Camelot Burning (11 page)

I squeeze my fists around the
fusionah
barrel I didn't realize I'd picked up. I won't be afraid of Morgan. Though I don't fully understand Merlin, I nod.

“Remember what I told you it'd mean for Camelot if we ever needed Azur's
jaseemat
?”

I nod again. It would mean Camelot was in grave danger.

“Simply wait. Once we've completed this, Caldor's timid flight will cease to be impressive. Azur's alchemy will be tested on the ultimate machine.”

His eyes widen to take in the beast's cracking wingspan. With that, he's different from the man who showed me Azur's alchemic dust. I wonder if this weapon is more of an opportunity than a necessity. A truth Merlin would hate admitting to.

Skeletal feet clack like talons against the ground, and Merlin shifts painfully as he walks. He opens a set of scrolls atop the table. Fingers tremble from quivers of anguish. The pulse in his temple pounds against the inking of a Celtic knot. He traces the contents of the scroll until he spots a diagram of a key, long and twisted with a warped
fleur-de-lis
surrounding the key's face.

“This,” Merlin says, tapping twice on the drawing. I look closer. It's not two-dimensional: it was drawn with a third angle to show the crossing lengths, rendering it four-sided. “Made of silver, and heavy as the devil's sin. For years I've yearned for its place to be upon my own incomplete ring. We need it to get Arthur's steel.”

“Lancelot has it,” I say, remembering their exchange while the farmlands burned.

“Aye. But he won't give it to me. I'm certain it's kept with the Round Table, as Lancelot keeps only flasks in his pockets. But I can't go there like this. You must retrieve it, Vivienne.”

There's no reason for a handmaid to go to the Round Table; there's no way for me to get near it when complex mechanisms guard it, puzzles rumored to be unsolvable for most. Nevertheless, I nod. “My duties, Merlin. I'll let Guinevere know I cannot be her lady-in-waiting any longer. I'm sure—”

“No,” Merlin interrupts with steeled eyes. “Keep to your duties, and help me when the queen retires for the evening. It's inconvenient, yes, but I'll manage what I can until your help arrives.”

“But Merlin—”

“Vivienne, Camelot sees all, and Morgan cannot know of this. She's already weakened me with her damned curse, and she's made a point to memorize your face. I couldn't protect you if she were to know of your apprenticeship as well.”

I can't tell Merlin she's already guessed it. But how could I possibly concentrate on my mundane duties while he suffers alone down here?

“Continue with your tasks in the castle. Retrieve the key.” He frowns. “Damn it all, Lancelot. If only the Grail hadn't eluded you this time.”

I freeze at the mention of the legendary chalice. Merlin notices.

“Yes, you heard me. I suppose it's about time you're let in on that secret, too.”

“The subjects in the village … when a knight goes on the quest, they tell children he'll seek the Holy Grail, the chalice to balance the scales of magic and mechanical arts, but it's never taken seriously. It's almost a fairy tale.” And a song whose lyrics I misremembered not days ago.

Merlin laughs. “Far from it. It's been Lancelot's obsession for the past five years. Not just a relic, but God's own fountain of youth. An alchemist's dream. Rumored not just to heal and prolong life, but end death.” He considers his words. To have Morgan drink from that chalice and gain immortality …

“Naturally, it lies in Avalon, whose location is unknown to mankind. But its coordinates were supposedly hidden within Camelot's walls by a demigod who wanted Arthur to find the Grail. For such a bias to be discovered, she'd be damned to live a mortal's life in our mechanical world.”

“She?” My eyebrows lift, and I run the song's words through my mind again.

Merlin's mouth shuts at the unintended slip. “No time for that. Not when there's a curse weakening the castle. Come, let me show you how this weapon will work.”

He runs his fingers along the blueprints and scowls at the scrawled measurements.

My head swims from it all. In the monster, I see the chance to save Camelot in the inferno that would burst from its mouth. Set against pointed shoulder blades lies the possibility for firelances, keenly connected to a churning sprocket inside, which could blast out pre-made servings of bearings, deadly like a storm of iron hail.

This is something I can do. I clear my mind to focus on the task at hand.

One thought refuses to budge:
find something more practical to wear down here than a poppy-colored gown with a bloody corset.

Fourteen

Hours later, I sneak into my bedroom, not sure what time it is and too tired to check if anyone is awake. My hands, blackened from the tongs I dipped into the volcanic furnace's belly, inch the door open, and then closed. I lift the hem of Guinevere's scarlet dress, pull back the impractical sleeves covered in soot, and tiptoe across the floor for my bed, giving up on the delusion of washing up first.

How could I fret over a bit of dirt at a time like this? When I first learned about alchemy from Merlin, I thought only Excalibur could rival its magnificence, but the catacombs have opened my eyes to possibilities even greater. I felt alive when Merlin sent me home, even with the daunting task of retrieving an impossible key, but now soft, clean sheets tempt me with the promise of sleep.

My bed creaks as I climb onto it. My eyes are heavy, and when I lie atop my sheets, they instantly turn gray from the dust in my hair.

“Vivienne!” comes a sharp whisper from the parlor.

My mother walks in, fully dressed for the day. I breathe in sharply and rise immediately. She eases the door shut, ensuring no one else has seen me return, the sight I am.

“Goodness, look at yourself!” she scolds. “Where in God's name have you been?”

“I'm sorry,” I breathe. “Really, I am. But the queen requested I stay late.” Instantly, I know how pitiful the lie is. And then the clock on Merlin's tower strikes eight, and my stomach twists. It cannot be this late. “Oh God. Guinevere.” I run to the wash basin.

“Stop right there,” my mother calls after me. I've already splashed cold water on my face and turned the basin black, but freeze at her tone of voice. She walks toward me, her footsteps with that unnerving echo. “The queen sent an orderly an hour ago to tell you she wishes to rest until half past four. She spent all hours of the night arguing with Sir Lancelot and at no point required your company.”

I've been caught, but thank God nonetheless for the hot-tempered knight's ability to exhaust the queen, at least granting me the morning off to face my punishment. I dry my face and wait for any miracle that would first allow me a few hours of sleep.

But my mother's disposition is not gentle. “I nearly called the guards to search the entire castle for you last night,” she says in a whisper she only uses when Owen and I have been particularly horrible. “I requested your compliance not days ago, and you have yet to cooperate.”

I'm not sure what excuse would be better than the truth. “I'm sorry,” I say. I sound like a broken music box with a looped melody, but my head is too weary to offer anything else. “It won't happen again.”

She eyes me carefully. “The castle is not safe, Vivienne. And I've been generous with your freedom—”

“I'll lock myself in these quarters, then. Should I also tell Guinevere that I cannot be her lady-in-waiting?” Now I'm not only exhausted, I'm frustrated, too. But perhaps some rebellion is just what I need to distract my mother from seeking the truth.

She sighs. “No, of course not.” I watch her eyes shift from frustration to sadness, to an unusual look of hope. Just when I'm expecting worst of it, she steps toward the door, as though she's given up. “I'll call for you later.”

No punishment. No warning
.
Just an aura of curiosity settling in my room as my frustration finally gives way to exhaustion.

I dream about mechanical dragons with bright violet eyes fighting a relentless witch.

Right before four o'clock, I leave for the main castle to pick up Guinevere's tea.

It'll steep while I balance croissants atop china. I will myself to focus, but the catacombs beneath my feet distract me. Besides, knowing Marcus is back, my eyes dart to anyone tall and lean, with dark, tousled hair. It doesn't help when every gentleman in Camelot sports the same style of blazer the knights and squires wore at the wedding. Lords tip their hats, saying “Good day, my lady.” Their wives curtsy, eyeing with envy the sapphire gown my mother made for me, the copper-hued corset, the short and practical sleeves that barely graze my elbows.

Guinevere answers her door in a simple gray dress, corseted with leather. Willowy sleeves soften her tired smile. She sits by the fire and curls up her legs. I set the tray on a nearby table.

“Lancelot and I fought until dawn.” She sips the tea I poured. “I never knew a person to be so
stubborn
.”

“Just these days, perhaps.”

“‘Prepare for Morgan,' as though I don't know this myself. As though him leaving again would fix things.”

I clear my throat, pretending I didn't hear the despair lingering in her words. “I think they gave us apricot jam.” I pull open a croissant and spread the preserves inside, and then take a cup of tea myself. An English blend. Just horrible. “You must feel well-rested, at the very least.”

She ignores the food I've handed her, and a bit of erratic lightness flits about in her eyes. It must be the late afternoon sun.

Then I realize she was close to a topic of conversation I could benefit from. “But perhaps the king was wise in making sure Sir Lancelot was left in charge. Not to leave again, certainly. I don't think he will.”

Guinevere blinks, listening.

“The king knows Sir Lancelot would keep you safe at all costs.” It's only meant to lead to the whereabouts of Lancelot's key, but as I say it, a bout of uneasiness comes over me at the very true statement.

Guinevere shifts in her chair. “Keeping me safe would include endlessly poring over battle plans as he prepares to fight a woman of magic? Locking himself up with Excalibur and a plethora of metal toys?”

Excalibur. My lips part. “Why would he lock himself up with Excalibur?” It isn't as though Lancelot could wield the sword himself.

“All of Arthur's valuables are kept with the Round Table whenever he's away from Camelot. Treaties, seals … ”

“Keys?” I try.

“Everything.”

I sip my tea despite its tragic inferiority. Someone recently told me he'd seen Excalibur.

“Are you all right, then?” she asks, an unusual warmth penetrating her voice.

I meet her worried eyes. “Yes, of course.”

But I'm not sure Guinevere believes me. Her eyes narrow as though searching, like Merlin did, for that which would entice a witch's curiosity.

A knock at the door startles us both from the uneasy memory. Setting my tea aside, I rise to answer it.

At the door, Percy acknowledges me with a familiar nod. “The queen is in?”

Guinevere comes to my side before I can call her.

Percy bows. He looks different without his usual kohl-lined eyes. “Lord Henry and I would like to call the council early, if that suits your majesty. I'm on my way to the knights' quarters to notify Lancelot.”

Guinevere nods. “Of course.”

At that I must speak. If finding Merlin's key means facing Marcus, so be it. “I can notify Lancelot.”

Guinevere barely blinks, but a frown tugs at her lips when I say Lancelot's name. “Yes, Sir Percy,” she says after a moment's thought. “My lady-in-waiting can send for Lancelot. I have some correspondence for him anyway.” Her voice is unwavering. “Go straight to the main castle to prepare.”

Percy bows and makes his leave.

At her desk, Guinevere finds her stationery. I've never seen her write, even when Arthur had parchment made by paper makers in the kingdom, set with a seal of her own. She scrawls in an inexperienced hand, folds the paper in half, and applies a wax seal. Long, sun-kissed fingers hesitate before the letter rests in my hand.

“Locking yourself in a room doesn't keep you safe from all dangers.” She gives my hand a friendly squeeze, a timid smile following seconds too late. “I'll have the orderlies send up my dinner.” At her dressing table, her coiled brass comb is hot enough to steam her hair into flat locks. “Until tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lady.”

I close the door behind me, but not before catching sight of a lace scarf next to her comb.

Knights stand about their entrance to the main castle, leaning on fences surrounding shorn green fields. Several of them glance at the farmlands, shaking their heads at the tragedy that befell just a short while ago. The rest watch Sir Darcy take another knight in sword fight. Squires who know I'm Owen's sister spot me.

“Viv!” a boy with short black hair calls, jutting out his chin to get my attention. “How 'bout a dance, love?”

The lot of them laugh as I storm past. My eyes shoot daggers, and it's just enough to hide my nervousness.

The squire did promise you Excalibur.
It is odd, though, that in all this time, Owen's never claimed to see Arthur's sword, while Marcus managed to do so within hours of arriving here.

One knight tells the outspoken squire to hold his tongue. Several more see me approach.

“Where's Lancelot?” I demand.

They gesture to the main castle and return to watching Darcy's shield slice at the other knight's, razor-sharp itself with fanglike blades on the edging that protrude as he engages a mechanism. The knight aims at the bolt in Darcy's ear, but knights learn quickly how to shield themselves from losing their ears whenever their helmets are off. Darcy jerks to the side.

The hall inside the castle is lined with bronze suits of armor, the decorative seal of Camelot stamped onto the breastplates. I follow the long, red carpet to a room lit by a golden chandelier. Twelve copper-piped arms reach out from the epicenter sprouting tapered candlesticks. A traditional touch in a newly mechanical castle.

And just down the way is a door with an iron ring in the—

A scream.
A man's blood-curling scream halts me. It's like I've run into a brick wall. I choke on my breath, and Guinevere's letter falls from my hand to the floor. I feel my eyes widen, searching for the source of the voice.

Another sound: the crack of a whip. The man screams again, echoes just as gruesome as the cries.

I'm looking at the floor, at my blue hem against the carpet and the letter that fluttered to my feet. I pick it up but can't understand what's drawing me there. Then my breaths sputter out.

The screams came from below.

Instantly I think of Merlin's catacombs, but they don't extend this far. The walls have eyes, though, and there are secrets in this kingdom—

“Hey!”

I jump, now facing a guard in the hallway, his hand on his
fusionah
.

“You don't have permission to be here.”

I hold out Guinevere's letter. “I'm the queen's lady-in-waiting. I'm to see Sir Lancelot.”

He jerks his head in the opposite direction. “Sir Lancelot is on the verandah.”

“I don't know where that is.”

He points to another hallway.

I pass him, pausing with hesitation. Everything is silent now. “I heard someone in pain.”

“Sir Darcy got quite the nick in the arm from Sir Vincent's blade.”

But I know Darcy's voice. He spoke with Percy and Owen at the feast. It wasn't him, or any other knight I'd know. Was it?

I head for the door at the end of the second hallway, the silence assuring me it must have been nothing more than my imagination running at full speed. After seeing what lies beneath Camelot's surface, I expect that's natural.

From behind the door, I hear Lancelot spurt orders between clanks of striking metal. A knot tenses my insides, and my fingers twist the ends of my hair.

I knock three times.

Lancelot's voice is gruff. “Come in.”

I push my entire weight against the door until it gives. Inside, Lancelot glances over from a wooden platform extending across a grassy courtyard. But instead of greeting me, he braces himself as Marcus runs at him and slams down a sword on the knight's blade.

My eyes go soft when I see Marcus, and tumultuous butterflies conjure a gale inside me. With a grunt, Lancelot crushes the blow and elbows Marcus in the ribs, causing the boy to keel over as the air in his lungs bursts out wholly. The knight wields his shining blade; Marcus looks up in time to shield himself, stepping backward as Lancelot follows. I let myself inside, my heart in my throat as I watch the ballet of clashing metal and black jackets.

Marcus circles Lancelot, but he catches my eye and loses focus. It lets Lancelot knee him in the stomach and push him over. Lancelot grabs the hilt of his squire's sword and crosses both blades against Marcus's neck, forcing him to his knees.

Marcus sighs. “I yield.”

Lancelot shakes his head. “Don't let a pretty face cost you your neck.”

He helps Marcus to his feet. Marcus sheepishly straightens his tunic and brushes the dust from his blazer and dark trousers. Lancelot gives him a supportive pat on the back and hands him the blades. “Well done, though.”

Disappointed, Marcus takes the blades to an array of weaponry and shields on the other side of the platform. The slanted roof ends when the stage meets the grass. Crashes of waves hit the cliffs below the balcony.

“Guinevere's lady-in-waiting,” Lancelot says with a crooked smile and devilish eyes. The wind has blown his dark, curly hair around his face, the unkempt look and several days' worth of stubble creating a handsome, if fiendish, cameo. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The way he uses my lady's name without her rightful title grates me. Nevertheless, I present the letter. “They've moved up the assembly with the council.”

The mischief in his eyes disappears. He breaks the seal and reads Guinevere's shaken penmanship. Then he refolds the letter and sticks it inside the inner breast pocket of his jacket.

“Thank yo
u for your prompt delivery.”

He regards Marcus, who's swinging Lancelot's sword aimlessly while the other sits on the wall.