim.  In wonder, Morgan watched as the now trembling and dumbfounded woman stood, tentatively brushing herself off and poking at herself experimentally in various places; clearly dumbfounded at the sudden onset, then cessation, of pain followed by the unexpected healing.  Morgan dropped her hand, the white light drawing back into the diamond.  The setting now held the white diamond in the center flanked by a sapphire and an emerald. 

            Awe filled Morgan.  She tentatively, not really knowing how she did it, reached out her thoughts toward the ring, triggering a flood of power from the ornament.  Ordered words rang in her ears, a woman's voice, near despairing, crying out a complex incantation designed to preserve key memories and knowledge in the small bauble.  Now those memories and knowledge sprang forth from the ring, fleeing into the dark recesses of Morgan's consciousness.  A framework of understanding built itself in her psyche, opening up new vistas in her imagination.  No part of Morgan was safe.

            At first overwhelmed by the flood, Morgan struggled to control her thoughts and emotions.  Not a weak girl, in any sense, she finally mastered the flow, but not before indelible marks were left upon her.

            For several minutes more Morgan stood contemplating the ring.  Other memories surfaced, drawing her into different stones that adorned the setting.  She recognized that the ring itself was teaching her how it could be used.  Different aspects represented by different stones.  Always three showed, but countless more waited in the ether, eager for their power to spring out.  It was startling, exhilarating, horrifying, and intoxicating; all at the same time.  With each episode, Morgan learned another facet of the ring's power and fell more and more under its thrall.  Half of the park bloomed in verdant glory, speckled with sudden wildflowers, this power attached to the emerald.  A dog leaping for a frisbee dropped to the ground lifeless after a mere gesture, this power tied to the onyx.  Her power seemed to grow with each memory.  The fog of confusion faded as she finally realized where the ring must have come from.  With a start, she began to understood just what had happened to her that morning.

            "You must be careful with what you are doing, feyera!"

            Morgan recognized the voice and knew, from stray thoughts and memories still new to her, that the term feyera was a faerie word, a term meaning young and inexperienced one in the feminine sense.  She felt a thrill at understanding the word.  The thrill swirled away in anger as she turned to face the speaker.  The diminutive Lady Waters stood several paces away, her stance and posture clearly guarded.

            Morgan noted a shimmer in the air around the old noblewoman, and she recognized a powerful shield spell.  She sensed a mix of precious metals and elemental power in the old woman's hand, around her waist, and around her neck.  So she held a ring of some power, with a belt and a necklace to match.  The wonder at sensing and recognizing such things faded quickly as the danger these items could entail surfaced in her mind.  Clearly visible to Morgan were the folds of magical mask that Nimue held around her, shielding mortals from seeing her as she really appeared.  But that was not the only reason for the mask.

            The newfound knowledge in Morgan let her know that this magical mask also allowed Nimue to extend her time away from her home.  The Faerie were powerful creatures, but were bound by specific limits, many of them to specific locations.  Time away from their homes caused a faerie to change gradually, to weaken perhaps.  But almost certainly to grow more dangerous, more unpredictable, less benign.  To combat this they wove powerful shields and disguises, but the very nature of the disguises further limited and often greatly contained their power.  That knowledge gave Morgan confidence. 

            Morgan smiled as the knowledge flowed into her mind.  It was thrilling.  And troubling, for now she thought she knew her story.  She pieced together how the being before her had manipulated her, along with her predecessor.

            "I know you now, witchling!" she hissed at the Welsh Heiress.  "I know what you did to me, and what you did to..." here Morgan hesitated, but unbidden an image rose in her mind of a dazzlingly beautiful woman in a gorgeous gown, wearing the ring she now had on her hand.  Something about the woman inspired fear in Morgan, and a strange sense of pity.  Her name rose in Morgan's mind.  The same as her own. 

            "I know what you did to Morgana!"

            Nimue's lips thinned as her mouth tightened.  Abruptly she stood before Morgan with all pretenses dropped.  Had Morgan not already seen the folds of the magical mask she might have been overawed by the change, but this time Nimue's trick had little effect on the mortal she tried to overwhelm.  Despite the imposing presence of a faerie being, Morgan somehow knew that she held the upper hand.

            "I'm mortal, Lady Nimue.  I can die, but I'm not bound by the limits that bind you!" 

            Morgan recognized the words came principally from the foreign influence that had tried to dominate her, had left it's mark upon her.  She would likely not have spoken them, even in anger before that morning.  But even as the words spat from her lips, more memories and knowledge filled her thoughts, and increased her rage.  She raised her hand, the ruby dominating the setting on the ring, red light blazing up around her.

            "I know now what you have wrought!  On me!  Without any warning!"  Nimue had taken a step back, the shimmer had hardened around her closed fist, ready to spring out and counter any power called forth by Morgan.

            "Morgan," Nimue's voice was calm but held a note of pleading.  "I did this because the powers behind this would no longer be contained.  Search your newfound knowledge and you will see that this is so!"

            Morgan recognized the truth of the words and dismissed it just the same.  "You could have warned me witch queen!  Instead you led me unknowing to bind me to this fate!"

            "Morgan, this is in your blood!  Your family has always had this link..."

            "I will not be used by you, Nimue!  I'm not held by your power!  You know this is true.  You cannot strike me, but I can strike you!"

            The red light flashed out only to collide with the strange shimmer held by Nimue.  The resulting cascade of light and errant flashes and sparks drew attention from all around the park.  Nimue retreated back several more paces, resumed her mask and frail human disguise.  Yet the old woman clearly stood poised for action.

            "Morgan, I would apologize for what I have done, except that it would have occurred on its own in just a few years without anyone being able to stop it."  A note of frustration and pleading again entered her voice.  "Morgan, I can help you to master and curb this power, this rage.  You have beaten Morgana's shade, you need not succumb to her parting spells and memories through the ring!"

            Morgan paused, but only for a moment.  "I will not be used by you Witch Queen!  I am not one of you!  I will not make the same mistakes that Morgana made.  But with this ring, this power, I can and will do what I want!"

            Nimue tried one last tact.  "Morgan, the armor comes for you.  He seeks you out!  His shade will find you.  He has the chest, the rest of the jewels..."  There was real fear in her voice now.

            Morgan cut her off with a gesture.  "So Mordred's shade is awake.  That must mean..."  Then her eyes opened wide in understanding.  "Arthur!" she breathed.  Her now enlightened mind raced to make other connections.  "But that would mean..." she trailed off.  "My brother?"  Disbelief filled her eyes, then anger, which simmered down to brooding far too quickly for the comfort of the faerie queen.  Then Morgan's face softened into a smile.  "Why not?  I can make use of this!  I can make use of him!"

            "Morgan, there are others..." began Nimue.  Again Morgan cut her off.  "It doesn't matter.  None of that matters now.  I think I see a way to make this all work."  Then, a further goad to Nimue's fear, a cunning spark entered Morgan's eyes. 

            "And I will finally get some revenge on Uther..." here Morgan seemed to catch herself, "I mean, William." 

            Nimue noted the quick puzzled frown on Morgan's face at her slip up, and it brought a start of hope to her that faded as Morgan's icy gaze returned to her. 

            "Don't even think that you can stop me, Nimue!  You couldn't stop Morgana, and I now know much of what she did.  When I get the chest, I'll learn the rest."  Defiance radiated from Morgan and her jaw set as she added again, "I will not be used by you!"

            Nimue saw the stone on Morgan's ring, jet black Onyx.  Morgan could kill with her next strike.  Yet a buzzing from her car caught Morgan's attention.  She lowered her hand, glancing into the open car door, then reached into her car and pulled out her cell phone, smiling as she saw the caller id.

            "If you will excuse me, I have a dinner appointment to keep!"  With that Morgan slipped back into her Jaguar and sped off toward the highway, spraying gravel behind her.

            Nimue watched her go, already feeling the power fade from her view.  Morgan was learning quickly.  She shielded her presence from Nimue as she turned the corner out of view, and Lady Waters was powerless to do anything about it.  This was not going well at all.