Camelot Burning (22 page)

Twenty-Six

A sick chill blanches Guinevere's skin. Lancelot runs a hand over his face. And Arthur is calm. No man in his position should be this calm.

The queen presses her back against stone, and she shudders to the floor. Her lip quivers, and her eyes take her to a forgotten place, but even that is unable to quell her despair. “What have I done?” she whispers.

I thought I knew her. I thought she was madly in love with Arthur, and even though I'm certain this is Morgan's doing, part of me wonders if there wasn't any willingness on both their parts.

My father reaches us quickly, Guinevere's guards not far behind. Lord William's steps are unsure, his eyes ashamed by association. When he acknowledges me, I understand him immediately.

They might think of me as an accomplice. I could be in as much trouble as the queen.

“Get out of here!” he hisses. “Never come back to this place!”

My feet stumble over the first few steps, but I cannot leave Guinevere as she is.

“Lancelot?” Arthur asks, waiting for an explanation. Whatever Morgan taunted him with in the woods strikes against the incredulity in his eyes.

Lancelot's arms hang at his side in defeat, eyes cast downward, line of vision interrupted by the king's steady walk.

Arthur seizes Lancelot's vestments, slamming him into the parapet. Guinevere screams as the knight's back cracks against it. Lancelot winces. Arthur's eyes are solid white. He mutters incoherently under his breath.

My father rushes forward. “Arthur, there must be a trial!”

Arthur's teeth clench, inches from Lancelot's face. “Why bother? I failed as Camelot's king. An unfaithful wife, no legitimate heir! And now Morgan will claim what I couldn't find! Why deny me the chance to spill this bastard's blood?”

Arthur's fingers tighten around Lancelot's neck. The quickest flash of a smile pulls at the king's lips, and if I'm not mistaken, Lancelot sees it, too.

I step forward. I don't care what risk it is. “No, your majesty, you didn't see—” My father's fast arm holds me back.

Gui
nevere seizes her husband's hand. “Arthur! She's set madness upon Camelot! Don't you see it?”

The king throws her off. “That's what she told me you'd say!”

Then, reason falls upon him. He releases his hold on Lancelot, and the knight folds over, gasping for full breaths.

“Arthur,” Guinevere weeps.

It's not with madness that the king pulls his wife to her feet and into his arms. It's with love. He regards her disheveled hair, crooked dress. His imagination might be running away with the details of their embrace. But still he holds her. “Treason, Guinevere. Punishable by death.”

I push past my father. “No, you cannot!”

Arthur barely looks at me. “Silence, or you'll be strung up by nightfall!” His face is red-hot with anger.

I step back, defeated. Every second of passing silence screams at me for obeying a mad king.
Traitor, traitor …

Guinevere sets Arthur's hand upon her heart. “This has always been yours.”

As though seized by compassion, he leans close. “I'm sorry,” he whispers against her ear. Her eyes widen. “Send them away. Both of them. Now.” Arthur looks at my father. “Camelot cannot hear of this.” He points at me. “And not another word from you.”

My father bows, humiliated by the reality of the king disciplining his daughter.

Lancelot doesn't struggle as guards affix brass cuffs to each wrist, drawing them behind his back. Guinevere grasps her husband's hand, seeking clemency, her body shaking with its film of nighttime sweat. She sobs, hair across her face drenched from tears. “Arthur, please … ”

My father's eyes catch mine again. “Go!”

They arrest the queen and her husband's champion. They'll be banished. A scandal Camelot can never know about. And as I run from the queen's tower, the weight hits me of how dangerous this could be for Marcus and me, their squire and lady-in-waiting. They could set copper cords swinging on the gallows for our necks just as easily if Arthur changes his mind.

But I know that's not why my father told me to go.

He was kind enough to think of my reputation.

When you affix cogs and copper to build a mechanical bird, following the instructions properly and taking your time, the falcon will surely take flight.

I repeat this mantra to myself over and over and tear free the constricting steel netting from my hair. The rules of the mechanical arts can be startlingly simple. I cannot think about torrid affairs, copper nooses, Morgan's curse, the attack on Camelot, or Avalon's location and how I'm tied to it. I cannot return to Guinevere's quarters. I might never see her again. Camelot is shutting me in. The faster I run, the more I hate the bindings of reputation that kept me from defending her. The only place I can go is Merlin's tower, serendipitous as it'll be the last place people will think to look for me.

I bolt through the gardens, my thoughts all twisted up.

Then I slam into a hard body.

Marcus.

“Lancelot's nowhere to be found,” he says, lips cocked to the side. “Ector thought I was working in the infirmary. I guess someone told them—” His smile disappears once the anguish on my face breaks through my tousled hair. “My God, what's wrong?” He takes my face in his hands. I cannot tell him of his knight's affair. To even speak of it when Camelot might be listening …

I grip his fingers, closing my eyes and breathing in his fresh clothes. “Everything.” I lean into him. “Everything is wrong. I have to escape.”

The clock on Merlin's tower chimes the hour. The sky catches the clouds, sending them flying across its canvas as falcons braid through. The gardens are still lush with life, but death is to come. Arthur knows, just as I know, what Morgan's capable of.

What would Camelot look like, trampled by demonic horses, splattered with even more blood?

And how different would everything be if the Grail were ours?

I imagine the kingdom coming together for Camelot's glory, but it's impossible to picture without Sir Marcus of the Round Table being praised as a victor of the holy task.

“Where should we escape to?” Marcus whispers, pushing my tangled hair behind an ear. “Let me take you there.”

He sets his forehead against mine. I close my eyes. It would be so easy to cast away these cares. “No, I need to go to Merlin's tower.”

“For what?”

My lip quivers as I consider my words. “Merlin has Arthur's steel. If I managed to slow Morgan in the farmlands, I can fix the sorcerer's weapon now. So much depends on whether … ” Whether I could save myself from asking the unthinkable of Marcus.

His lips drift over to my temple. “Must you leave now?”

I'm quiet so I can enjoy the sensation of his mouth on my skin. But there are more important things at stake than a secret romance.

He pulls back to look at me better, and it lets me memorize him. Hair, clean but in long, messy strands across his brow. A white linen shirt with leather ties. The moment behind the Athenian column comes to mind, and I remember my hand atop his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart. I think of his rain-soaked body. His rough mouth clashing with mine.

“The Grail,” I whisper. So important to Camelot. So important to Morgan, too.

Marcus's eyebrows rise. “What of it?”

“It was Arthur's intention. Before Morgan attacked the farmlands. To have the knights find it.”

He frowns. “Yes … ”

Our time might be up sooner than I wanted to believe. How stupid was I to think anything could come from this?

He forces a smile as though it would dismiss any somber thoughts. “But that might not be for ages. Is my lady tormented at the thought of sending her squire racing against Spanish rogues?”

In front of me, Marcus stands perhaps days away from making a vow so honorable, it's practically a straight path to heaven. And I'm the vice that could lure him down. “You aren't mine to keep.”

He nods. His feet shift in place.

With a loud caw, Caldor dives over us, copper wings nearly catching my hair. Like the sorcerer exchanged his eyes for the falcon's, the bird watches me with suspicion. It returns to the clock tower.

I'm being beckoned. “Merlin calls.” And I need to stay out of sight. I start again on my path but Marcus grabs my hand.

“Wait. What is this about? Why questions about the Grail?”

I'm terrified to know the truth. He embraces me again to suppress the worry flitting about in his sleepy eyes. My hands play with the leather ties of his tunic.

“If we were victorious against Morgan and you were knighted, would you be sent after the Grail, or stationed here?”

“I've been on the quest before. There'd be no reason to keep me in Camelot. Even if I stay a squire, I'd go with Lancelot. But it won't be until—”

“My lord?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“How long?” I ready myself for the answer. “How long would you be gone for?”

He clutches my cheeks. Hope disappears from his face, leaving behind responsibility. “Could be years.”

I feel my eyes well up, but smile to hide it. The smoky, leathery aroma of him is so strong, and I want to breathe it in forever. But with each breath, Merlin's clock ticks louder. I weigh my options of losing Marcus to a vow of celibacy, to a marriage not of my own choosing, to war with Morgan, to the Grail. To never seeing him again. Or we could do as Marcus playfully suggested under a sky of bursting lights—run off, leaving Camelot to face Morgan without Victor, the greatest weapon Merlin could ever build. We could let a witch claim the Grail.

“Morgan knows you won't infiltrate the kingdom for her.” My face is grave, my voice wobbling. “Your mother. Her life depends on your knighthood. Especially now. Is that right?”

His eyes narrow. “How did you know that?”

“Why didn't you tell me yourself?”

Slowly, his hands release my face. “The wizard's reckless inventions weaken her lungs, which only worsened when Morgan burned the farmlands. My mother is in the castle's infirmary, but she cannot stay much longer as there's no room for someone who wasn't burned by Morgan, especially after yesterday's attack. If I joined the Round Table, it'd be the only way she could find permanent rest here, through strings only a knight could pull.” He emits an ironic laugh. “Since my mother won't be healed by Morgan now, living in this mechanical world you think is civilized is the only way to save her from its harms. My father and I both know this.”

My heart breaks at the ignorant astonishment I'd felt when I first saw Merlin's inventions. This is it. Enough never to see Marcus again. “Then why torment us both?”

He doesn't answer, or perhaps he doesn't know.

It's too much.

He must be able read my thoughts because he desperately grasps for my hands. “No, please—”

But I pull away, letting him see the tears in my eyes. I lift the hem of my dress and run for Merlin's tower, leaving Marcus in the gardens alone.

Twenty-Seven

The last time I ran from Marcus, I witnessed a dangerous woman arrive. Those few moments changed everything in Camelot.

Now I rush through cobblestone streets away from our only chance of escaping that new Camelot, trusting it's the right thing, no matter how painful—oh God, how painful. The only way for Marcus to help his mother without committing himself to the Round Table is to escape Camelot altogether. But he'd need Morgan dead to keep his mother safe in the English countryside. Without Marcus activating Victor, there's no chance of defeating Morgan. She'd get the Grail.

I reach the blacksmith's workspace; the giant pounds away at red-hot steel. Upon closer look, I see the reddish shine of copper he's forging into twisted hooks just as intricate as Lancelot's sword. The blacksmith wipes his hands on his apron, and the gesture makes me stop. With the same height, it's easy to compare his gait to Marcus's. But I can't think about Marcus anymore.

I run past a familiar flying contraption standing behind the cellar door. Seeing an aerohawk would normally set me alight with excitement. But I have no will to fawn over creations such as these. I climb down into the cellar. My hands find the tilting door to the world below.

Below, where there will be logic. Where the world will be black and white. The sorcerer won't be there. No, not after what he did in the woods. Below, I can be alone to grieve, pull myself together before seeing Merlin.
No more than a few minutes, Vivienne.

My fingers shake against the stony surface. I fall to the landing between cellar and stairs, a frivolous mess of a girl who can't face the world.

BOOM!

My cries go silent. It's the same thunderous shuddering of earth as when the cannons fired at Corbenic's men. The faded drawings on the ceiling flutter upon my sleeves. I glance down the stairs. Near the bottom there's a flicker of yellow light. It cannot be another attack—

BOOM!

Shaking me and the cellar walls. I hold my breath.

BOOM!

The thrust sends me over the first step. My fingernails dig into the stone crevices to keep from falling. It's not an attack. It's coming from the catacombs.

A rush of quiet goes about me. Merlin's omnipresent voice whispers,
“Downstairs.”

He can't possibly be down there.

Light dances below. Maybe Merlin was able to save himself from the magic he tasted. Maybe he's realized how much stronger he is. The burning pyre screams with each step. I search the catacombs' entrance through flames nearly twenty feet tall.

“Merlin!” I yell. “Merlin, I'm here!”

The flames scream back. Hot fingers stretch for me, barely missing.

“Ahzikabah,”
Merlin's voice breathes.

The fire goes silent. I wait, catching my breath. The flames disappear, the pyre once again a dark circle, whispers of smoke snaking upward.

“Merlin?” I whisper.

“Inside!”
his voice booms.

The catacombs are red-hot. Merlin's rusty, intricate assembly lines churn iron into arrows and bearings. Barreled fire powder from the farmlands sits in the corner. Iron talons, perfectly formed against the skeleton, rest upon the floor's gemstones. Metal smoothed onto Victor's bones absorbs the light—Arthur's Norwegian steel, now shining skin.

My fingers reach for a smeared handprint on the weapon's belly, but before they touch, a gentle hum of heat and song warns me to pull away.

“Merlin, what have you done?” I whisper. Then, footsteps.

The furnace's fire casts a familiar shadow on the wall. Tall and thin and wearing a silk turban. I know there's a bronze clasp in the middle and elegantly styled goggles atop. Certainly, I should have realized it was his aerohawk by the cellar door.

Finally.

I breathe a grateful smile. Azur Barad stands there in a dark linen suit with a long saber at his side. A belt of hammered silver plates crosses his chest, a symbol of high status in Jerusalem. The wrinkles around his eyes have deepened. His beard has turned white since I last saw him two months past when he provided me with glass lenses for my birthday that Merlin used to forge my viewer.

Azur inclines his head. “Salom, Vivienne.”

“Salom, Azur.”

Then he sees my tearstained cheeks. “You have been crying.” Azur sets a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I glance up at his poignant eyes. Only months ago, I begged to go with him back to Jerusalem to escape life here and the future that would not be of my own choosing. But now? How could I possibly leave Camelot?

“So much emotion,” he says. “You are a different girl. You finally broke free of Camelot's mechanical world with the intention of escaping, but can no longer do so, can you?”

Tears overcome my vision, blurring the world and washing my cheeks. I've certainly seen what lies past the simplicity of the mechanical arts, and how painful it is. Beyond that, the truth is I'm not sure if I'm grateful or devastated to have met Marcus. Or to know Morgan's evil was born out of love for her son—how can I hate a woman who fights for that?

All of this has completely shattered my ability to think a rational thought.

Azur opens his arms to embrace me, and I catch my breath. “You made it.” Now there's truly hope.

He smells like spices and tea, and his eyes carry the light of the sunrise that followed him here. “Merlin worried when you did not return last night.”

I pull away, the back of my hand running across my eyes. “Merlin. Where is he?” And where did the loud booms come from? There are no cannons down here.

“He is in the clock tower, where he told you he would be.” Azur approaches Victor, more dragonlike now than ever. He removes from his pocket a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles he sets atop a hooked nose. “Like a lunatic he worked, assembling this steel in one night's time despite being in dangerous shape. He should rest alone now. We must complete his weapon.”

Merlin, in dangerous shape. A thief of magic once again. Unable to be in the catacombs because of the steel with magical properties. Fading into oblivion, and who knows when? Camelot is in no less turmoil: Guinevere's affair will cast her from the kingdom before I can say goodbye. And someone I care for will have to risk his life because of a flaw I can't fix.

“It's impossible, Azur.” My hand covers my mouth. “I can't build something that might kill—” I bite my lip.

Azur watches me from his periphery. “Marcus? The champion's squire? Merlin told me of your fondness for the boy who came to Camelot carrying Atlas's burden.” He steps away from Victor, and his soft, old hands reach for my arm. “Merlin also told me you were the one to trust. You are important to the future of Camelot, Vivienne. What you are capable of could save lives one day.”

I breathe out.
One day,
since an evacuation is likely in order now, leaving behind an empty castle. There's only one reason to finish Merlin's weapon. “If I fail, we'll live in a world where Morgan finds the Grail.”

“But if you complete Merlin's task, Camelot might claim it instead.”

I think of my parents. Of Owen. Of Marcus. Of his mother.

“Now,” he says. “Have you the strength to continue with all this?”

Numbly, I nod.

Azur gives me a moment and then regards my dress. “Your clothes, child, are not suitable.” He gestures to the work table covered in torn journals, shards of steel. A folded black garment lies there. “A gift. Not from me or Merlin. Someone else knows of your work and thought it best to keep your court clothes in good condition.”

I pick up a corseted dress similar to the style I'm wearing, lined with tough leather to withstand heat and an apron complete with pockets. A pair of new goggles with cogs that fold over the lenses are much smaller than Merlin's foggy pair. “Who are these from?”

“An anonymous benefactor.”

Likely a wealthy friend of Azur's. I clutch the garments to my chest, lift my chin. No time now for tears. Azur straightens at my returned composure and turns to the blueprints on the table. “Take a look. Merlin made some adjustments. Make sure you understand what to tell the squire.”

My fingers smooth out the edges of the blueprints. Right away I see the change Merlin made, and my mind calculates how long it would take to construct. The lever is not a challenging appendage to build and would solder easily to spine. The logic I developed over the years returns to separate my worlds of Camelot and clock tower.

But only yesterday, Marcus destroyed that separation and sought the real me instead of the Camelot version. I've never felt that sort of happiness before, even if it came out of secrets and eventual confessions, out of an unpredictable gray way of living rather than the simplicity of black and white.

How could something so illogical feel so right?

Smoke and oil stain my skin.

My new uniform has already frayed. It fits well, but Azur's friend didn't consider how impractical long sleeves would be when working next to a furnace. After an hour of fighting the blasted things, I took a pair of shears and cut them off, finding myself with spare rags I could use to mop my face of the constant sweat.

I withdraw prongs from the furnace and set down hot bolts to cool. In the meantime, I hammer out a thicker sheet of Norwegian steel. The assembly line will mold it into alternating barrels for the shoulder firelances, and Azur's
jaseemat
will flow through the copper veins, crawling toward six barrels per shoulder. The center shaft spins on a metal cog, connected to a leather belt of ammunition, and I have to smile.

Azur glances at a golden timepiece. Next to him are buckets of arrowheads, ready for the blacksmith to reinforce. “Vivienne, it grows late. Your day tomorrow will be long.”

I lift my welding mask and wipe my hand across my eyes to collect the dust. Azur's words signal the day's end. Not long ago, I'd ask seven words each night to someone whose answer tonight would be significantly different.
Was today a good day, my lady?

An edge of fear slices at me. “Camelot knows of the affair, don't they, Azur?”

Azur frowns. “A whisper passes through the castle, yes.”

My fingers find a stray arrowhead, its edge already lined with copper. The small object looks like nothing more than a decorated triangle of iron, but my viewer's lens would show an intricate row of unsuspecting hooks. It pricks at my thumb. A drop of blood bursts free.

“Days of peace are few before it will all come to pass.” Azur studies the weapon as though the task has grown more monumental. “Camelot might need more help than this.”

And what if he's right in those few innocent words?

I regard Victor's humming steel, where the lungs and now-ticking heart lie obstructed from view. This weapon is a world of difference compared to Terra. It's incredible. Incredible, but likely to kill Marcus if he isn't quick enough. The fire next to me is a relentless villain, but love is a fine motivator. And work, a suitable distraction from tears.

I imagine Marcus outside waiting for me, and my heart hammers against my ribs. “I could work—”

“No, child. You are of no use to Merlin exhausted.” Azur shuts down the furnace.

Though Merlin said he'd keep secrets from me, I must ask Azur. “Can you stop Merlin's curse? Please, be honest.”

He pauses. “There are ways to stop it, yes, but Merlin wants a cure. For later.”

“Why wouldn't he want something to stop it now? We need Merlin!”

“For some, power is obtainable only when humanity is no longer a limitation.” His words are wrong, but Azur searches for compassion. “I will cure him afterward. I will exhaust all resources, I swear.”

My fingers grip my apron. “What if you can't?”

Azur sighs in a way that strives for patience. After a minute to think, he leads me to the door. I cannot read the expression on his face, but the longer I look at him, the deeper doubt crawls into me, and the easier it seems to give up and abandon the castle instead for a life in Jerusalem.

“Let us not worry, Vivienne. Merlin knows what he is doing.”