Camelot Burning (13 page)

Marcus shrugs. “Though I'm not one for trinkets, this one is particularly useful and didn't require Merlin's expertise. Keeps out unwanted visitors.”

I settle myself closer to Marcus, blinking in the blackness. It would be awful to get him reprimanded if we were caught. It'd be even worse to get myself in hot water. And there are many ways a lady could entice trouble here. “You're going to take me in there?”

One corner of Marcus's mouth pulls up in a smirk. He shrugs. “My lady might consider rephrasing her question—”

I look away pretending I didn't hear.

“—but it should be fine. Knights never come up here unless there's an emergency.”

I think of how close I am to Arthur's legendary sword. I know I must focus on finding Lancelot's key, but I want to ask Marcus everything: whether it's true the chopped-off fingers of the proud still rot away in Excalibur's gauntlet. Whether the blade really sings as Arthur strikes it.

A lit lantern greets us at the top. Marcus's hand grazes mine by accident, but he clears his throat and says nothing as stolen moments linger between us. I imagine his fingers around mine. How it felt as we ran through the corridors.

The vow, Vivienne. He belongs to the Round Table, your time is limited, and
for God's sake, what are you doing conjuring up such ridiculous fantasies when you have to find, and steal, an impossible key?

The timid color of Marcus's eyes calms me from my fluttering thoughts. We start for a heavy door outlined by the tangerine sunset.

“You cannot tell anyone about this.”

I nod. This locked door is different from the first. There's a set of gauges, a wooden wheel with brass axles, a plate over the center bearing Camelot's seal. He takes the wheel, twisting it clockwise until there's a click, and then counter-clockwise until it completes a full rotation.

Mark me, the sequence is built into the door.

He peeks back at me. “I'll need you to look away.”

My gaped mouth shuts, and I turn. The last click is the loudest. I look back. Marcus pulls the door open, letting me inside first.

“Welcome to the Round Table.”

Sixteen

The first thing I notice when I step inside is that there are no windows letting in the sunset. Instead, the walls curve as though taking the form of a massive crescent moon embracing a balcony above the kingdom. White Athenian columns bow toward an enormous table, heavy and old like the room was built around it.

I can't tear my eyes from the blue ceiling of shy stars. “I never imagined it was like this.”

“We always forget about the view.” Marcus checks the corridor before shutting the door and watches me take it all in.

The Round Table is one magnificent sheet of granite naturally speckled with bright salmon, stone gray, and pearl, all mixing around a delicately etched coat of arms. A vicious dragon is carved into the center, composed of featherlike streaks and two crossed blades. Beneath, meticulously carved talons plant themselves into the floor. High-back marble chairs surround the table, giving each knight an equal viewing of the men who would sit on his left and his right.

“The knights are all fools then,” I say. “An army of fools.”

“A
small
army of fools until the rest return.” His eyes dart toward the door again.

My heart twists in a strange way, and I don't understand why until he looks back at me. I've become rather good at stealing glances of anyone tall and lean and messy-haired enough to be mistaken for Marcus. I wonder if he'd—

No. I'll think about that later.

The sun falls below the horizon, and the semicircled columns turn blue and purple and rose from the forgotten light.

“Excalibur?” I say.

Marcus's eyes continue to hold mine as he steps back, turning on his heel for the door and listening briefly, making sure for the third time now that no one's followed us. On the other side is a tapestry curling down the wall. He pushes it aside for another wheel, a smaller one. The cranks are blunt as he spins the lock. Inside the compartment is a small mahogany box, like my mother's music box. I half-expect a harp strumming a slow, sad melody as Marcus lifts the lid and withdraws a skeleton key.

My spirits lift, but it's not Lancelot's. “All that for a key?” I hope my shrug doesn't come off as disappointed.

He winks. Turning back to the hidden compartment, he counts the stones in the wall, three to the left, two above. He brushes that stone, more discolored than the rest. A bit of gold in the shape of a keyhole glistens.

Marcus's eyes are serious. “Your knowledge of this cannot leave the room.”

I nod.

His eyebrows rise. “I can trust you?”

“I promise.”

He submits the key to the lock, turning once. We wait. His eyes shift to a spot in the room. When a gentle whirring sounds, he relaxes.

A few feet away, the stone cracks back into thin, flat panels, one after the other. I hold my breath at the first loud strike of rock on rock and wonder how Marcus, after being inside Camelot for mere hours, was able to discover this.

The other side is wood, turning the wall into an elegant display of pine. Only when the panels set themselves into their proper places does Marcus walk toward the center, gauging the middle panel, reaching for the highest point. With his height, he can easily grab a small, silver ring embedded there and pull it down. The panels surrounding that piece follow, like an accordion, until the space reveals a glass display facing the Round Table.

There are documents and treaties and wax seals and medallions. But all I can see is a stone plaque in the center with elegantly-curved edges. Hooks hang on it, and from them dangle keys of all shapes and sizes.

Marcus walks toward the display. I scan the keys, but can't find the one Merlin showed me in the catacombs.

“Watch,” Marcus says. He opens the glass display, reaches for a gold lever underneath the plaque, flicks the lever in the opposite direction, and looks at the Round Table.

Another rumble, and it jolts me. I hold my breath without knowing why, listening to the sound travel under the stone floor. “What's happening?”

“You'll see.” He moves to my side.

Camelot's coat of arms turns clockwise; the outer border of the seal moves, lifting from the granite surface. Stone scrapes, and I'm nearly positive sparks will fly out. Then shines a glint of gold, and I gasp. The hilt! The hilt of Excalibur!

A glass canister rises, magnifying the four-foot-long, silver-
hued blade. When the entire sword is visible, the churning halts, and Excalibur rests mightily atop the Round Table that looks, by comparison, almost pitiful.

An overwhelming pull draws me closer to the blade. “Merlin's envious of the craftsmanship. That's why he chooses to ignore its existence,” I say with a wobbly voice.

Marcus smirks. “What?”

“Nothing,” I reply quickly. Then I look closer. The hilt is a dazzling gold even in the darkening light. The grip is shining and slippery-looking, like an ornament. A peculiar detail, actually. “What about the sleeve? The gauntlet? Was it all just an exaggerated legend?”

Marcus's expression tells me I'll be far from disappointed. He gauges the sky's light and draws from his pocket a long copper cylinder. When he presses a small lever, it hisses.

“It's like having a pocket-sized gas lantern everywhere you go. I hate how useful it's proven to be.” He holds down the lever and strikes the end against cobblestone. A small flame ignites and holds. He steps toward a dark lantern by the door and lifts the fire to the lamp. “A birthday present from Lancelot last year.”

A quicklight. Merlin has thousands in his tower. They don't take more than an hour to make from scratch. I've made a few myself.

The flame carries over to the lanterns just as it does in the catacombs. Copper shades are structured so rays of light beam toward the center of the Round Table, hitting it perfectly, shining against Arthur's sword.

When each column's lantern is fully illuminated, the light reveals an ash-gray hand gripping the hilt. The symbol of power and might forces me back several steps. There are layers and layers of sheeted metal connected with shining bolts that would reach Arthur's shoulder and let the steel bend with his arm. Frightening, yet regal.

“Oh my God.” I rest against the table. My eyes dart from one hinge to the next, chasing the shine of the sword.

“It forms to Arthur's body,” Marcus says. “When he seizes Excalibur, the gauntlet nearly comes to life. Arthur is as much a part of Excalibur as it is of him.” He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and watches me admire the sword.

I know we can only risk a few more minutes. But I have to see Excalibur from every angle. “What about the rumor—”

“The farmer's hand?” He shakes his head. “Could have happened, I suppose, but his hand isn't there.” Suddenly, he drops his arms to his side.

“What's wrong?”

He freezes in anticipation of something coming. Or someone. “Get behind one of the columns.”

Footsteps.
Without questioning it, I run for the balcony and set my cheek against a column so one eye can peek out and watch. Marcus switches the lever, muttering curses. Excalibur whirs as it lowers back into the Round Table. Too slowly it moves, but Marcus ignores that and races to the shelves, seizing a pile of faded, dog-eared blueprints and sifting through them. One catches his eye: one as thin as papyrus with measurements and diagrams in the shape of a sword. He thumbs it free, and I remember my purpose here.

The key
. I still haven't found it.

“Wait!” I whisper, running back. I have to get Lancelot's key. Even if it means telling Marcus my secret.

Marcus shoves the blueprint into the plethora of dusty papers. His eyes go wide, and the voices draw nearer. “I can't do this. And you cannot ask any more of me. Please.”

There's no time to reverse the stone panels. Marcus mutters another curse under his breath, surely not intending for me to hear, and pulls me by the waist behind one of the columns, lifting me several inches until my feet rest atop his scuffed boots and we're out of sight. I open my mouth to protest, but his hand silences me.

“Don't move,” he whispers. He drops his hand from my mouth and rests a finger against his lips. Now that the sun has set, night camouflages us.

The door clicks open—it automatically locks again when shut, brilliant!—and, from the sound of it, two people walk in. I hold my breath and wait.

“The lanterns are lit. Who's here?” a voice calls. Lancelot.

Marcus lets his head fall back, and his eyes flicker toward the sky in disbelief.

“No one,” says another. Marcus and I lock eyes with the same thought:
Guinevere?
“Percy sent orderlies not an hour ago to retrieve Arthur's plans. They left things as they were to save time, surely.”

That seems to suffice. They walk further into the room. I pull myself from the edge of the column, right against Marcus while we wait to see if they'll try the balcony. Instead, chairs scrape across the floor, and Lancelot sits with a loud sigh. In front of a lady. In front of the queen. The scoundrel.

“The wizard wants Arthur's steel,” he says plainly.

Guinevere's shoes clack with her steps. “Why?”

“Who knows? Like me, he doubts Arthur will find Morgan before she returns for Camelot—”

“I didn't ask you here so you could belittle my husband's decision.” Guinevere's voice is sharp. “What did you tell him?”

“Told him no.”

“The key?”

“Safe, and with me.”

I frown at Lancelot's words. My hands, once lazy fists against Marcus's chest, clench in disappointment. Marcus clutches the small of my back in response as though trying to get my attention, but I pretend not to notice, willing away the prick of blush on my cheeks.

Guinevere's clacking shoes go silent. “If you went after Morgan, the wizard might try to go after the steel and—”

“Impossible, but even so, that alone is not reason enough for me to stay. If I disobey Arthur, Morgan would be dead tomorrow. We both know this. No matter what magic she has, she wouldn't expect a lone assassin. The knights could seek the Grail, with or without the coordinates.”

“Nevertheless,” Guinevere says, “I don't know what Merlin might do if you were to leave.”

Lancelot hesitates. “We cannot fight a war against magic, Guinevere. This isn't why you asked for a private assembly, I hope. To convince me otherwise. William and Henry are waiting—”

“You can't leave, Lancelot. Don't you realize you're needed here?”

A long minute passes without any exchange of words. Marcus and I freeze. His arm holding me is unwilling to let go. His jacket is soft under my fingers, and I can feel his heartbeat quicken under my hand. Lancelot's arguments and Guinevere's rebuttals are echoes that pass over us. I ignore their strange tension and instead consider the intimate thought of being privy to Marcus's inner workings. My fingers stretch across his chest, and I watch them twitch like a drum being struck. His eyes fall to my hand.

But then, “Lancelot,” Guinevere says with an unusual informality in her voice. “I never did thank you, all those months ago after Lyonesse fell.”

There's some shuffling like the roguish knight is uncomfortable before he clears his throat. “Not necessary. I knew the truth and spoke against any accusations. You'd have done the same.”

Her voice is eccentric now. “Yes, I would have.”

M
arcus and I share a frown, and a pang of guilt hits me. We didn't mean to eavesdrop on a private moment, certainly, but while their exchange feels wrong, it's even worse to listen in. But Marcus shakes his head, like my ability to feel his heart has given him passageway to my mind.

I wonder what would happen to the woman he brought inside Camelot if they found us here. If those at the infirmary only took her in because of Marcus's connection to Lancelot. If losing that connection would cast her out.

The unease between the queen and knight is thick enough to reach us. Lancelot walks aimlessly, and I can't tell where he's headed. Marcus and I hold our breath. Our bodies tighten as footsteps come closer.

“All right. I'll stay.” Lancelot stops before the balcony, and his gas-lit shadow falls upon Marcus's tense shoulder. The crashing waves below, so heavenly earlier, are violent and threatening now. “But the knights won't like hearing it.”

“Thank you,” Guinevere breathes.

Lancelot stands still for too long. “You're welcome.” But they aren't talking about Arthur anymore.

“They're waiting for us,” Guinevere whispers.

“Yes, and Marcus has misplaced my sword.” Lancelot's steps take him away from the balcony.

When the door shuts, Marcus exhales with relief and pulls back to see me better. “That was close.”

“Too close,” I whisper.

He blinks, and his lips contort into a hesitant frown to go with his eyebrows drawn together.

Be careful, Vivienne.

His gaze trails from my lips to my sapphire dress to my eyes that match it. I feel his other arm tighten around me and think of how at the wedding, it felt just as intimate to touch only his sleeve. But what foolishness is this if the boy is about to give his whole being to the Round Table? Why give in to the heartbeat thundering against mine?

“Not close enough.” He leans closer, but before anything can happen, I pull away.

“You forget the vow you will take.” And as soon as those few words slip from my lips, I regret them.

He smiles, and it turns into a groan, letting me know of his physical torment. A long second later, he releases me, and I step off his boots. In the open space of the balcony, I smooth my gown, wishing away the rosiness on my cheeks. I have no key on me, but at least I know where it is. That must count for something.