Camelot Burning (15 page)

He blinks. “Bolts.”

“Bolts,” I agree. I know the proper term for a crossbow's arrows, but bolts are found in Caldor's wings, not on the battlefield. It's never sounded quite right.

He's smiling in a strange way. But I don't say another word. Instead I take back the crossbow and stow it under the tree. Now two know of its whereabouts. At least I'll know who to go after if I find it missing.

The silence is heavy as we ignore the secret I won't share. Those strolling the gardens soon abandon them to watch a game of cricket in the courtyard. We're alone.

“Thank you for the other day,” I say, my fingers twitching as I wonder if I dare speak of Excalibur. Before continuing, I glance around in case someone were to hear. “For—”

“Directing you through the knights' quarters so you could carry out your errand?” Marcus finishes, like the memory makes him nervous. “Funny how easy it is to get lost in a castle you've never left.”

I've been getting lost too rarely in my life. “And now that I know my way through its mazes and hallways, I'm forever in your debt.”

Marcus digs the toe of one boot into the ground. “I'll remember that. Store it next to Owen's difficulty with ale.”

I wonder why Marcus is out here. “Did you follow me?” I ask with a smile. Marcus's own seems to radiate light. He must have been born smiling.

“Actually, my lady, I'm investigating a criminal archer with a personal vendetta against Camelot's oldest elm.”

“These trees can be unsuspecting foes,
my lord
.”

He scrunches his nose. “You can call me Marcus.”

“You can call me Vivienne,” I tease. He nods in a way that tells me it won't happen, and we retreat to our own thoughts for a moment too long.

“How is Owen?” I ask, grateful my voice doesn't tremble. Marcus ushers me to a secluded path.

“Haven't had the chance to speak to him. He's been in archery training nonstop. Why?”

“Ever since he became Galahad's squire, he hasn't made much time for family.” Unless he's handing out unnecessary advice, that is.

Marcus nods. “I don't think Owen wants to sit back and wait for Morgan when dreams of being an assailant in Glastonbury are much more appealing.” He smirks in an apprehensive way. “He might have done well with Lancelot and me on the quest. Maybe we wouldn't have ended up continents off course.”

Marcus pushes a low branch out of the way, letting me pass through poppies and violets as he follows.

I wonder what other memories of foreign lands he has from the quest. “What place was the most unforgettable?” I twist the stem of a purple bloom between my fingers until it snaps off and into my palm.

Marcus wraps himself up in my eyes as though trying to will me to see the memories for myself. “Since you're forever in
my
debt, I feel I'm owed a detail about you before I answer.”

I smile. “There's really nothing of interest.”

He studies me as though I might be lying, and of course I am. And he should wonder what kind of lady-in-waiting boldly asks a squire to show her Excalibur or is caught in the gardens with a makeshift crossbow. But he indulges me nonetheless and responds to my query.

“Perhaps the north, where wild horses run maniacally through fields before a storm.”

I imagine the wild beasts stampeding through grass and snow. Nostrils pulled wide, mist spraying from their mouths—a little too close to unruly steam valves with dark eyes that don't show where they're looking as fluids spatter wildly. Ugh.

“What is it?” he asks with a smile.

I shake my head.

His eyes flicker wide. “Thunderstorms?”

I shake my head again. “Horses.”

He looks at me as though I'm joking. “What, you don't like them? You can't be serious. Everyone in Camelot rides.”

“Not everyone. Vile beasts.” Aerohawks are much more civilized.

He lets his head roll back in slow laughter. “They're not so bad. Perhaps you should give them another chance.”

I think not. “No other place you'd deem unforgettable?”

All seriousness comes over his eyes in a devastating way. “Lyonesse, before she fell.”

That surprises me. “Lyonesse!” He gives me a strange look. “Just that, Guinevere's from there.” And it's odd he wouldn't have told me this sooner. Not many saw Lyonesse.

He nods. “Yes, I know.” But he doesn't say anything else, like the memories are ones he doesn't want to recall. “And today,” he adds, “she is tragically locked up in the main castle with Lancelot.” He flicks a mischievous eyebrow. “I'd rather you not tell anyone you saw me out here on my way to the farmlands without permission,
so to speak, when I should be back in the knights' quarters teaching Percy's squire how to sword fight.”

I share in his smile. “The farmlands? Then why have I found you wandering the gardens?”

I cannot read his face for a long time, until he glances ahead where the walls of Camelot give way to the farmlands spared of Morgan's wrath. The green sprawls eastward, toward mountains that cut off Camelot from the rest of the countryside.

And in front of us, a large birch leans against the wall, its branches sneaking overtop, into the fields.

“This way is faster. When I'm not on horseback, I climb up and jump down. No need to sneak through the gates.”

I nod. “Brilliant. Much more efficient. I happen to appreciate that.”

“I had a feeling you would.”

“Visiting family?” I wonder if he'd ever tell me about the woman he brought inside Camelot.

He finds interest in the foliage surrounding us. “Only for the afternoon. It's best if I'm not gone too long.”

I suppose he could be visiting his father, but I temper my curiosity. He's unarmed and leaving the castle, so he'll have to be back before nightfall. But what would make him risk the trouble Lancelot might give him if he's discovered missing?

When I look at Marcus again, we're quiet. Behind him, Merlin's clock tower ticks away another minute, prying me from the temporary escape of these gardens. But then Marcus steps closer. His eyes lock on mine. Two violets, like the ones oh so beautiful and in bloom sprinkled alongside blood-red poppies.

“The queen will likely dismiss you as well, yes? Considering all the commotion in the main castle?” he says with a shaky voice.

“I have to report to her nevertheless. Perhaps she needs me to notify the kitchen of any changes for afternoon tea.” I swallow in sadness at the very mundane idea.

“Of course.” He looks away. “You know, I have a strong feeling my mother would take a liking to you.”

It must have been her; I'm certain now. And I'm sure Marcus can hear every thunderous beat of my heart, not to mention how guilt clenches it when I think of how the woman he brought to Camelot touched his cheek as he found a way inside. But I cannot tell him I saw that. I nearly wish he'd said nothing at all. “Why would that be?”

He sneaks closer until space is too scarce between us and the increase in proximity binds our eyes. Only then does he think about my question.

“She'd be put off by your looks, of course,” he begins in a slow, teasing voice. His eyes narrow with exaggerated judgment.

“My looks?” My fingers flock to their comfortable spots at the ends of my hair.

His mouth pulls up in a satisfied smile. “Of course. You're too beautiful for her to trust with me. She'd call you a siren whose sole mission in life is to tempt me away from knighthood.” His words shine with a lightness unable to hide any honesty. He doesn't know how close he is to the truth I want.

“Then perhaps I'll go with you and assure her I mean no trouble,” I whisper. “Surely the farmlands are safe now.”

His eyes flicker widely in disagreement. “Not while Morgan's alive.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn't go either, as you wear no weapon.”

“Don't
worry about me. It's only for the afternoon.”

I look at him with embellished suspicion. As I smile, my teeth inhale my bottom lip and hold it. He clenches his jaw, and his eyes linger on my mouth. Then he looks away as his ears and neck warm.

“I speak lightly, but to be honest,” he says more seriously, “my mother can spot an interesting mind when she meets one.”

“Sounds like you've given this some thought.”

“No,” he says rather too quickly. “Not like that. Just since I know Owen. I see how you two are different.”

Owen is arrogant. An ambitious soldier. Practically a reincarnation of Ivan the Great.

Marcus steps close again, the leathery scent of his clothes washing over me, and whisks my hand into his. The violet flutters to the ground. His eyes bore into mine as he presses his lips to my fingers. He doesn't blink, he doesn't look away.

“Have a good day, then.”

He drops my fingers and walks past me, hands in his pockets as he strolls toward the birch. Then with a quick run and a jump, he's up the tree and drops to the other side.

I exhale the shuddering breath I was holding and run for the main castle before I can change my mind.

Eighteen

The blush on my cheek has faded by the time breakfast with the queen has passed an hour later. She'll meet with Lancelot shortly, and to give myself a break from her suffocating quarters, I dismiss her orderly and take her empty tray back to the kitchen myself. I've walked this path so many times that I can allow myself to daydream of Marcus's eyes when he smiles and how he moves about like he cannot be still under any circumstances.

When I take the first step to the main castle, my landing echoes loudly enough that I stop, feeling my brow furrow. I blink at the leather of my boots. No, that wasn't an echo, but footsteps, many, marching—

Like an army.

I tear my eyes for the northern gates. From these steps, I can make out a sea of shining armor marching for Camelot from the hills. The tray falls from my hands, metal cutlery clattering loudly against stone.

A guard atop the city walls turns to the castle. “Send for Lancelot! Man your posts! Prepare for an attack!”

Around me, nobility fall into a state of restless panic.

“What's happening?”

“What broke the peace?”

They don't know about rumors of Morgan in the land.

“Where is Merlin?” calls Lord Henry as he storms through the doors behind me, crowds of dandies and noblewomen spilling past him. “If you're going to be Arthur's head advisor, act like it! Confound it all!”

The curtain covering Merlin's clock tower window is drawn, but I know the sorcerer is there. I dash through the courtyard, to the village, through the blacksmith's cellar. There are no sounds coming from the catacombs, so I run to the summit of Merlin's tower, where the sorcerer has already cast open his curtains and stares out at the intruders only minutes from our gates.

“Merlin! They're calling for you!”

He doesn't turn at the sound of my voice. He holds up a finger that pleads for seconds we cannot afford to spare. “Come. Come look at them. Tell me what you see.”

Slowly I inch toward the window. I don't know why he's wasting time. But Merlin gestures for me to move faster, and so I reach him at the window and peer through the telescope at the soldiers' conformed march.

“Wait.” I look again. These aren't the black-armored soldiers I saw when Morgan arrived. There's something different. They're less organized, more human. “These aren't the same men. It's not Morgan, it's—”

“Corbenic,” he says, a heavy fist smacking on the stone of the sill before stepping away. “Pelles's army, attacking Camelot.”

My eyes widen. “They heard of Morgan's arrival,” I breathe. The war King Pelles vowed is finally here.

“I don't know how. Word of Morgan in Camelot shouldn't have left these gates. While a bunch of nitwits, the knights at least understand the meaning of confidentiality.”

I feel my stomach twist in dread, and when I turn, Merlin's already set a silver breastplate across his chest. Foregoing his fine
pistolník
and sword, he finds a more utilitarian battle
fusionah
that served as a prototype when Azur introduced Merlin to his revolutionary warfare design.

“You're going to fight? As you are?”

“And how.”

Despite Arthur's failures, Merlin will not surrender to Pelles. And I've worked too hard to lose the chance to bring Victor to life. One of Merlin's fire irons finds its way into my grasp. Its fine copper handle reflects my look of panic.

I follow the sorcerer down the stairs and through the streets filled with guards keeping peace and ordering everyone indoors until the danger has left. “Noblewomen to their chambers!” cries one of them.

They'll barricade us inside. What if this isn't resolved quickly and I'm kept in my chambers for days? Merlin said we might have less than a week until Morgan returns—I cannot afford to be kept from the catacombs.

We rummage past a shop selling lush textiles of bright colors and patterns for dresses and morning jackets. A stand of long, silk handkerchiefs falls when a trio of fleeing dandies runs past it. I seize a scarf from the ground and set it across my shoulders and hair, eyes cast down and away from guards who'd recognize me as the queen's handmaid.

It seems to work. No one spots me. Or no one is foolish enough to run
toward
the danger, rather than away.

Merlin beelines for the courtyard, and I stay close behind, an abundance of frenzy coming over me as I internalize the impending attack. I must get to the other side of the courtyard; from there, I can keep a strong eye on the village in case an intruder were to find his way to the blacksmith's cellar. They can't find Victor.

In front of the gates, Lancelot bellows orders to knights and squires. A loud clap of thunder makes me drop the fire iron and handkerchief. I slam my hands over my ears. But the sky is bright and free of clouds. It wasn't a storm.

At the gates, the guards have divided. Some form a semicircle around the entrance, firelances ready and aimed at the gates. More stand atop the wall firing nonstop at our attackers. A locking sound, tasting like metal on my lips, slams into the air. Three sharp points puncture the gates from the other side and twist.

“Steady!” is the call from the city walls.

Pelles's men are drilling their way inside.

The guards firing from the gates give up before their ammunition does. “These men will not be killed with bullets!” screams one.

And now my brother is having at it with Lancelot amongst the unit armed and ready before the walls. I reclaim my dropped fire iron and run further into the chaos of stoic knights and nervous squires.

Owen's tone is ruthless. “All of this could have been avoided if we'd invaded Glastonbury when the opportunity presented itsel
f
!” Eyes fall upon Lancelot as I reach Owen's side. No one notices me for my outspoken brother.

Merlin's eyes narrow on Owen. “Silence, squire. Learn your place.”

I'm waiting for Lancelot to defend himself, to strike Owen's jaw for his insubordination, but he's oddly quiet. Like he might agree. The knight gathers himself. “Positions! Press them back once they break through. Keep Morgan's bastards cornered at all costs.”

“Not Morgan,” Merlin growls with annoyance. “From my tower I saw the blue of Corbenic advancing for Camelot. Who told Pelles that Morgan was brought inside our kingdom?”

Lancelot pales. He tries to speak, but stumbles on the words. “Can't be.” Once the shock fades, he sneers. “You lie, wizard! Corbenic is our ally. Pelles is Arthur's friend, and mine. His family is my family—”

“Why would I lie, you stupid man?” Merlin snarls as he seizes Lancelot's vestments. “Corbenic marches to attack Camelot, and by the day our kingdom becomes more vulnerable as we await a more brutal war. We fight today to keep our kingdom standing, but know this, Lancelot: any future stupidity on the knights' part will result in
my
wrath, forget Arthur's!” With a heavy shove, he throws Lancelot back a few feet.

Lancelot furrows his brow in attempt to stay strong with so many regarding him as their leader, but his devastation is undeniable. The interlocking teeth of the drilling ram bites harder into the gates. Lancelot straightens. “Marcus! My sword!”

Marcus.

I gasp. And it's only now that Owen notices me.

Lancelot looks back amongst the squires. “Where's Marcus?” They look for him, but he isn't here. He's in the farmlands, and I could be the only one who knows this. Now, who knows what might happen to the woman he brought inside the kingdom?

“I saw him at the infirmary!” I burst out. All eyes turn, looking me up and down. I bite my lip and pray for a stronger lie. “The guards were tending to the people, and he was helping. He had no sword on him, certainly not yours, my lord.”

The drilling ram slices at the gates, and warped metal flies across the courtyard. The sharp edges glide along the skin of those standing guard: the men struck fly into the air with the impact, letting their own blood paint the grass.

Suddenly, Owen's eyes are the strongest I've ever seen them. He glares like the warning he gave me was made in vain. And perhaps it was. “How serendipitous that you managed to cross paths with him,
my lady
.” Owen steps closer and speaks so only I can hear. “Get away from all this. What if others were to see you lingering here, a girl striving for a man's place in battle?”

I should slap him for such a comment and feel my fingers clench into a hard fist. “Not now, Owen,” I say through gritted teeth.

Pelles's men press the drill into the remains of the gates, and now Lancelot has more pressing matters than an absent squire. Merlin unsheathes his sword and walks with it straight through the barricade of remaining guards, Arthur's champion following. The sorcerer finds a place at the front and waits.

The gate is near destruction. They're coming through.

“Ready!” Merlin bellows in a loud voice that rings through my skeleton.

It's happening. How can I stand tall in the face of what lies beyond those trembling doors? My feet step backward, inching toward whatever safety I might find. But the churning of the locking mechanisms in the nobility's quarters is loud. I cannot leave. I need to make sure no one finds Merlin's catacombs. So I firm my jaw and stand strong.

The drilling ram bursts inside on a massive wagon, an iron barrel that might fit the circumference of the Round Table. It slams into our soldiers with leftover force, running them over. Three steel teeth twist outward and rotate faster and faster like a knife obliterating an apple core.

Merlin lifts his weapon high and runs into the army spilling inside. He leads guards, knights, and squires into the throes of this attack, his long cape camouflaging his limp. Pelles's men wear the crisp blue of their kingdom's flag over plated armor, visors pulled down. If their king is amongst them, there'd be no way of knowing. They forego
pistolníks
and firelances for long, steel swords. But their armor is tough, and even with Merlin's heavy blows to the natural weak spots in the elbows and knees, he's unable to do damage.

Eyes wide, Merlin pulls back, and perhaps this is Morgan's curse showing itself, reminding him why he sent me after Lancelot's key instead of going himself.

Pelles's soldiers are ferocious. When one soldier drives his sword into Stephen's shoulder, I jump. The squire gurgles awfully and clutches his arm. Other knights likewise feel the cool blades of Pelles's men pressing into their necks and chests.

“Steady!” comes from above. I look to the brigade of guards atop the citadel where a cannon tilts toward the gates' twisted remains. Three guards ready the cannon at a precise angle. “Fire!” One guard's hand slices the air with his order. The weapon booms.

I jerk my eyes back to the gates and watch the cannon's blast envelope scores of Pelles's men. Nevertheless, they push through, breaching the knights' perimeter. I dash up the citadel's stone steps for a better look and to stay out of harm's way. But when I reach the top and glance over at those manning the cannon, the guards are less than happy to see me.

“Get to the towers, my lady, lest you be mad!” Their faces are covered in soot, and they grunt as they reload the cannon. But Pelles's men advance just as ferociously, like iron is able to bounce off their armor.

I can't understand how their weaponry could be so futile. “How are they still standing strong?” I shout.

“To the towers!” the same guard screams back, sweat beading on his neck as he rummages through his arsenal of pointless copper tools. He curses under his breath and regards the other two. “Are these men or gods?”

They're afraid. And now heavy footsteps approach.

“My lady!” another guard shouts.

As the shine of silver armor peels around the corner, my free hand finds an unexpected crossbow. It's heavy and bulky, and it's awkward to lift high. There are no bolts handy, but there is a copper knife amongst the guards' supplies. It fits improperly in the crossbow and serves as a pitiful last act of desperation.

Regardless, I fire the blasted thing straight into the unprotected neck of a Corbenic soldier who does not see a girl standing in front of him.