Camelot Burning (23 page)

Twenty-Eight

No one waits for me outside.

In my family's quarters, I peek inside my parents' bedchambers at my mother wrapped up in her sheets. She might have given up on me now, and my heart breaks at that possible truth.

I hate the very idea of drawing Marcus away from his duty in Camelot. Any connection of him to Morgan might result in his mother's expulsion and his treason. I hate to think how badly I want to relinquish my own duty, even if aeroships would be sent for so Camelot's subjects can escape. If Morgan tries to claim Camelot, it'll be for an empty castle.

But we must defend that empty castle in the hope the Grail is real. Or else face a world where a witch could drink from the chalice to gain immortality and provide the same to her son.

I look to the knights' quarters in case their lanterns would still be lit. But the rest of the kingdom has fallen asleep, unaware that the billowing clouds resting above Camelot are there for good.

I
hide my catacombs uniform in the folds of my ocean-blue gown and scrawl a note to my mother promising to explain everything later. At dawn I sneak through the castle. Everyone I pass buzzes about the scandal.

“Was it really the king's champion and the queen caught in a compromised position?”

“Are you sure you heard it right?”

“What will Arthur do?”

When I reach the gardens' edge, I stop. Coming out of the blacksmith's shop is Marcus, eyes dark like he never slept. His clothes are wrinkled, the same ones as yesterday. He runs a tired hand over his face.

The blacksmith follows, iron mask drawn as he and Marcus have a few words. A serf's horse trots for them pulling a cart with the dark-haired woman sitting in it. I duck behind the tree, watching as she waves Marcus over. He lifts her weak body and holds her close. The woman clutches the squire's face, speaking as her boy nods in response. He helps her back into the cart and hands the serf towing it a leather pouch I know carries payment.

Marcus watches the horse and cart trail past the gardens. The blacksmith returns to his shop, and Marcus heads down the street, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slouched.

People pass me. No guards who might arrest me for being the queen's accomplice, but nobility who lift their tall hats to greet me. Ladies who curtsy with soft hands to their bosoms. Yet eyes surround me, watch me. Mouths cup neighboring ears, whispering, and fingers point as I storm through the gardens. Once I hid in this very elm as a girl, but now, I can hide nowhere.

Especially as the cart passes and the woman's face turns toward me, sharp blue eyes like the sky piercing mine. With no reason to recognize me, she looks away, drawing the weave of her heavy shawl tighter around her frail body.

The gossip grows louder, finally bringing me to my breaking point. When the wagon disappears over the drawbridge and into the farmlands, I run for the blacksmith's shop, away from the world of scandal.

I rush for the cellar door and climb down.

“To the tower.”

Merlin's door is already ajar, the red surface mocking me. Not just the color of Camelot, it rings of the bloodshed we'll face.

I open it to a disaster. Broken inventions, tools strewn about, and shredded paper everywhere, as though a hurricane passed through. Now not even a bit of wind to move the curtain about. A shadowy figure wrapped in a scarlet robe hunches over in the sorcerer's armchair.

“Merlin?”

His splintered cane pulls the drapery across the bedpost, hiding torn sheets and feathered pillows. “Caldor's flight is much more fluid now, Vivienne. It's like he's an actual falcon.”

Outside, the falcon indeed soars like it's made of feathers and bones. Spiraling through a flock of doves above the trees, it's hard to tell Caldor apart from the rest.

“I'd give anything to know how it feels to fly,” Merlin croaks.

“You tested Azur's aerohawk.”

His shoulders fall at my words. “That isn't what I meant.” But he doesn't elaborate. “Two nights ago, you didn't return as I instructed.”

I swallow. “I'm sorry. But you wanted me to keep to my duties. Guinevere—”

“Guinevere was not the one you spent the night in an old barn with, my dear. Remember whom you're talking to.” His voice has changed. Slower, raspier. “Though, by my calculations, recklessly blowing up that harvester denied Morgan the immediate attack she so wanted.”

The bones of his fingertips drum against his emerald stone cane. I step away from the shadows and listen to the old Celtic ballad he hums, one he'd sing at banquets from the bottom of his stomach and at the top of his lungs, if he'd had enough ale.

He flinches in pain. The song dies, and he tears his eyes from the copper falcon to his hands. “Oh, the beautiful steel that's like a siren's touch!” He inhales sharply. “Destroying me, and waiting for me to return!” Shaken, he climbs onto his chair, escaping the invisible threats of the floor.

The door opens, and Azur rushes in.

I seize Merlin's skeletal shoulders in the shadows, helping him into his chair. “His satchel, Azur,” I hear myself say.

Atop Merlin's table lies the familiar purse of opium. Azur spots it and cranks a handle for the pulley system over the hearth. The kettle clicks over, and Azur pours in water.

I'm terrified of Merlin's violent spasms, dangerous twitches, the invisible points of fingers tearing at the chair's upholstery. I'm even more afraid he'll disappear all too soon. “Merlin!”

He's shrouded in shadows and won't let me look at him. His breathing finally steadies, and his hand casts me away. “Give me space.”

I step back as Azur drops several helpings of sticky amber pieces into the teapot. He whispers under his breath while fixing Merlin's tea, prayers or alchemical instruction to ease the pain. I stand by the window, looking down upon Azur's aerohawk and its wings of fine silk. Arabic detailing on the wheel has been dusted with decorative gold.

The kettle sings. Steam clouds our vision as Azur pours hot water into the teapot by Merlin's waiting cup.

“I'm glad you're all right, my dear. Truthfully.” Merlin takes a sip and promptly spits it out. “Damn it all, Azur, opium has done
nothing
for my craving!” He sets the cup and saucer on the table and sits low in his chair until his robe has curled up under his ears. Shadows crawl over his face. I still can't see him clearly.

“What happened, Merlin?” I whisper. He knows I mean the woods and glances sideways at me.

After an eternity, he speaks. “I've cancelled out any attempt Morgan could make to cast
Telum Paret
. Now she'll have to fight as we will. Struck twice when she expected otherwise. Well done, Vivienne.”

He's stolen more magic—so that we cannot be turned into Morgan's drones.

The scent of his tea, herbal and floral, wafts over to me. I breathe it in as though it could settle my own nerves as well.

In the gaze that flickers to me, I see the shining eyes of a blind man. “Still, she draws near. But not as swiftly. We both know your lover must be the one to activate Victor. His speed and agility are like no other's. But first, Camelot will call for a public trial of Lancelot and Guinevere.”

I run my soiled nails across my leather garments, distracting myself from the waves of anxiety ambushing me. Waves I felt the day I met Guinevere when she chose me for her lady-in-waiting. I'd prayed she'd find a kindred soul in another girl, but her brown eyes blinked in my favor because I didn't care how poorly I could sew or write letters. I, too, felt like I didn't belong here. To keep from losing a friend like that, I'll forever be glad to be against the world.

My whispered words are cold on my lips. “They'll execute them.” Exile wouldn't be enough for Camelot. Not when anyone else would face the gallows for the same crime.

Merlin doesn't speak for too long. “It's a shame, Vivienne. It really is.”

There were moments when I just knew, but to say something might have given away my secret in Camelot or risked Marcus's sheer existence here, especially considering what Morgan held over his head. All the times Guinevere spent complaining about Lancelot while I dreamt of escaping to the catacombs …

This could have been stopped—I could have prevented it. And now her life will pay. Now, more guilt weighs me down, and the only way to lighten this burden is to risk my place in Camelot. There's no way Arthur would listen to me. Not again. Not this time. Still, I back away for the door.

Merlin's sharp eyes find me. “Where are you going?”

Azur reaches for my arm. “Vivienne … ”

I pull away. “The witch said there was betrayal waiting in Camelot. Lancelot and Guinevere, they'd been acting strangely ever since Morgan fled the castle. She's responsible, Merlin!”

Merlin cocks his head. “I know. And I should have done something as soon as it dawned on me, but it wasn't for certain until I heard Lancelot's name spoken in Morgan's mind.”

“I must tell Arthur what Morgan said in the woods.” I ignore the dangerous question I'll face:
“What brought you outside to begin with?”
and imagine my father's confusion, my mother's disappointed eyes, and Arthur's fury when he discovers the sorcerer took his steel.

Azur's mouth drops open. “For you to do so … ”

To tell the court of my secret apprenticeship with a former addict of magic, I'd lose my freedom in Camelot. “What could happen to Guinevere and Lancelot is worse.”

Merlin's clawed hand squeezes his temples. “Vivienne, I've spent the past two days fighting my desire to tear this shroud from my body and pore over my tattooed magic like it's water and I'm dying of thirst.” Translucent fingers clench his temples. “We're already facing an impossible battle.”

“That's precisely why we need Lancelot!”

“They made their choice, Vivienne.”

I firm my jaw. “It wasn't theirs.” Though it might be completely true that their feelings were real, I know Guinevere, and even if Lancelot is an appalling scoundrel, neither would betray Arthur. “If I can tell Arthur how far Morgan's curse goes, they wouldn't have to die!”

Merlin leans away from the shadows. Finally, I see what Morgan's magic has made of him. Cloudy eyes pierce mine, but that's not what causes the blood to drain from my face. The skin on his neck has disappeared for muscle that fades as he moves in and out of the light. The edge of his jawbone protrudes, the same bone-white as his ghostlike eyes. A copper mask, hammered with rage onto his skeleton and caked in dried blood, hides his vanished features, warping his voice, and promising me years of nightmares that would combat those of Morgan.

“If you do this—” Merlin looks elsewhere, unable to finish the thought. I know he's wondering how Avalon must weave into everything.

“Your apprenticeship would be as good as over,” Azur finishes.

Merlin scowls. “Perhaps it is anyway.” Unsurprised by my astonished eyes and parted lips, he turns to hide the monster he's become. “Now, now. Fret not about a foolish old wizard.” He points to his work desk where a bouquet of wilted violets lies.

I touch each petal with care.

“Damn it all,” he mutters. “Vivienne, I told you lives de-pend on Marcus's knighthood. Not just those in the farmlands, but in the castle as well.”

The boy who kissed me in the barn and watched me in the clock tower for years must be the one to activate the weapon. Camelot needs Marcus as much as it needs me. Merlin is never one to be perfectly straightforward when allusion suits him better.

“The walls of this damned castle don't only have eyes, they also bear cruelty to the subjects within. Seems Camelot's veil of protection was more illusory than I thought.”

Quiet sobs catch in my throat. I cradle my uniform, searching for the courage that leapt from my heart just moments ago. “Is there no hope?”

Despite the shadows, Merlin gives me a sad smile, and I rejoice at the human part of him still alive. “There's always hope when it's a question of whether we should love. You're a smart girl. You should have known that.”

I hastily wipe away a betraying tear. “It seems impossible.” Not just war against Morgan.

With the flick of an eyebrow, Merlin glances out the window and whistles sharply. Caldor lands squarely on the sorcerer's arm. It's become more lifelike each day.

“Not too long ago, we were able to contort the elements of nature and breathe life into an otherwise copper-and-brass bird simply for my own amusement.” His stark eyes look into mine. “Nothing is impossible, Vivienne.”

It shouldn't lift my spirits since I'm fairly certain the logic is unsound, but the hope he speaks of is stronger.

But then Merlin freezes, suddenly drawn back to the window. Caldor flits from his arm to a wooden stand. The bird twitches uncomfortably and collapses, steam whistling
from its head.

The alchemist steps for the window. “What is it?”

A rumbling of thunder ripples over the kingdom. I clutch my violets until they fall apart in my hands, dead petals and crushed stems. Merlin pulls back the curtain to look over the land.

I inch forward. “Merlin?”

He glances over his shoulder. “My incantation has been completely washed away.”

Caldor's inanimate eyes stare at mine, vibrating from thunder. My catacombs uniform flutters from my hands to the floor.

Somehow I move to where Merlin stands. I expect scores of black-armored men storming for Camelot. Men whose minds were condemned to purgatory after a witch hammered iron to their jaws. But not yet. Below, serfs and peasants storm the square.

Merlin looks at Azur. “Now, we watch Camelot fall.”