Camelot Burning (18 page)

Twenty-One

The sorcerer hid me for my own good. I know this.

Still, I step out from Merlin's protection before I can consider the dangers of the squire knowing my secret. Marcus's eyes fill with slow recognition upon seeing me.

“What are you doing here?” I breathe. Merlin's aim remains a readied threat, and Marcus must feel that, too. He makes no sudden moves.

“I was on my way to my family's farm and saw two riders reach this mountain.” His eyes trail to Merlin's. “I know about the safe.”

I turn to the sorcerer. Oh God, to reveal myself as the wizard's apprentice so rashly. “Merlin, lower your weapon.”

Merlin ignores me. “You're Lancelot's squire, sent to follow me.”

Marcus shakes his head as I step in front of him. “Lancelot doesn't know he left Camelot. I swear. He isn't even armed, for goodness sake.” I set a hand on the sorcerer's firelance until it falls to his side.

Merlin's eyes finally break to mine. “It's not good to have people know we're here.”

Marcus eases forward. “Why are you here? What's
l'enigma insolubile
guarding?”

Merlin's eyes snap forward. “That's not your concern.” He takes a step as though his crooked gait would scare Marcus off. “Be gone with you!”

“No. I'm no fool, Merlin,” Marcus says. “I see how weak the incantation over Camelot has become. And you're both out here alone? I'm not leaving. You're mad to think the world outside Camelot's walls is safe enough for anyone these days.”

“Then you shouldn't be here either.” Merlin straightens. “Yes, in fact. You shouldn't be. You're the one who was missing. You should have been back in Camelot while we were under attack!”

Marcus pales. “What?” He looks at me for an answer.

I think of the white lie I told Lancelot. Why did I feel the need to protect Marcus? “Morgan sent possessed soldiers from Corbenic to attack the castle only hours ago. After you … ” I cannot finish the thought. Not when it could put Marcus in trouble with Merlin.

A panic sweeps over Marcus's face. “The infirmary. The people in the infirmary. Did anyone get hurt? Did—”

“Fine. All fine,” I say.

Marcus's shoulders fall in relief. “Thank God.” His eyes take him to a place where I cannot follow.

“But knights died today, and your absence was noticed. If I were you, boy, I'd head back immediately.” Merlin juts his chin toward Marcus. “Wandering the farmlands instead in a crisis such as this, and now speaking against me, daring to understand my work—”

Marcus doesn't flinch. “Tell me your work, then. If the lady's involved, I can't imagine it'd be something immoral.”

“Magic's involved.”

Marcus glances at me for any clues to diminish his incredulity. I will my eyes to silently tell him it's all right, but perhaps whatever good opinion he had of me has disappeared now.

If he knew more, perhaps he'd feel differently.

I speak softly to Merlin. “He's fast. A natural athlete.” My heart sinks as I imagine Marcus struggling with the stubborn lever of a weapon I'm to build with the steel behind us. “He can help.”

Merlin considers my whispered words. His cloudy eyes confirm what I fear Marcus's involvement in all this will be. “Fine. The wagon. Bring it forth.” He points to a dark corner.

Marcus's eyes take an eternity to shut. “Merlin, neither of you should have left the castle. God. An attack when I was only miles away?” His eyes open and fall harshly upon the sorcerer. “The witch is out here.”

“Huh, you don't say. In that case, you'd better hurry.”

Marcus's eyes narrow, but he disappears nonetheless into the darkness, returning with a closed riding wagon complete with brass doors and locks. The vehicle is meticulously crafted and painted in faded shades of Camelot's red and gold, chipped in some places.

“How did you know that was there?” I stare through the window at the locking gadgets and components. It's a metal and wooden structure capable of extending into a million different forms.

Merlin limps forward and receives from the squire's hand a brass tug that would fit to a horse. “I built it, of course.” He uses his sleeve to dust the surface of branches and dried leaves. “Long ago. It kept me busy so I wouldn't return to magic. Naturally, I'd started it with the secret intention of taking Arthur's steel. Now for an altogether different reason.”

Merlin's quicklight casts an orange glow into the dingy air inside the safe. I search for a ceiling in a vault of infinite rock and stacks of sheet metal, long and rectangular, warping as Merlin roughly seizes an armful. It's a treasure trove of glistening surfaces reflecting matted firelight. A woman's hypnotic voice sings as he carries the steel to the wagon.

Merlin uses a key from the ring in his pocket to unlock it. Four seats of red upholstery easily transform into hidden compartments for smuggling purposes, expanding and retracting into a space outside of this world's. The sorcerer points at me. “Give the squire your gloves.”

One finger at a time, I obey. Marcus looks at me with a million questions. But he settles for one. “What is all this?”

I hand him the gloves, unable to look him in the eye.

“This is how we save Camelot from Morgan.”

It takes no longer than an hour to load the wagon with as much steel as it can hold. Arthur's supply seems endless, but “twenty stone, and nothing less,”
Merlin grunts. Thankfully, that's plenty, while barely making a dent in this reserve. The cave sings an entrancing sonata, but the song is nowhere nearly as distracting as the unnatural delight dancing on my skin.

The sensation intoxicates me, lifts me onto a cloud somewhere as Merlin fights the enchantment to keep his scowl. He's careful not to touch anything, but the steel's mysticism has nonetheless had an effect on his pain. The twists of agony are less violent; the relief is quick and cool. Still, he grunts at the squire to move faster so we can get out of this “bloody, bewitched place.”

Marcus sets the last of what we'll take into the wagon, looking about in confusion as he shoulders our burden. Hints of red at his ears express unwarranted pleasure. He glances at me more than he should when otherwise keeping a look out on the cave's entrance, as though expecting Morgan herself to waltz right in.

The wagon locks.
L'enigma insolubile
whirs as the door slams and the song dies. Our ears are finally spared, but the silence after hangs low. Jaded exhaustion weighs on our faces as we hitch the wagon to Merlin's horse. The sorcerer mounts the steed, snuff box at his fingertips.

“Vivienne, we ride out.” He glances at Marcus. “You've done enough, and the girl is in good hands. Your gracious services are no longer welcome.”

“Wait,” Marcus says before letting an eternity of silence pass, like a battle stronger than the magnitude of Morgan's forthcoming war possesses his mind. He steps forward in defiance. “You're not in Camelot yet. Le Fay might be near.” And when he speaks, it's like he's betrayed another.

At my horse's side, I'm searching for words that would build a fortress strong enough to keep Marcus from the truth. “My lord,” I say. Marcus glances at me. “Just go. Please.”

Do whatever it is you're out here for, and stay out of the sorcerer's affairs.

Do this so that I can stop thinking about how I'll have to ask you to be a part of something that might kill you.

“I'll explain everything later.” I'm not sure it's a promise I'm ready to keep.

Marcus takes a step. “Not two weeks ago, the witch threatened your life. How could I claim to be honorable if I let you return guarded only by a wizard?”

“I told you I'd be fine!” I hiss, feeling my eyes widening.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Enough, boy. You've already seen too much. Guinevere's maid is perfectly safe in my keep.” He won't mention how his apprentice of seven years is more than capable of dealing with his quirks. “Be gone now.”

But Marcus ignores him. “He's an addict in possession of magical metal without saying what it's for—”

“It's not—”

“And you, boy,” Merlin growls, “don't understand how deep this all goes! Vivienne knows what she's gotten herself into. She doesn't need you to save her.”

“I know that, wizard.” Marcus glares at Merlin, and then turns to me. “I'm not trying to save you. I'm saying I'm not leaving your side.” With one look, he tells me he cannot be swayed in this.

Please, Marcus. Please just go …

Merlin's eyes flash. “And that is where you're weak. Why are you out here anyway? We both know it's not for family—isn't that so? I don't have time to waste on Lancelot's temper if he were to find this out. Be gone!”

Marcus gauges Merlin with suspicion. “I don't trust you, Merlin.”

And I don't miss how Marcus ignores Merlin's question.

The sorcerer flicks an eyebrow, the few words the squire does speak able to bring humility over him. His horse stills.

“Strange how I wish you would.” Merlin glances at the sky. Dusk will arrive in a few short hours. He gauges Marcus as though searching for clues. “Huh. You, on the other hand, I do trust. Perhaps your place in this plan is more detailed than I thought.” He huffs a sigh. “Oh, very well. Ride with Vivienne.”

He flees for the woods.

Marcus and I face one another. I look for judgment in his eyes, but find none. “There's no going back if you choose this road.”

He steps closer.

“Things cannot be unseen or taken back. And I've seen much already without you by my side, you do realize?”

After a moment, he nods. “I know.”

How
would he know? But we cannot discuss this now. I return the nod.

Foregoing the stirrups, he helps me atop the horse. I lay my legs to the side, and he climbs up behind me. “And here I thought you didn't ride,” he whispers in my ear, his voice shaped in a smile. He seizes the reins and kicks the horse into a fast gallop. An arm goes around my waist. Though I'm certain we're going to lose our balance, I won't pretend it doesn't bring a bit of blush to my cheeks.

The sorcerer waits at the limits of the woods, looking upon our path with unease.

“What is it?” I ask. Then I see the difference myself.

The woods we left were forest green, speckled with brown and other natural colors. But now, a bright shade of emerald smears each tree. Their shapes are uniform. Branches bow over the pathway, but they're not armlike anymore, they're arms. Arms of leaves and fingers. Body parts with eyes that shut when you look for them. The woods are alive. The woods look nearly human.

“God save us,” Marcus whispers.

Merlin clears his throat. “Nothing to worry about. Come now.” He rides on.

We follow, dipping our heads as we pass under branches boasting skin on the bark, hair on the leaves. Moans have turned to rhythmic breaths. Merlin hacks at a tree in the way, and the branch swings down like a reaching arm, three prongs on the end like Morgan's red-apple nails.

Merlin withdraws his quicklight; Marcus does as well, handing me the reins. Two glowing spots of orange are the only conventional comforts in this place of natural and horrific beauty. Earlier, if only briefly, the woods reminded me of the gardens, where I usually feel at my most secure.

Now I find myself craving the familiar mechanical world of Camelot.

Our horses' footsteps are loud.

We've been riding for hours with no end in sight. With no extra
jaseemat
for Caldor, we rely on Merlin's memory to return to Camelot. But now we should find another route, use Marcus's knowledge of these parts to take us around the woods.

Before I can suggest it, Merlin points across the way to a tree—the very same one from no more than several hours ago, hanging dead with three prongs reaching for the ground. I turn in Marcus's arms to look at it, nauseating horror coming over me as taunting apple blossoms sprout into bright, tempting fruit.

Merlin glances about. “The path is looped. It's Morgan's magic.” His horse patters to a stop. “We never should have taken this path.”

Marcus breathes out in frustration. “There must be a way out. There cannot be—”

“There is a way out,” Merlin says. He glances up at the ceiling of the woods, now black instead of green. “It's a simple spell. She doesn't mean to harm us, or trap us indefinitely. She means to do something much worse.”

I fear I already know what he'll say. “What, Merlin?”

“This is how she'll force me to steal magic.” He tilts his head. “So soon, Morgan?”

My fingernails dig into my palms. “Merlin, you wouldn't.” Though I'm not so sure now. I remember how he looked in the midst of Corbenic's attack—he was tempted.

The sorcerer clicks his tongue at the stilled horse, which reluctantly starts again. “Perhaps I'm wrong. Let's go a little further as I stretch my mind for ideas.” He studies the encased arrow on his gloved hand before remembering the immobile Caldor. “Keep an eye out for poppies. I could use a smoke.” He laughs once.

I tug at our horse's reins to start again, but its steady pace can't temper my worries. Even Marcus's arm tightening around my waist does nothing for my nerves.

Merlin halts his steed.

“Merlin?” I straighten as though it would help me see better. It doesn't. “Merlin, we must turn around—”

“Shhh.” Merlin dismounts, landing soundlessly on a bed of leaves. He limps toward something sitting against a tree.

“Tha
t wasn't there before,” I whisper hastily.

Merlin kneels. Leaning against the skinlike bark is an armored man, still as death, sitting next to a
fusionah
covered in leaves. I shudder as the orange glow from Merlin's quicklight illuminates skyward eyes, a look of horror, the indication of hunger. Something hangs on the mouth of the soldier. Merlin removes the black helmet, revealing a gray face with a wound square in one temple. The man's jaw is covered in iron plates, nailed in place with steel bolts. Marcus and I look away.