Avalon Rising (29 page)

“I can fix this, Marcus. It’s what I do. I fix things,” I tell him, my hands already moving and itching to construct, even though I know he can’t hear me. I look around, but there’s nothing. Only sand and rocks. No
jaseemat
. Oh God.

But I have to do
something
. Perhaps if I ride back to where we slept last night, I’ll find the remnants of our fire. Merlin’s instructions are lost in my aeroship’s wreckage, but I’ll remember how to make
jaseemat
as I go. My hands are much wiser than my head sometimes. I could use the blood trickling down his chest to make the most powerful
jaseemat
of all. But I can’t bear to leave him, not when he could have minutes left, and I might miss the last—

No. I cannot think like this. I must remain logical.
“Vivienne,”
a voice whispers. I ignore it, holding Marcus’s shaking body against me. I don’t want that strange, confusing presence near me now.
“For God’s sake, girl, wipe away those tears and save him. You know how, and the clock is ticking.”

I shake my head, though in my mind’s eye, I see the scrolls the sorcerer told me to bring. The scrolls he told me I’d need. The spell to resurrect soon after death. They’re safe in my pocket. They’re with me. And the power they carry dies in an hour’s time.

Redia. “There’s always a choice. You’ve been tested, and perhaps now it could be for good. Did you ever consider that?”

“Leave me alone,” I whisper low enough that Marcus cannot hear.

I rock Marcus’s head so he looks at me. His eyes roll and settle upon mine. His hand clenches my fingers with little strength; he cannot speak. I lift my eyes to the pistolník I dropped, and a small part of me—the logical, rational, always questioning Vivienne—wonders how on God’s green earth Marcus got a hold of that weapon.

Because it is Merlin’s.

“Yes, it is.”

Marcus’s violet eyes are fading, until finally, they’re nothing more than a memory of my favorite flower.

“Marcus?” I shake him gently. “Marcus, don’t—”

His eyes roll in pain. In desperation, I grip the bolt, because perhaps there’s a mechanism on the feathers that would let the clasp release, letting me at least remove this horrid thing of destruction. But it’s stuck; it won’t move. Damn it all, I cannot free him!

“Marcus!” I say louder. My hands shake, and I might be sick. No, no, no …

He breathes in and then releases it.

My finger strokes the side of his cheek, hitting his stubbled cheek, touching his bloodied lips.

Death really does make people cold when it steals a life.

“Marcus,” I whisper. My hands shake. “Marcus!” I scream until it echoes against the sea.

I lean my forehead against his and cry. Marcus’s hand drops from mine. His eyes won’t open. And I don’t want them to. I don’t want to see the grayness. Not when they should be violet.

But … what if they could be again?

The spell
Redia
would have no consequences for the one saved. It would only affect those who’d stolen the magic.

And I’m protected by the Lady of the Lake.

Maybe it won’t affect me either. Maybe this is what Merlin means.

“He wouldn’t want that,” I whisper. “He’d rather be dead.”

“He’d be alive, and you’d be together. He never wanted to be a knight, Vivienne, and there are ways to steal magic for good.”

I stand, feeling the damp hem of my skirt hit my feet. The wind blows my hair around my face. The salt water sings a song that brings a honey-like sensation of wonderment.

Perhaps Merlin is right. All I’d have to do is take those precious words from the demigods too stupid ever to hide their glorious powers from humanity. Then, Marcus and I could find the Grail to save me—while my soul is tainted with magic, his isn’t. He could claim it. And then we could find Camelot’s subjects. Help Azur and the whole of Jerusalem. A small, temporary sacrifice on my part could save many.

Yes, magic could be used for good, surely.

I feel in my eyes a strange sensation, and somehow I know there are thousands of shades of white and gold coming over them, making them glimmer in this quiet morning. I hear the gentle singing of the Lady of the Lake’s quiet
“no”
whisper through the water and in my blood as Merlin’s
“yes”
hisses louder in the marrow of my bones.

Marcus died too soon. He was stolen from a thankless world, and his destiny lies in my hands.

Call me a thief, but the magic to restore his life will be mine.

The End.

Kathryn Rose was born in Toronto, Canada, and grew up in the Kitchener-Waterloo region of Southern Ontario. After graduating from York University, where she studied literature and philosophy, she relocated to Los Angeles, California.

When she isn’t breaking up fights between her cat and dog, Kathryn can be found writing and reading mostly speculative fiction, cooking with her husband, or listening to rock music.