“The first born of Arthur will bring his end.”

When the high priestess Vyvian du Lac dies, Morgen le Fay—acolyte to the priestess, midwife to queens, apprentice to Merlin—is left mysteriously bereft of magic. She finds herself transported to the wild, ancient forest of Brocéliande, which she must cross—and survive—to save Carelon from disaster. And death itself, it seems, is close on her heels.

Morgen’s daughter Llachlyn, her cousin Sir Galahad and their friend, the squire Percival, share a vision of the mysterious graal. Mawra—Arthur’s jealous, spiteful queen, with ambitions on the graal of her own—threatens to send Llachlyn to a nunnery, but with Galahad’s help she and Percival escape north to her cousin Sir Gawain’s home.

Gawain and Hwyfar, who have spent ten peaceful years away from court in a forbidden marriage, are now swept back into the secrets, lies and politics of Carelon. Merlin’s darkest prophecy looms, the Council of Nine – Morgen’s secret council of sorceresses – is broken, and the battle for Arthur’s legacy has just begun…

Queen of Mercy is available now – you can order your copy HERE

Introduction by Natania Barron 

“Queen of Mercy is the culmination of almost twenty years of work, beginning with my undergraduate fascination with King Arthur. Although the two women in the first books, Anna Pendragon and Hwyfar of Avillion, are either scarcely mentioned in the texts or wholly made up by me, that is not the case with the protagonist of the third book. There are few characters in Arthuriana as complicated or as visible as Morgan le Fay. For many reasons, slipping into her mind was a daunting prospect. The famed sorceress is as old as the myths of Arthur himself, and through the texts she transforms from a brilliant herbalist to a seductive manipulator, and back again. In some versions of the tales, she seems to occupy both the honorable and the wicked. 

If you’ve read the series, you might have caught on to the fact that I play around with the number three, but also with perceptions of women (Anna is a mother, Hwyfar is a “maiden” in that she is unmarried, and Morgen is our crone). Morgen–spelled with an ‘e’ as that’s the earliest spelling of her name in Welsh–was once as visible as one could be in Carelon, but now she is in her 60s, and as many women can attest, age can give you an air of invisibility. She is standing at a precipice, watching Arthur’s golden realm begin to crumble, and questioning her role in all the machinations of her life. One might call herself a crone, but an unconventional one. But there is power in her experience, and still plenty of story to be told.

In chapter two, we meet up again with Sir Gawain and his wife Dame Ragnell, ten years after the end of Queen of Fury. Much has changed, but the two lovers have lived a life away from Carelon, their union secret and sacred. When Llachlyn le Fay, Morgen’s daughter, shows up unexpectedly reporting her mother is missing, the couple is drawn back up into his family’s intrigues and politics whether they like it or not.”

Chapter Two: Llachlyn

Llachlyn le Fay sat on a bench in a crowded receiving room—packed with herbs, barrels, bolts of cloth, and dusty paintings—gazing up at two of the most intimidating people she could recall seeing in her short life. Both her mother and her aunt Vyvian had told Llachlyn about her cousin, the famed Sir Gawain, of course. So she had some expectations of his size, given his reputation and adventures. 

Still, he was something else altogether in person.

Legend aside, the most important element her mother had stressed was that he and his wife, Dame Ragnell, could be trusted, if anything were to befall her.

“She’s my cousin, my love,” said her enormous cousin to his wife, Dame Ragnell. At least, that’s what they said was her name. People also said she was so hideous Gawain could not take her to Court, but Llachlyn had snuck up on her while she was picking apples in their orchard, and although furious, Dame Ragnell was far from ugly. Beautiful did not begin to describe her, really. 

Dame Ragnell’s eyes were pale brown, nearly amber, filled with a deep knowing that reminded Llachlyn of her so recently departed Aunt Vyvian. Uncanny eyes. Her long red hair fell down her shoulders like unspun silk, and tall as she was, she stood with the presence of a goddess.

This was in contrast to her husband, who was twice as wide as Llachlyn, his features bold in their angles, as if he had been hewn from a great tree. Like his wife, his hair was red but touched with pure white at the temples and beard. His face bore the scars of a lifetime of war, but it was still kind in its expression. 

It was very difficult to imagine he was Galahad’s half-brother, so far apart were they in age and bearing.

“You’re Morgen’s daughter,” Dame Ragnell said, gently. “Llachlyn.”

“Yes,” Llachlyn said.

“How old are you?” Gawain asked, squinting. 

“Eighteen.” 

Gawain counted out years on his big fingers, then made a grunting noise which probably meant frustration. Llachlyn could not be certain. 

“The last time I saw you,” Gawain said, running his hands down his red-bearded face, “you were still cutting teeth.”

“And the last time I saw you, you didn’t walk with such a limp,” Llachlyn said.

Dame Ragnell chuckled. “I like her.”

“Were you not brought up at Court, lass?” Gawain asked, giving his wife a patient but purposeful look. “Had you no one else to turn to? Someone closer, perhaps, rather than wandering all the way up here?”

“I was born at Carelon,” Llachlyn explained. “But when I was seven, Mother sent me from Carelon to Kerduel. I spent most of my time with your youngest brother, Galahad, and our Aunt Elaine and Sir Hector de Mares, in Benwick.”

“But Elaine sent you back to Carelon recently?” Dame Ragnell asked.

“Sir Hector sent me back to Carelon, since Aunt Elaine has no real interest in me these days, along with Galahad and—and a squire.” She had to try to keep Percival out of it for now. “After Lady Vyvian’s death, you see—we were meant to arrive in time for the funeral, but our ship was blown off course.”

By the time they arrived at Court, not only was Vyvian two weeks dead, but Llachlyn’s own mother had vanished without so much as a word.

Llachlyn swallowed back on a hard pebble of emotion. She did not want to weep like a child before Sir Gawain. Though she and her mother were not close, Llachlyn still felt the sting of her disappearance deeply. 

No, weeping would not do. Small as Llachlyn was, everyone expected her to be weak, sweet, and meek. But there was steel in her; Aunt Vyvian had always said as much.

Llachlyn continued, filling up the silence. “It was important for Galahad to be there, since his own father was raised by the Lady Vyvian. And sure enough, he got all the attention the second we got there. He’s very good.”

“Good at what?” Gawain asked.

As if he didn’t know. Llachlyn snorted. “Oh, everything. But especially the Tournament. Better than Lanceloch, I think. Son of Lanceloch this, son of Lanceloch that. You’d think they were planning to erect a whole bloody monument to him the way they’ve all gone on about him. It’s a bit nauseating.”

“Now I like her,” Gawain said to his wife.

Finally, they were warming to her. Llachlyn found the more honest she was with the thoughts in her head, the more people trusted her. Or, at least, the more she could figure out if she could trust them. That was how she had become such close friends with her aunt Vyvian. One letter, cordial and proper, had eventually turned into a short lifetime’s worth of correspondence, and trust. And true, glimmering friendship, bolstered by their common love of smithing.

But she was gone now. Gone forever. All Llachlyn had left was the small trinkets she’d learned to forge with Vyvian’s instruction and occasional gifts of ore from Carelon. They’d only seen one another four times since she’d left for Kerduel. 

Llachlyn turned the ring on her finger, a rather rustic band she had made and laid with a small green peridot. The feeling of the rough metal on her thumb was a soothing balm when she was most anxious.

Dame Ragnell leaned forward, her shining red hair slipping down across her shoulder. “Do you mind telling us what happened—how you ended up all the way up here and without proper escort?” Her voice was low, smoky. Llachlyn quite liked listening to her. 

Llachlyn took a deep breath. She didn’t want to talk about this part, but honesty built bridges. “When we finally arrived at Court, Mother was gone. She left no notes, and no one had seen her since the night after Vyvian’s funeral.”

“Morgen le Fay is missing,” Dame Ragnell said softly. 

“Did you go to the King?” Gawain asked, a little stiffly.

Of course they would know. Everyone knew. Everyone whispered. Llachlyn was certain her own parentage was the very reason her mother had sent her to Kerduel. Her own existence was the King’s greatest shame.

“I could have, but you see, I was dressed as a page to Galahad, so no one knew who I was. At least, not at first.”

“So you were purposefully hiding from everyone at Carelon?”

“It’s easier, sometimes, not being who you are. At least for a while.”

Gawain and his wife exchanged a glance at each other. “But that couldn’t last forever, could it?” he asked. 

“One day, Queen Mawra recognized me, and she was so very angry. She said I should have been put in a nunnery a long time ago, that I was a demon—that my mother was a succubus, and worse. She was so angry, the vein in the middle of her forehead was pulsing.”

For some reason, this made Dame Ragnell cackle. 

Llachlyn continued. “She had guards and priests, and I knew I was outnumbered. So I pretended I might consent, but when she got close to me, I bit her—which when looking back is probably not the best choice to prove I wasn’t some sort of demon. Anyway, that’s when she threw me in a cell.”

Dame Ragnell bit on her lips to keep from laughing. An odd reaction to just admitting to savagely attacking the High Queen of all Braetan. 

“How did you escape the cell?” Gawain asked. “I can’t imagine it was easy.”

Llachlyn grinned. “I am resourceful, and I do have friends. So, when I escaped, I headed North. Mother and Aunt Vyvian said if I was ever in peril I should come here. So that’s where we went.”

“We?” They both said it at the same time.

“Us!” 

Percival’s blond head rose just above the wavering glass. His face was still smeared with blood from their last encounter with the wolves, and his eyes went wide when he realized everyone was looking at him. This was not his cue, and Llachlyn had to roll her eyes at his ridiculous entrance.

“They’re spreading. Like wild hares in the spring,” Gawain groaned, and went to the window and pulled up Percival by the collar, dragging him inside as easily as if he were a sack of hay. 

Llachlyn had never seen a show of strength so impressive. Of course, she’d heard the many tales of Sir Gawain, but, like many, hadn’t really believed them. They said her mother had black wings and snakes in her hair, after all, and she knew for a fact neither was true. 

Gawain glowered. “Any more of you, or is this the extent of your little band?”

A gangly thing with pale hair and bright eyes, Percival made no real attempt at fighting back, but crumbled to the floor near Llachlyn, breathing hard. He may have mumbled a few hasty words of apology, but none of it was particularly clear.

“Tell us who you are, boy, and why you’ve attached yourself to my cousin,” Gawain said, towering over Percival.

“I’m Percival of Pellam,” he said from the ground, hands held protectively over his head. “Son of Pellinore.”

“A prince?” Dame Ragnell asked. For the first time since Llachlyn met her, she truly surprised. 

“Ah, perhaps in name, but not in deed,” Percival said, finding his charm once again. He could talk his way out of nearly anything. “My father is loyal now to the High King and neither I nor my siblings stand to inherit those titles. And even if I did, there are seven other brothers before my claim, most far older and more accomplished.”

Gawain stretched out his massive hand and helped Percival stand. Llachlyn had always thought Percival was tall, but he looked like a child next to her cousin. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. But you have a significant amount of explaining to do, and fast.”

Percival looked over to Llachlyn and she nodded to him. 

“Gawain, my love,” she said to her husband, putting her hand gently on his chest to get his attention. It worked. The look of fondness in his expression was enough to make Llachlyn’s own heart ache. “We ought to feed our guests before we are accused of a lack of hospitality. Clearly, they have been through a great deal to get here, and we can certainly spare some hot water and fresh clothes. I will have Prydwen put together an afternoon meal before our discussions.”

For a moment Llachlyn thought Gawain would protest, but he softened further under his wife’s touch, and relented.

Queen of Mercy is available now – you can order your copy HERE