Camelot Burning (12 page)

“I must take care of this.” They look at each other, speaking silently with their eyes in a fashion I don't understand. “I trust you can keep this discreet.”

Marcus's face is unreadable. “Of course.”

Lancelot nods. “Good.” He bows to me. My legs automatically dip in a reluctant curtsy. “Thank you, love.” He cocks a sly smile.

Lancelot leaves the room without another word. As the door shuts, my eyes roll.

Then it dawns on me that I'm completely alone with Marcus.

Fifteen

I turn, confirming my suspicion that the squire was watching me. Suddenly my rash departure from the wedding lingers between us without a lick of subtlety. He casually turns away, swinging Lancelot's sword in slow figure eights. I open my mouth to confide in a complete stranger that I need his help, but the words won't come.

“Discreet?” I say instead. “Like it's a scandal for Arthur's champion to meet with the queen?”

Marcus smirks. “Lancelot has a tendency to be dramatic. He was worse when dealing with the gypsies at the Black Sea.”

My eyebrows lift. Marcus, like the rest of Camelot's squires, would have traveled to exotic places. Merlin goes to the Black Sea often, despite his strong hatred for the gypsies who think he's one of them. I'm dying to know where else Marcus has been.

“You're all right, then? After … everything?” he asks, his eyes carrying undeniable proof he'd spent nights worrying.

My hand reaches for the scratch on my cheek, now no more than a pink mark.

“I heard the knights gave you bit of a hard time last night.” He likely wasn't told about the snide comment made behind his back.

I force a smile. “They tried to, but even their finest attempts were pitiful.”

He flicks his wrist so the sword's hilt shuffles around once, back into his grasp. “You should see them during scrimmages.” He smiles back.

Then our silence is louder than crashing waves as I search for a reason to ask about Excalibur.

But Marcus is in the mood for a bit of showing off. He balances the sword's point on his palm. As it wobbles, he watches me through the hair in his eyes. He reaches for the hilt but misses, and the sword falls, the edge clattering against stone before landing at his feet.

“You might dull the blade if you aren't careful.”

He shakes his head, ducking to retrieve it. “Lancelot had this made in the northern mountains. You don't know what weaponry the alchemists there can forge.”

I frown at the insinuation there might be something alchemy-related I don't know. Blast it all, though. He's right. And Merlin doesn't have any literature on the northern tribes. Now I'm dying to know more.

“See for yourself.” He stands close enough that I can feel the warmth from his skin. My throat clears, and I'm slow to approach the blade, having not entirely appreciated the last time a weapon was so close.

My fingers find the viewer in my pocket. It clicks open, and the rounded glass piece becomes a magnifier, running along the sword's edge. There's something peculiar here.

“Hold on.” I still his wobbly hand with mine, ignoring his fingers long and scarred with rough nails he clearly couldn't bother to properly trim when teeth would suffice. I click my viewer again so another glass piece falls in front of the first.

The apparent smooth edge isn't smooth at all: it's lined with miniature hooks capped with razor-sharp tips flicking up at the point.

I look up in amazement. “How could you balance this on your hand without it slipping straight through?”

“With great care.” He shows me the reddening spot on his palm where the tip had begun to pierce. “You can only hold it upright for a second. Never any longer.” He holsters the sword.

I only mean to take a breath, but speak without thinking: “I saw you leave. While they were taming the fires. I saw you leave the castle.”

His shoulders fall like a weight's been dropped. “I didn't realize you were watching.” He hops down into the grassy courtyard.

Because curiosity has gotten the better of me, or because his secret gives me something I could use in exchange for Excalibur, I follow him to a balcony looking over the sea. Far off, the sails of docked aeroships flap against the breeze, Spanish insignias carved into their wooden hulls. More ships dive into the horizon, too far from Camelot to reach in a day's time.

He leans on the ledge, squinting in the sunlight. Sad eyes drift from sea to farmlands. What Owen said about why Marcus is Lancelot's squire must be true.

“Who's over there?” I whisper, leaning on the ledge with him.

A heavy breath clears his face of worry. “Actually, it's ‘what.' And it's my parents' farm. It provides grain for Camelot. Your bread comes from our land.” He smiles to lighten the mood. Merlin was right: Arthur wasn't the only one in the castle who prizes family over kingdom.

“Are they all right?” I'm not sure if I should confess to Marcus that I saw him return as well.

He nods. “Their home was spared, but many other farms were destroyed. Our neighbors are in the infirmary now. Never thought getting to live here would entail nearly losing their lives.” He watches the crashing waves. “I've never met a more relentless villain than fire.”

The breeze picks up, and the solemn mood passes. Marcus hops on the ledge, balancing as he tiptoes over stepped merlons. “Still, I'm sure some are at least mildly impressed by the castle, which is nice.”

He glances back after every jump, like I might disappear as soon as his head is turned. It's hard to look at him without entertaining the fantasies that drift through my mind. Especially when he purses his lips, concentrating on not falling to the jagged rocks peeking through the whitecaps below.

He steps atop a rather rugged merlon whose surface is rockier than the rest. I eye his feet, wondering if there's any traction on his boots. “Are you sure you should be doing that?”

“Don't worry. Owen and I sometimes sword fight out here. I know the parapets like the back of my hand. Especially useful whenever he tries a sneak attack. Not exactly one for losing, is he?” On cue, he trips and swerves to the edge.

I scream and cover my mouth. He resets himself with a smile.

“I said not to worry.”

I scowl in a way that tells him I'm not entirely angry.

He heads for the other end of the balcony, away from aeroships propelling over the sea and toward a view of grassy fields.

“How did you come to be Lancelot's squire?” Indeed, it's a strange choice. Not that Marcus's physique isn't, well, ideal for the task, but sons of nobility usually receive that honor.

“That's a long, dull story, actually … ” His trick progresses to a harder one: he unholsters Lancelot's sword and balances the hilt on his palm and then jumps over the next merlon while keeping the blade upright. When a heavy wave hits the cliff beneath us, he nearly tumbles again, and my eyes dart to the horrible death he's inviting himself to.

“My goodness, if you were to fall—”

“Wait. Let me concentrate. I haven't been able to clear this ledge more than once without needing to step down.” He focuses on the sway of the blade. “Fine. I was twelve when I stole a basket of limes from a healer in a northern village. Lancelot was there, and the scene distracted him long enough to get involved and take me on as his page. I was fifteen when Galahad became a knight, and Lancelot made me his squire two years ago, on my seventeenth birthday.”

He makes it to the last merlon and jumps down, tossing the blade with a slight tilt so it flips in midair and he can catch the hilt.

“What I don't tell too many is that becoming his page had everything to do with making sure I avoided a few days in the stocks.”

“A thief now squire to the most powerful knight of the Round Table.” I coyly look away to consider how one boy's life completely changed because of a stranger's intolerance of petty thievery. “I've never met anyone who wasn't born and raised inside a castle.”

“I'm honored to be your first.” He winks.

I have to ask. We cannot dance around like this, and there might be no better time. “Excalibur,” I breathe. He freezes, and I have to force the words out. “Show it to me.”

“Why?”

I knew the question was coming, and I have no proper answer. In all likelihood he might think I'm just a foolish girl reassuring herself Arthur's kingdom has a weapon strong enough to destroy Morgan. Marcus wouldn't realize how right he'd be, in a way.

I smile. “You did promise to, as long as we'd run away afterward.”

His eyes fall shut in that horrid embarrassment we both felt at the wedding. The point of Lancelot's blade pricks at the crevices in the cobblestone. “So I did. Said a lot that night, apparently. Proof Lancelot was right in Mongolia. To trust a man with a secret is downright foolish if he's more loyal to the pint than to you.”

I know he's apologizing for the spectacle with Stephen and Ector in only a way a boy would, but the mere mentioning of his travels is far more interesting, enough to fight my sense of priority. “Mongolia?”

Marcus nods. “Perhaps the longest Lancelot has ever gone without a drink to sustain him on lonely winter nights.” He shakes his head at the memory. “I nearly rode off for the vast tundra myself just to escape his foul temper.”

My fingers wrap themselves around the ends of my hair. I imagine snow in my palms, furs around me, the sorcerer turning an old icy castle into a working factory more sensational than the likes of the catacombs.

But I force myself to remember why I'm here. Marcus cannot distract me like this. “Please, if you know where Excalibur is, I need to see it.”

He breathes out in one slow go of it, and I know I'm asking for more than he can give. “For many reasons, it's a bad idea. I wasn't exactly supposed to see it myself, actually.”

I ignore his confession. “You don't know me and have no reason to trust me, but I give you my word.” I step closer. “I wouldn't be here unless it was important.”

His eyes narrow. “It'd be a shame if this was the only reason you stayed.”

His tenderness strikes at my heart. I suppose my words were a bit insensitive. “I didn't mean—”

“I'd understand if it was.” He looks away. “Even if
you weren't being watched as much as you are now, it'd be nearly impossible—”

“Then why say you would?” I laugh in frustration.

He shrugs and holds it, hands clenching the sword's hilt as a smile lifts his face. “Why agree to a scandalous escape?”

Beneath us, the ocean expands with its crashing waves to a place I cannot follow. “Because I might never see the world as you have.” I consider confessing my plans to leave Camelot, but an exaggerated lie might better convince Marcus. When I face him again, I realize how close we are. “Camelot is all I'll ever see, and even then, I'm caged in. Unless you help me.”

We're staring at each other, and I cannot break away. Too many seconds pass between us without a word spoken. We ignore the song of the ocean and silently plea with each other for the truths neither of us will share. But proximity removed can cause a drought in the heart, and this is becoming too hard.

He finally nods. Glances around. We're alone, and not even passengers aboard those sailing aeroships will see what he's about to do. “All right.”

Lancelot's sword returned to his holster, Marcus grabs my hand and laces my fingers with his before we're on our way.

We race down a corridor. I dart a look over my shoulder in case someone were to see me run hand-in-hand with Marcus and promptly inform my father. But the hallways are empty, leaving me to thoughts of how rough Marcus's fingers feel pressed against mine. We run past the red and gold of endless tapestries. Him, with more steam than a whistling kettle practically tumbling out of his ears and from under the unkempt hair grazing his neck. Most likely, a comb is the last thing on his mind each morning.

The corridor narrows into a parapet taking us across an extended bridge whose keeper never retracted the steel steps, giving us easy access to the knights' quarters.

“Can't you run any faster?” Marcus calls over his shoulder. His hand pulls more than guides me, forcing my black boots to flit after him as quickly as I can manage. Thank God I was able to rescue them from Guinevere's orderlies.

The bridge leads us to a staircase I've never seen before, one that seems to hover in midair.

“How—”

“Iron arms hold it above the ground and carry it on a track to the landing of your choice.”

We take the first step. He uses a lever to guide the staircase toward another parapet on the other side of the castle. We step off, and he peeks around the corner. “On my word, run for it,” he whispers.

“Run for what? Who are we hiding from?” I hiss back, but all he does is press a finger to his shushing lips.

He pulls at my hand.

“Go.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and let the sound of his footsteps guide me. At the last second, he dashes to the right, and my eyes flash open. A patrolling guard is distracted by something in the courtyard below.

We reach a hallway where the tapestries are longer, hanging from each window like curtains. Marcus eases the door shut with nothing more than a click. The ceilings inside are high. Lanterns, lit. Our footsteps are quiet, but what little noise we make echoes loudly. The grandeur of the hallway is remarkable.

“We're in the knights' quarters,” he says as our hands release. “Thankfully, the guard knew about the servants' bathing house. Right on time, I'd wager.”

“On time for what?”

He flashes an embarrassed smile. “Some of the ladies don't realize that from this level, the knights are up high enough to see over the curtain drawn across the window. From a certain angle, well … ”

I lift an eyebrow. Something to tell the orderlies.

We turn a corner that takes us across a parapet to a thick, black door at the end. There's a brass contraption where a usual knob or ring would be.

“What is that?” It looks like a brace Merlin once built to keep his own study locked before he invested in his beloved vault.

Marcus cups both hands to his mouth, blowing once and rubbing them together. “
L'enigma insolubile
. An invention Arthur purchased from a master mechanic in Venice when the Round Table was founded. To unlock it, there's a sequence … ” He takes the cane of the contraption and pulls it foward until there's an audible click. Then he assembles gears from the underside of the machine in a precise order and wedges the lever between two copper grooves. He releases it. A roller chain churns a sprocket clockwise, and the door thuds open, letting the echo wail up a dark staircase.