Keeper of the Grail: Sneak Peek

Book 2: Lives of Guinevere

by Paula Lafferty

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Arthurian; Romantic Fantasy

Synopsis

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In this swashbuckling, feminist timeslip retelling of Arthurian legend complete with a 21st century queen, Merlin lore, magic potions, dashing knights, daring maidens, heart wrenching romance, and just the right amount of snark, England’s Once and Future Queen Vera must save Camelot as dark forces threaten the kingdom.

Back in the 21st century, Vera was a young waitress struggling to find a sense of purpose and direction until her winding path led to a time portal and a trip to medieval England, where she is Queen Guinevere, wife of Arthur, King of the Britons. Loved by her liege, befriended by Sir Lancelot, and guided by the magician Merlin, Vera discovers a kingdom far removed from the myths she has always known.

For starters, Sir Gawain has been kidnapped, and his powerful magic-detecting device is nowhere to be found. Sir Percival is minding the throne, doing his best to ignore the many nagging questions of the court. And, in the farthest reaches of his kingdom, King Arthur has been slain by the mysterious Mordred. Well, very nearly slain.

Vera has uncovered an incredible gift of healing and has restored Arthur to life. She’s also uncovered shocking secrets about the kingdom’s power and the real reason for her own return to Camelot. To protect the country he fought to unite, Arthur’s resurrection must remain secret—even from Merlin—lest his enemies learn the truth.

For Camelot is under siege. The Knights of the Round Table are preparing for war with the High Council of Mages, who seek to control all magic in the realm. And Vera and her friends must work together to keep both the throne and the legacy of King Arthur from falling into the wrong hands.

Keeper of the Grail continues the Lives of Guinevere saga, a heartfelt story of swashbuckling adventure, selfless courage, and true love.

Release date: October 27, 2026

Publisher: Erewhon Books

Print pages: 75

Sample

Arthur had been certain when he lay in the wreckage of their camp with a hole deep in his abdomen that those hard-won breaths would be his last. Perhaps he should have thought of his kingdom in his “final” moments, but … well, he knew what would happen to the kingship on his death, didn’t he? He’d never breathed it aloud, but he’d felt the answer in the magic. In his magic. This thing that had called him to the throne was like a second heartbeat—and pulsing as certainly.

He might have come to doubt its veracity after enough time, as nearly all do on discovering the extraordinary within themselves … But Arthur’s internal notion had the benefit of external acknowledgment. By the time he turned fifteen, that inexplicable pull from his gift had drawn the admiration and loyalty of more than a few. He led their small village. Then the two neighboring, as well. Then the southernmost tribes pledged fealty, and with Viviane’s guiding hand, it wasn’t long before the first army formed in Arthur’s name.

From that point on, he did not doubt magic’s call on his life nor his sense of purpose in being their king. He was quite actually made for it. The magic had been the most constant part of Arthur’s life. As everything changed around him—as he rapidly went from sorting through adolescence to leading one village, to very quickly pulling together a nation and fighting a war they had no business winning—the magic had, blessedly, always felt the same. The steady drumbeat of his life.

Except for one instance, when Arthur was twenty-seven years old.

The wars had been on for five years. As more and more tribes began to believe in the cause, in the dream, they’d pledged their alliances and sent troops. Soldiers were arriving daily, sometimes by the hundreds. On this day, Arthur had emerged from the command tent, ready to offer his standard greetings to the newest batch, when the words caught in his throat. A hum rose in his ears until all other sound drowned away. The strange sense, the hum, the … mystical something guided his eyeline, as sure as if it had grabbed his face and physically turned his head.

As his eyes landed on the young man, Arthur felt the magic inside himself shimmer. He looked around, certain others must feel it, too. Certain that … Well, had this been how Arthur’s early followers felt when they first saw him at fifteen?

But everyone continued with their morning duties, none the wiser that their king had just had the monumental realization that his successor was barely more than a child perched on a fallen log, casting anxious glances at the older, larger men around him.

Maybe magic had chosen and sent this young man as a precaution. If Arthur died, his successor would be there to catch his magic and carry the torch of their nation on. Whatever the case, Arthur had known since that day—the very first day he’d set eyes on Percival, his face whole and yet unscarred from the loyalty that would come—that the kingship would pass to him if … no, when something happened to Arthur.

So, as he lay in the wreckage of their camp bleeding out, in those breaths Arthur believed would be his last, he thought of Vera. He’d felt the spark of alarming attraction to her that first day at the pit. When she’d leaned close to the giant boy and spoken so seriously to him before her lips split into a smile. The life he’d never seen in Guinevere that Vera had in spades.

At the time, it had mortified him to feel that surge of attraction to her. For one, he’d genuinely believed there was something poisonous about him that could not help but lead every vestige, the final echoes of all Guinevere was, straight to her grave. For another, there was the guilt. The guilt of wanting for this vibrancy Vera had but Guinevere had lacked, through no fucking fault of her own. The guilt of tender feelings for Vera that only grew with time as he knew her more.

He understood now—it had been the beginning of falling in love with her. It hadn’t taken long for Arthur to fully tumble into it. He knew it was done as he watched the sun rise with her on the Tor that Yule morning. He was in love with her.

Merlin had assumed Arthur’s avoidance of Vera came down to genuine distaste rather than the exact opposite. Arthur’s feelings—at least, their origin—he could say with complete assurance were real. Hers, on the other hand …

Well. He would hold them carefully and pray and hope and dare to imagine that she might love him on her own as well. What else could he do? Especially now.

He’d be a fool to face certain death, survive, and run from the love she offered him.

Arthur spent much of this restless night comforted by her presence beside him, breathing prayers of gratitude each time he reached out and laid his fingers on her arm. He would see this time, unguaranteed and temporary, as the gift it was.

It should have all ended for Arthur in that field as their camp burned around them.

If Vera’s power had not broken through and Arthur had died yesterday, the crown would have gone to Percival. Ah. But … Percival would have received it with no knowledge of what was happening with their mages, completely in the dark about the mess the kingdom had tumbled headlong into.

It was this scorching panic that ultimately jolted Arthur awake. He was eager to get moving. To get answers. To make a plan—but the sun wasn’t up yet, and Vera needed rest. Without opening his eyes, Arthur rolled toward her and reached out for the comfort of her presence.

His hand landed on empty bed. She must have rolled over. He extended his arm farther.

Again. Empty bed.

Arthur shot upright as his eyes snapped open.

Vera was gone.

The stones had already been standing in their gargantuan circle for three thousand years. There was an order to the Avebury stone circle, one someone from the present day might not recognize if they looked at the remaining ruins of it. But as Vera came upon Avebury in the waning dark of early morning, she stopped in her tracks, and goosebumps raced over her skin.

She’d seen the ruins in her time—in the twenty-first century. Avebury wasn’t much more than an hour’s drive from Glastonbury. She’d rather liked it better than many ancient sites because here, she was allowed to touch the standing sarsen stones.

They were enormous. Made of the same stuff as those at Stonehenge, but rather bigger and not carved or shaped. And there were more of them by far at Avebury. In the future as Vera knew it, the outer circle was very incomplete, missing many stones. The two inner circles were only distinguishable thanks to the work of archaeologists, for only a scant few rocks still stood there.

What she’d seen before was nothing to the stones she looked upon in her seventh cent. . .