I'm hard at work with the next pair of chapters, but as I'm busy studying and working on about a dozen unfinished stories at once... don't hold your breath. ;) I will finish "Once Upon an Avalon" even if it kills me. Hey, at least I have the ending pretty much figured out now.

Basic disclaimers in Chapter One. Earlier chapters can be found at Luba's Fonts of Wisdom, and my own archive.

Avalon Castle had its share of mysteries, from midnight intrigues to far less romantic secrets of abductions and tortures. Its walls hid a warren of passages and chambers, known only to a select few. Among them were the royal family of Lenhsherr, and even within them the knowledge was restricted to the immediate rulers.

The Wisdoms throughout the ages had always made use of their extensive knowledge of the castle in serving the Lenhsherrs, keeping their many eyes on guests or inhabitants deemed to be of special interest. The current one was no different, though he preferred to stay away from the castle for reasons he kept to himself. Except for the weekly meetings in the secret room that also served as his abode -- which now increased to almost daily, no thanks to the Genoshan situation.

"... an' there you have it," he concluded. "In a nutshell, the buggers're strong enough to do much more than chuck a brick or two through the window."

"Hardly reassuring news," murmured High Queen Ororo, studying the neatly written report pensively. Her husband, standing still and grave at her side, could only give a sharp nod in agreement.

Hurrah for pointing out the obvious, Pete thought, but squashed the retort that sprang to his lips. He wanted a cigarette badly, but instinctively knew that His Majesty would probably... "object vehemently". "Sounds far-fetched, but I'd bet me life on the information," he said, tapping a dagger against the wooden table.

"I thought -- I made sure we destroyed we destroyed the last of the Sentinels," High King Magnus managed to ground out through clenched teeth. "How could they be resurrected?"

"Perhaps they were not simply resurrected." She looked up at the Wisdom, blue eyes clearly worried. Had they been in court, she would never have permitted such an overt show of emotion. But here, the royal couple were free to drop their masks in front of their most trusted advisor and spymaster. "Are there any mages alive with enough power and skill to create the golems?"

"Don't think even the Archmage could do it," Pete assessed carefully, ignoring the ever-present jolt of guilt at the mention of Monet. "Any mage trying to create a Sentinel army'll have to keep a large resevoir of energy, or he'd be dead before there're enough golems t'fill a jar."

"Bastion himself merely reanimated existing Sentinels," Magnus pointed out. "Monet speculated that though he may have modified the later golems to be more intelligent, any mage of Lady Emma's level would have the ability to do so."

"However, giving life to metal constructs takes both more energy and skill than any mage in Avalon currently possess," Ororo finished. She paused, gathering her thought. "Unless..."

"Unless the mage in question found a magickal artifact which could serve as a power source."

Pete broke the ensuing silence with, "The question is, who's our puppet master?"

"That is something I hope our Archmage could answer," the white-haired man intoned grimly.

Ororo frowned. "I have seen very little of Monet for the past few days. Hardly unusual given her dislike of society, but not on the eve of war. She worries me, Magnus."

"One of me birds says she's been talkin' to Sir Scott," Pete offered. "Didn't know for what, but it looks bloody serious at my end."

The king and queen looked at each other, exchanging subtleties and meanings the Wisdom could guess at but never could share. What he could gleam from the silent communication, though, gave little hope that Monet would be the harbinger of good news.

"Are you sure of this, Archmage?"

"Enough with the titles, Scott." Dark brown eyes narrowed. "I know you don't approve, but I am certain this is the best course of action." Monet drew herself up sternly, clasping her hands. "We have had this argument countless times and I am tired of justifying my plans. Now that Sir Jonothon is here, will you release him to my service?"

The older man stood in the classic parade rest position, seemingly as unyielding as the ancient trees around them. His eyes, however, gave lie to any comparison made between him and a statue carved from wood. At that moment they were restless in thought, darting towards Monet and back to the inner turmoil only he was privy to.

The black-haired mage covertly studied the knight standing opposite her. Scott was dressed in a Knight-General's ceremonial armour, in honour of the assembly they would soon attend. He seemed odd and somewhat awkward to her, the plumed helmet and gleaming crest a far cry from his usual much-worn chainmail. She herself put on the white tabard of an Archmage over her everyday dark red robes. Hieroglyphs were embroidered on the snowy silk, recounting the duties and responsibilities of an Archmage. She had worn it only a handful of times, each one more bitter than sweet.

"Very well," Sir Scott agreed at last. His eyes captured hers with their intensity, and she could read clearly the decisiveness that wiped away any inclination of sulky reluctance. "But Monet--" To her surpise, he reached out to gently hold her hands. "Please be careful. We can't afford to lose another mage, especially someone I count as a friend."

She gave him one of her rare smiles, lighting the grove of trees like a candle in twilight. Letting her fingers rest on his hand, she thought of all the things she could say: that he was an honourable man, a good friend and commander. That she was proud to have known him, and the sadness she felt at the very real possibility of them never seeing each other again. That he should let go of his past and accept Katherine's love, dropping the stupid charade.

Instead, she merely said, "We should go now, Scott. Thank you -- for everything."

Jonothon stifled a groan. It was unfair of him, he knew, to expect boredom when the occasion was less than joyous. Still, ceremonies overflowing with lords and ladies were never his favourite things in the world. Especially when he might run into his old flames.

That thought sobered him up, instantly kicking his mind into alertness. He shifted a little, bumping into a minor lord who smiled nervously at him before scuttling away. Jonothon had drifted away from the other knights, preferring to stand in a dim corner where he could observe unnoticed.

The throne room of Avalon Castle was alive with chatter and more than a little fear, though not as crowded as it was before the war against Bastion. All in all, the nobility had taken the news quite well. The veterans had immediately leaped into action, offering estimates of their armies' might and various strategies. In stark contrast to this were the varied reactions of those new to their titles due to their parents' untimely deaths during the last war.

Case in point: Duchess Jean of Grey and Duke Warren of Worthington. The former was already a trained fighter by the time she was eighteen, and experience compensated for the loss of strength and reflexes more than two decades later. The blond man, though a fairly skilled administrator of his estates, was better known as a ladies' man than a warrior. Brave, but unconsciously aware of his own limitations. He was the first to push for diplomatic negotiations with Genosha.

The Earl of Braddock, however, looked as if he was spoiling for a fight. He too came into his title when his father was killed in battle, but unlike the Duke he had a few years' worth of a soldier's life. Jonothon gave a mental snort. The Earl had an unfortunate tendency to be impulsive, not a good trait in a leader.

An accented, strong female voice dragged at his attention. Lady Moira was arguing with Sir Henry, while High Queen Ororo glanced at them with a benign smile. She then turned back to the brooding High King, lacing her fingers through his. The white-haired woman was well into the last months of her pregnancy -- something her husband was very conscious of, if his delicate treatment of her was any indication. Exhaustion and worry dampened her obvious joy at being a prospective mother, though she tried valiantly to hide it.

Warren was again trying to argue in favour of diplomacy, only to stop short as his liege's features hardened.

"Enough," said Magnus, the note of finality in his voice rolling like thunder through the room. "Had diplomacy been available as a recourse, we would have dispatched our ambassadors to Genosha. It is clear in the missive sent to us that spilling blood will be the only way to end this stand-off."

A hush had fallen over the assembly, every ear straining to hear the expected and dreaded words.

"We will confer with our advisors to draw the battle plans, based on intelligence reports of the Genoshan army. Tomorrow, Alara willing, we will call for an assembly again." His cold blue eyes swept over everyone, assessing them. "We can well assure you, lords and ladies, that this is not a war any of us can afford to lose. If you cannot fight, you will die."

Chatter rose again as the High King and Queen departed, flanked by their advisors -- which included the Duchess, Sir Scott, and the Paladins. This time, however, the voices were muted, any visible gaiety sounding forced. Jonothon beat a retreat towards the door, wanting to see Deirdre again and to escape the suddenly stifling atmosphere of the throne room. A hand, grasping his arm, stopped him.

"Monet?" The Archmage was still wearing her white tabard, every bit as solemn as she looked during the High King's announcement. "What're you doing 'ere?"

"I need to talk to you." She paused, considering her next words. "And to the war council as well. Follow me, Jonothon." The mage set off towards the conference room, leaving the knight to trail despondently in her wake.