Camelot Burning

Woodbury, Minnesota

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Camelot Burning
© 2014 by Kathryn Rose.

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First e-book edition © 2014

E-book ISBN: 9780738740959

Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Kevin R. Brown
Cover illustration by John Blumen
Interior map illustration by Chris Down

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For my mother.

One

When a mechanical falcon takes flight from Merlin's tower, it means the sorcerer is bored or drunk on absinthe.

I wonder if anyone else in Camelot stargazes enough to know this.

The scarlet curtains of Merlin's window catch on the bird's “feathers” when the absinthe is especially potent, and today is no different. An arm stretches the falcon out the window. From the height of Lady Guinevere's bedchambers, the tattooed words of magic on Merlin's forearm aren't visible. But I know such words are there: faded and old from his travels to the Holy Land before sorcery was purged in favor of the mechanical arts and, with it, his addiction.

The back of his hand flicks the machine into the air. I wait for the sorcerer to reveal himself, a wind-up controller in hand with copper wires attached to the falcon's artificial brain.

Instead, a wire-free bird plummets toward the ground, and my heart stops. “No … ” I breathe, careful not to speak too loudly in case my lady would hear. The mechanical falcon will be smashed to bits. Weeks of construction for nothing! My eyes squeeze shut, and I wait for the explosion of cogs, copper, and brass on cobblestone.

But then, “Extend!” Merlin calls, his voice demanding obedience.

The shining wings crack, one plate at a time, to a span of nearly three feet. They catch the breeze and spread across the sky, steering upward without any wires.

My eyebrows lift; my lips part. This is new. Even more: Merlin demanding a mechanical falcon obey him and fly freely is nothing short of alarming. Knowledge of his former vice alone might make people wonder if he's turned back to magic.

I glance at the dressing table in my lady's chambers, making sure I can steal a few more seconds of sky watching. Guinevere tugs at the golden skirt of her gown—another brilliant low-cut style from Lyonesse that initially shocked Camelot's prudish subjects—and resettles herself in front of her mirror, whispering in a high-pitched voice to the birdcage beside her. A canary whistles back. She's occupied. Perfect.

Outside, the falcon eclipses the setting sun.

“Return!”

From the valve on its head, steam whistles, identical to a real falcon's telltale caw. It swoops over the gardens' violets and returns to the highest window in the castle, where Merlin waits wearing a leather glove. For tradition, of course, never mind the sharp brass talons.

The curtain draws across his window, so I lower my viewer, my incredulous smile no longer subtle.

The falcon flies, but its miniature boiler isn't sophisticated like an aeroship's and cannot rely on steam power to soar through the clouds. It's simply for show. For applause. For Merlin's own amusement. Tonight, Caldor doesn't fly because of the mechanical arts. Caldor flies because of Merlin's words.

That's
remarkable
.

“Vivienne?” Guinevere calls.

I've got my hair caught around my fingers, twisting the tail of my blonde braid into a knot. After three months of being Guinevere's lady-in-waiting, I know how she hates it when I play with my hair. Clearing my face of any excitement, I pry my fingers loose. My other hand collapses my viewer into a metal disc—barely indistinguishable now from a coin—and then into my pocket it goes, safe from the eyes of those who might ask how a handmaid came across an inventor's toy. I drag myself from the window, smoothing out my long sleeves that are tied up with soft, pliable copper and embellished with pearls.

My back straightens as Guinevere approaches.
Greeting royalty,
my governess taught me,
requires poise.
“Yes, my lady?”

She sets her thick chestnut hair over one shoulder. Usually I use the coiled brass comb to steam and straighten her locks into a more fashionable style. Today, she didn't want to bother.

“Are the alterations ready?” she says, her voice devoid of emotion, though sometimes it's simply the way she says certain words. “Almost French-sounding, even if Lyonesse
was technically part of Britannia,” Merlin once declared at court after several pints of ale. “And I don't trust the French other than to make a fine absinthe.”

I nod. “My mother's finishing them up as we speak.”

Wondering how to remove so much fabric, more likely. The task of creating a wedding gown a lady of Lyonesse would approve has kept Lady Carolyn working later than Merlin himself. It took her weeks to gather the courage to allow her seamstresses to alter the gown's satin front to Guinevere's liking, low enough for a liberal amount of feminine curves.

Bawdy laughter from the knights' quarters flows through the window with the breeze. Quite possibly Arthur is there on his last night of bachelorhood, knights serenading him with vulgar sonnets or creative ways to show a wench the Round Table. I breathe a sigh.

“Ale turns them into rascals,” Guinevere says, too ladylike to comment any further on what else they might be up to.

She's looking for a way to distract herself from tomorrow's events, and I don't blame her. “I think ‘rascals' is putting it lightly,” I say.

She smiles. Despite her cold disposition toward others, to me she's never been anything but warm. “If Arthur and I had married in Lyonesse, my friends and I might have acted the same.” Her eyes well, and she must look away before it's obvious I've noticed.

My heart falls, as I know what it's like to mourn being here. I search for any possibility of happiness within these stone walls; I squeeze my eyes shut and think of what it'd be like to be away from Camelot, in a warmer land where my future wouldn't consist of tending to the queen, but something greater. Something I've wanted since I was ten years old.

I disregard fantasy. For now. “Was today a good day, my lady?” Seven words I've asked every night since the start of our companionship three months past.

She lifts her chin. “Yes. Much more than yesterday.” Five words she's memorized as a response. “I love Arthur, Vivienne.”

“He loves you, too.”

Truthfully, the king has never been happier, and all of court has noticed. It's just a matter of time before Arthur and Guinevere are blessed with an heir. I hope, by some miracle, I'll be relieved of my handmaid duties by then, but really the only way out is through marriage. I cringe at the thought.

Guinevere peers through the window at the descending night. “I just never thought my wedding day would be in a strange land. Or that none from my kingdom would witness it.”

I'm certain she never imagined being an entire kingdom's lone survivor either. Lyonesse was the last castle in the civilized world to expel magic and accept the mechanical arts. Being the only person left alive raised suspicions about Guinevere. Her trial was supposed to end in execution, but miraculously didn't when an anonymous witness testified on her behalf.

That wasn't the only talk of death associated with Lyonesse. When I was a girl, my brother Owen told me how the kingdom was slowly descending into the waters between Britannia and France. To frighten me, surely, but it captivated me more. Lanterns in our bedroom would let him bounce shadows off walls. Owen would speak of men who went insane by stealing magic, of men handing their souls to the devil if it meant feeding their euphoric addictions. Of men like Merlin. My brother would go on and on until our father stormed into our chambers to silence us and whip the boy for telling me such dark tales. The strokes across Owen's back would fade. The exhilaration over what world lay beyond Camelot would not.

Guinevere waves a light hand at the memory of her former home. “Silly to think of what could have been.” She kisses my cheek and makes her way to the parlor.

I know this land doesn't bring her peace or joy. Her smile is solely for appearances with the hope its melancholy goes unnoticed. And now, I hear nothing but the clock tower tick and feel ashamed that I mourn each minute lost.

But Guinevere said today was a good day, and tomorrow will be better. Soon she'll go to sleep. Early, considering she'll need to be up at dawn. While all of Camelot retires for the night, I'll be free. Free to escape this life for a secret one of my choosing. Free to discover more about the incredible revelation in machinery I just saw.

A wire-free falcon.

Caldor.

Just several weeks ago, Caldor was but a pile of sprockets, but now the sorcerer has sent the mechanical bird into the sky, only controlling it with his voice. Morning is ages away. Plenty of time before I'll have to return to the conventions of Camelot.

“I'll draw the curtains now,” I call to Guinevere, sweeping thick, rich fabrics across the window to hide the clock tower from view. All evidence of Merlin's enthralling endeavor has now vanished.

Cannot be magic. Merlin wouldn't return to a life of immense danger. I'm nearly certain.

Nearly.