Camelot Burning (14 page)

“My lady?” Marcus sneaks a thumb to his lip and then flocks his hands to his pockets as my eyes catch his. Embarrassed, he looks away. “I'll walk you back now.”

Guilt hangs over me from what I asked of him and what it could have cost. “I think under the circumstances, you might start calling me Vivienne.”

His smile is a quiet one. “No, not yet.”

Seventeen

For several days, it feels like everyone in Camelot is keeping secrets.

On my way to Guinevere's towers, or to the market or the court, or even to my own tower, there's someone who regards me with a strange look, like they know something that's managed to evade me. To top it off, children parade through cobblestone streets singing the song of Avalon with words so different from what I know.

“By the trees in Avalon,
Machines guard that which Camelot's son
Will one day find should all go well,
And rogues of España don't dwell
On seas beyond three countries past.
Follow roads 'til you find at last,
Kingdoms meeting with but a kiss,
The Grail, our hope, cannot be missed.”

No skies or clouds or enlightened thinkers. But I can't have remembered it wrong all these years.

This is maddening.

Thank God for the clock tower to keep me sane.

Merlin divides his time between clock tower and catacombs, hidden from the whole castle but me. Endlessly he works as though nighttime doesn't exist—nor does his need for food, drink, or sleep. He refuses any Irish tea, though he does agree to the occasional miniature goblet of absinthe to chase his necessary opium drink, foregoing any chance to retell the story of how Azur introduced him to wormwood and how his own ties to French royalty spun it into a fine, if ethically questionable, spirit prone to causing harmless but entertaining visions. Just as quickly, though, Merlin is back to work. He finds solace in hiding behind his soldering mask, the fire, and its sparks.

Whenever I arrive, he gives me the same worried look, the same grunt saying he'll tend to any concerns later, like his vanishing feet and hands. It's the same look Lancelot and Guinevere have in court.

No news from the king. No news from her husband.

“I let Caldor fly today,” Merlin tells me from his armchair.

I'm poring over blueprints and welding together metal beams for the weapon's feet. Oil stains my hands, but I ignore it and glance over at the sorcerer's eerily stonelike form.

When I told Merlin where the key was, he grew quiet and sat deeper in his chair, contemplating our next move. Our construction is at a standstill without Arthur's steel.

I haven't asked the sorcerer about the misremembered song lyrics. Nor have I told him about the strange images I saw when Morgan's magic seized my mind, because I don't understand them myself.

And something about them feels all too secretive, even for my mentor.

“As the silly bird flew over the gardens, I saw how weak my protective incantation has become. Flowers dying, leaves yellowing.” Skeletal fingers clutch a hot cup of opium tea.

“The steel, Merlin.” My gloved hand flattens sketches of retractable talons and cogs that would wheel a sharpened point of iron into a hollow cylinder. My other hand lifts my mask. “We can't do anything else until we get it.”

He sips his tea. “It'll be ours.”

“Lancelot has the key himself. How am I supposed to get it? Should I rob him in the middle of the night?”

“Huh. So he's carrying it in case I would try to steal it from the Round Table.” Merlin holds up a palm. “Patience.”

I breathe a sigh. Restless, I fiddle with a pair of bolts I'll use to wedge the talon against a spring connected to the weapon's foot. “Azur's
jaseemat
?” I try instead. According to our plans, one small box locked away in Merlin's safe is not enough.

“He's been notified. To create more will not be easy. Have you come up with a name for the weapon yet, dear? I'm surprised one hasn't struck your fancy this far along. With Caldor and Terra, you'd insisted upon naming them instantaneously.”

“Merlin … ” His small gesture shrouds me in guilt for planning to leave his side for Jerusalem. The old fool might be intolerable sometimes, but his stubborn heart is a kind one.

“Now, now. It'll distract me. I suggest ‘Uther' as the plans require a rather enormous ass in the making.”

I sigh. A name for the mechanical dragon looming in the catacombs. A name that could bring hope to the poor sorcerer and handmaid working together. “He shall be called Victor.”

From his chair, I practically hear Merlin's eyebrows shoot up at my declaration. “Victor?” he says in a quieter voice. “As in
victorious
. Not only bold and strong, but optimistic, too. I rather like it, Vivienne.”

I hide a smile from the old man and look back at the specifications, the paper thin in my hands, but strong with mechanical revelation. My fingers trace the sketched firelances in the weapon's shoulders, pulleys and sprockets connected underneath that alchemy will set into motion. Countless test runs will be needed, even this early in the weapon's construction. No mistakes can be made.

Then I blink toward the rest of the weapon's—Victor's—design, feeling the wheels turning in my head, drawing me to a glitch in the plan.

A glitch.

I look again. Then a third time.

“Merlin,” I whisper. He doesn't look up. “Merlin!”

He sweeps his gaze to me.

“It won't fly once it comes to life. The plans don't account for it.”

Ignoring the strain on his feet, and now shins, he takes to my side quickly, brow furrowed. “Impossible.”

I point to the sketch of the machine's spine. “The propellers will move Azur's
jaseemat
from the heart's chamber through the copper veins. But the wings have a separate mechanism for flight—the steam valve in the lungs, and that has no connection to the heart. The
jaseemat
won't touch them. Normally, it'd make no difference because we control movement and flight separately using wires. But this isn't Caldor—when Azur's
jaseemat
brings Victor to life, its mechanical wings will be useless. It'll only be able to walk, and what good is that if it's surrounded? We need to fix it.”

He shakes his head. “There's no time for perfection.”

“Merlin, be reasonable! We need to rewire—”

“No.” Old, wrinkled fingers trace the blueprints. “Any sort of additional rewiring would take too long to assemble against the heart, and it'd take even longer to de-vein. Look—we'll connect the steam valve to the heart, but it'll have to be activated by hand once the
jaseemat
takes control. A lever, perhaps, one set between these shoulder blade firelances. Wouldn't take more than an hour to incorporate into the design.”

My eyes widen. “You can't be serious. What you've designed is not something one could simply jump over like a set of merlons on a balcony!” I catch my breath as the allusion comes out of me. “We need to find another way. Use Azur's
jaseemat
—”

“Azur's alchemy cannot help with this! A lever cannot be brought to life because it has no possible life to begin with!”

“Then som
eone must help us with this task! The blacksmith, perhaps—”

“Puh!” he growls. “It's bad enough thinking your father might come after me with my own
pistolník
if he were to discover your apprenticeship. To have help would draw attention and alert Morgan to what I'm trying to do.”

“You would send someone in a war against Morgan's magic onto the back of a mechanical monster? Merlin! Victor's purpose is destruction! Kill anything that comes near it!”

He leans closer, shining eyes combating the clouds that want to take over. “Do not think we have the luxury of months or years to be ready. On the contrary, Vivienne. Morgan will strike when the incantation's gone, and at the rate I'm fading—at the rate the damn flowers are dying—we might have little more than a week.”

I'm silent, staring at the blueprints in hopes another solution would reveal itself. I draw the mask over my face and reignite the torch. I solder hinges to a copper plate drilled into an iron talon. A heavy hammer pounds six nails into place, marrying the parts to a skeletal foot. My fingers run the teeth of two like-sized gears together.

Too many veins to pull apart from Victor's skeleton: Merlin is right.

I bolt the gears to one hinge, spinning them lightly. The predictability of these mechanical arts is a soothing reminder that some things will always act as they should, no matter what chaos the rest of the world might face.

I think about what other options there could be for the wingspan—anything that would prevent someone from risking his life.

But the answer is simple:
I need more time.

Merlin returns to his chair. “We'll need someone strong. Someone who can climb, keep balance, and run—fast enough to escape the onslaught after activating Victor.”

I know someone who fits that description, but I won't acknowledge it. Not yet.

My mother weaves the cream-colored ties of my gown's silk bodice into a knot at my lower back. Sitting on my bed, I pull on my boots and lace them up.

“Why not wear your hair up?” my mother says, a tendril between her fingers. “All other young ladies of the court have taken to that style.”

I shrug as my loose hair hangs like a curtain in front of my face and atop the V-neck of my periwinkle gown. The new fashion of sporting metallic nettings over long hair would mean my skin is exposed. All I need is to think of Marcus's rough hand clasped with mine and a gentle blush hums over my face.

“Not today,” I say. “I mustn't be late.”

“Actually, you're early,” she says with a laugh that feels forced, pointing at Merlin's clock tower where there is still half an hour before eight o'clock.

We smile at one another, and I feel like I should try to be the daughter she wants. One who'll have her hair done properly, who'll happily take to a seamstress's life once she marries the lord her father chooses. Will it break my mother's heart when I leave Camelot?

“Errands.” My trusty lie. I subtly check for my viewer in my dress pocket before I go.

The catacombs, the peculiarity about Avalon, and any question of getting Lancelot's key drift in my mind like an invasive thunderstorm all too welcome in a dry heat.

Before I report anywhere for duty, I need to clear my head.

And what better way than to work on my crossbow?

The gardens, though dying as Merlin said, refresh me instantly. Passersby of the morning don't take note of who I am. Instead they keep to their own conversations under parasols and tall hats, gentlemen in fashionable black tails despite the warm weather. They don't notice the fading gray, not with primitive mechanical falcons for entertainment. They watch the wire-controlled machines soar into the air for sport, hunting the spoils of the land. Life is easy when you blind yourself with fantasy.

My boots trample the grass as I head for my elm. Tucked under one of the large roots is a rolled-up strip of leather fastened shut with a clasp. I unpack it, feeling the excitement of seeing my curved applewood bow—no longer than the length of my forearm—peek out. It mounts on a leather cuff that doubles as a compartment for arrows. Three buckles lock around my forearm. A ring that fits around my index finger is connected to a pulley that releases the latch by my elbow. Arrows stolen from the knights' fields are a tight fit for a crossbow this small, but workable if I snap them in half.

I draw the string around the latch. The polar ends of the bow are close enough to embrace as I set an arrow in place. I shut an eye, looking through the sight at the tree. I'm standing further away than usual, but I have to know the strength of this weapon. My index finger yanks the ring, and the arrow flies free, slamming straight into the bark, but then it falls to the ground, not making a dent.

I slouch with disappointment, but after some adjustments, this could still be of practical use to the knights. Granted, I'd have to pass it onto one of Camelot's mechanics to take the credit, or the blacksmith, or even confess to Merlin this side project of mine. A lady-in-waiting would never construct such vulgar weapons out of wood and leather.

I rotate the underside of the cuff until another arrow clicks into place. Two more are still concealed. Pull the string taut, fire again. The arrow bounces off the tree and strikes the ground. Soon a third whistles through the air, the only other sound accompanying it the song of a bluebird.

The arrow gets caught between two pieces of jagged bark, and the bird sings again. But it's not a bluebird. Someone's whistling.

Footsteps crunch on the ground behind me. I free the buckles from the cuff and turn to Marcus strolling from the knights' quarters, smiling as he cups his mouth, sending me
high-pitched whistles. His dark, tangled hair falls to his neck; the front frames his eyes as though he couldn't be bothered with the luxury of sight. He's changed his usual
tailored pants for brown trousers that don't burden him with a holster or weapon, and his tunic is light. It matches his casual black blazer that's somehow still too restrictive for his energy. With his smile, though, you'd never notice the discomfort.

I'm smiling, too. For some reason I'm relieved it's him. As though he wouldn't think too much of such a strange hobby. I fold the crossbow back into the strip of leather. “With the falcon above, I feared for the life of the bird whose call I heard,” I say in a stupid, bubbling voice.

“That was the plan.” He stops a few feet away, running his fingers through his knotted hair. He eyes the rolled-up leather, lifts an eyebrow, and points.

“Oh,” I say in a soft voice. “It's just—”

“The latch needs to be further back. The string isn't as taut as it should be.” He unravels the tiny bow and tugs at the string, revealing too much elasticity. “See?”

My lips curl in disappointment. “It worked fine last time. That explains the wobbling arrows, though.”