Camelot Burning (20 page)

Twenty-Three

Marcus clutches me tighter and tighter as the wind torpedoes around us until I feel as though we'll be torn from the earth and launched into the sky—

Then it stops.

My cheek against his pounding chest, I open my eyes and look around. We're in a wet green field with no sign of the woods breaking through such a ruthless gray fog. I gasp for air, forcing myself to take in as much as possible, but I'm trembling like mad, and Marcus is no better off.

“What the hell?” he manages with wild eyes.

White knuckles clutching my
fusionah
, I pull away, searching for any sign of Morgan, but she's not here. I pace the raw land as though it could somehow reveal Merlin instead.

“Merlin,” I breathe in a wavering voice, wishing I had all but forced him to bring me here. “I'm so sorry … ”

Marcus reaches for my arm. “He isn't here.”

“Where did he go?” I scream, too hysterical to care about Merlin's last words: run from the sorceress who knows my face. Return to Camelot's land before she finds us. “He can't still be in there with that—that
witch
!
”

“You didn't hear him, did you?” Marcus shouts loudly enough that my attention is all his. He grabs my shoulders and brushes the tangled hair from my cheeks. “In your head—the wizard's voice? He said he'd return to the clock tower.”

It stills me just the slightest, our proximity only helping. “The clock tower?” I whisper. Merlin used
Sensu Ahchla
on Marcus, too.

Marcus nods. “He spoke to me like I'm speaking to you now. Said to return you to the castle after nightfall because you don't know the path, and Camelot depends on your safe arrival.” He blinks. “A strange thing to say about a lady-in-waiting.”

Merlin never told him what we needed the steel for.

I look to the horizon, ignoring Marcus's words. My eyes search for markers that could direct us back to Camelot.

But the land is strange. The ground was just rained upon. A hopeful sign, meaning these parts were struck by the same storm as the woods. But I can't see Merlin's tower in any direction. “Where are we?”

Marcus shields his eyes from the ugly white sky and looks across the terrain as the fog lifts. “Beyond the farmlands. I don't know these parts.”

I've never seen a sky so cold.

“Merlin told me she wouldn't be able to find us once we reached Camelot's land. It must have been too much to
steal to get us—” I bite my lip at the thought. “He wanted to protect me. When I return, I must meet him … ”

I've said a lot. Marcus takes my hand. He squeezes once and nods, and my eyes lock on the serene, sleepy color of his. Now he must know there's more to me than my duty as the queen's handmaid.

But he doesn't press further. “All right.” He gauges the sky and drops my hand, pointing across the land. “There. That forest's formation I recognize. Three hours away, at most.”

I look for the marker he's identified, but everything looks the same. And with such loud gallops—

I freeze. Hold my breath. Face the horizon behind us. Through the fog, I make out trees too far off to reach by foot. Galloping from them is a white horse. Riding it, a woman with frightfully long, white hair. A black cloak follows her like a flock of ravens flapping their wings. I feel the blood drain from my face.

“She's—” I cannot breathe.

Marcus whips around. “Go! Now!” His hand yanks me after him.

Morgan's screams blend into the wind.
“Wretched, ungrateful boy! Your betrayal will cost your mother her life!”

We race through the wet field, able to hide from Morgan as we run under a shield of willow branches.
Fusionah
tight in hand, I twist to shoot at Morgan. I only have one shot. There'll be no time to reload. The barrel explodes with enough force to rattle my skeleton. I miss.

A bolt of lightning strikes my hand. I scream. My skin singes, and the weapon boils from inside out into a puddle of liquid metal. Marcus shakes me free of it.

“Drop it!”

It falls from my hand, and now we're running unarmed. The witch's cries surround us with no source of their deafening tone. Light infects each tree's trunk, each branch, each falling teardrop of green foliage. Fire blasts them alive like the woods we escaped.

“Enough of this,” Marcus grunts. His free hand finds a miniature
fusionah
in a hidden leather holster under his jacket. My eyes widen.

He fires once, twice, a third time, a fourth. All deflect off Morgan's upraised palm. Out of ammunition, Marcus strikes the ground with the now-useless weapon.

“Futile attempt, thief! Your mother's life for the handmaid!”

Marcus and I sprint toward a blessed meadow. I pray it's one he recognizes.

“Not yet!” he screams, like he's heard my prayer. Refuge from Morgan is out of reach. But there's hope. Marcus juts his chin toward land shrouded by clouds as black as charcoal. Rain devastates the grass. “There!”

The land is still far off, but I want to cry with happiness all the same. There's no air to breathe, and my lungs feel like they might collapse upon themselves. Slices of light singe the ground. I hazard a look back, but there's no sight of Morgan. I look forward: she's right there.

We come to a stop in the thick mud. My eyes go wide. My heart leaps with fear.

Marcus darts left. “This way!” We weave through trees surrounding the meadow.

I look back at the laughing face of the witch. She vanishes, but lightning slams into the ground.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.

“Keep down!” Marcus shouts. We run and run and run, breathless now, headed for a cornfield. Marcus tenses with worry, but his voice lies well. “We're going to make it.” And because Merlin trusts him, so must I.

My boots dig into the wet grass. My lungs rasp for air. Marcus clings to my hand, and we make it to rows of corn as a burst of heat hits us.

“Get down!” Marcus shouts.

We drop to our knees, hidden by stalks quickly decapitated of their fruit by bolts of fire. Push through until we're hidden. My palms flatten against wet earth. Marcus reaches for my elbow, keeping me close. We still ourselves as clouds billow over us. Celestial or evil light searches the land.

“Oh God,” I whisper, catching my breath. Marcus's grip on me loosens enough that he can run his thumb over my skin.
We'll be all right. We will.

Light vanishes, and bursts of thunder go silent. The land eases into its natural form.

“How does she know you?” I demand in a shaking voice. “Is
that why you left before the attack? You told Morgan the king left Camelot!”

“What? No! God, no!” His face twists at the very thought of it.

“Why did you have a firelance when you said they'd be useless against her?” I hiss. “How would you even know that unless you're one of those black-armored bastards?”

He's shaking his head. “You have to trust me. I'll never betray Arthur or Camelot or you.”

“How can I trust you?” I demand, pressing closer, my fingers tight around his wrist. She mentioned betrayal. She mentioned an informant.

“Please.” Wind torpedoes around us, and he yanks his wrist free to grasp my cheek. “As you won't tell me your secrets, don't ask me for mine. Not now.”

We stare at one another, waiting out the heavy silence. I must let it go. At least until we return to Camelot. I comfort myself knowing Merlin trusted Marcus. “Is she gone?” I ask, my voice too afraid to go above a whisper. “Can she see us?”

Marcus won't risk standing. He peeks through the stalks. “Don't know. But we're on the edge of the eastern farmlands. Merlin said we'd be safe once we reached them?”

I nod.

The shine of brass catches my eye. I glance at a chain-link fence on the outskirts of the field, no more than fifty feet away. Wooden beams separate the wild, wet land from cultivated earth. There's a harvester on the other side with a copper cylinder serving as a primitive exhaust pipe, terribly blackened from smoke. A small furnace filled with whitened charcoal sits beneath the padded seat where underneath I recognize the fuel reservoir this contraption requires. Birds nest on the overhead iron arm with a large scoop, able to yank weeds from the earth. Merlin would never let something so dangerous or poorly maintained anywhere near his clock tower.

Marcus settles beside me. “I can't tell where the borders are. We need to keep moving.”

As he speaks, the sky darkens with the same charcoal clouds as before. I blink as drops of rain find my face.

“My lady, please,” Marcus says with a gentle pull of my elbow. Our faces are so close as the rain drenches us. The harvester creaks from the gale's wind. The scent of fuel wafts over to me.

Then the sky lights up with a harsh, green light. In the east, strange lightning searches. For something. For someone. Blasts of thunder have the voice of a witch. She won't stop. She won't stop until all of this is hers.

“No,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “I won't be afraid of her.” I boldly reach into Marcus's right pocket—

“What the hell—”

—for his quicklight. With it, I stand tall enough to tear through cornstalks for the forgotten, rusted contraption.

“Wait!” Marcus reaches for my boot, but I've already pulled away. I've seen contraptions like this harvester before. I have to buy time to perfect Victor.

I have to try.

“My lady!” Marcus shuffles to his feet after me. “You don't know what she's capable of!”

Merlin's told me what traditionally happens when contraptions such as these are under intense pressure. He's shown me what kind of damage they can cause.

Twist the exhaust pipe. Start a fire.

Light blinds me. I feel my way through the barbed stalks until my outstretched hand finds a cold, rusty chain.

“What are you doing?” Marcus shouts, not far behind.

“Just a few seconds … ” I whisper. For this to work, Morgan must be close.

I step over the chains. Glancing past the harvester, I see Morgan le Fay in the wet field. Her eyes find mine. Her steps toward me are determined.

I wind up the crank on the machine. It spurts alive, but before it moves, I kick a rock under the wheel to keep it immobile. I hold my breath and step atop the seat. My hands find the copper exhaust pipe, and it's just as thin as I'd expected, especially with years of tarnish finding a home here, cool enough to soothe my reddening hand.

“My lady!” Marcus calls.

“On my word, run,” I say, my terrified eyes locked on Morgan. There are blessed tools next to the farmer's seat, and below, an iron wrench with an adjustable gauge. Morgan is approaching fast, and her hand is cast forward. Her lips are moving. Every passing second feels like an eternity.

“What?” Marcus shouts, leaping over the fence like his legs were meant for it.

The wrench twists the pipe, sealing it off. I flick the quicklight against my boot. The flame keeps burning despite the downpour. She's close now. My eyes find Marcus's. He knows what I'm going to do. Seconds until her hands will find my neck.

I drop the fire into the fuel reservoir and shut the gate.

“Run!”

Twenty-Four

Marcus yanks me down from the harvester and over the fence. We sweep our arms across the stalks, clearing a path as branches scratch our cheeks.

Morgan screams magic behind us.

But then there's a blast.

We run faster and faster as the fire follows us into the eastern farmlands. Heat penetrates the air.

“Damn it all,” Marcus whispers. His hand grips mine. “There!”

Ahead, where the forest disappears into burnt remains stands a lone, weather-beaten barn on Camelot's land, two stories tall with a creaky door slamming from the wind.

We reach it. Marcus yanks the door open and then slams it closed behind us. Our backs push flat against wood. The cries of the witch die as Merlin's thievery of magic hides us. The battering rain is silenced. Our breaths are in sync. Fast-paced, terrified.

“I owe you a quicklight,” I whisper.

Marcus smiles. “My birthday's in December,” he says through jagged breaths.

I glance at our fingers, still interwoven. He inhales sharply as though he's noticed just as I have. With hesitation, he unravels his hand from mine, running his fingers through the back of his hair and returning them to his pockets.

My hand is cold.

I take a long breath. I knew the explosion wouldn't be enough to kill Morgan, but I might have bought much-needed time.

I ignore the heavy thumping of our hearts and focus on the barn. The walls have been reinforced with iron beams to stand strong against farmland storms that would “drain the world in a blue mess, crack against the sky, and run across the fields, only to pick up speed as they went along,” Marcus tells me.

“Whose place is this?” I ask.

He steps toward a narrow staircase. It leads to a loft hanging over some empty stables. “My parents and their neighbors sometimes keep mares in here.”

We stand staring at each other, unspoken words fighting their own battle between us. He cocks his head to the side. “Spare blankets. Come on.” I hesitate as tremors pulsate through my veins, but Marcus's smile is enough to calm me. “We'll wait out the storm. I'll … tell you what I can.” The stairs wind around a fireplace empty of ashes or any other signs of use. Marcus shrugs. “Need to keep the horses warm somehow. You've never seen farmland storms.”

The landing brings us to a work station set up with tools and wrought-iron welded into decorative clocks and the like. Marcus ushers me toward a tall window where underneath there's a low bench. The sky flashes with strange lightning, but we're safe, and the awning at least keeps the space dry.

I sit, shivering and crossing my arms for warmth and modesty. My dress and cloak are soaked, and my skirt is horribly muddy. I open my palms to a thick layer of dried weeds and dirt and wipe them on the cold, wet fabric covering my thighs. Marcus shrugs off his blazer and sets it over my shoulders. He tears his eyes from the dress hanging off my skin to search inside a nearby trunk, pulling out a woolen blanket.

“Here.” The blanket goes around me, and it's not terribly soft, but keeps out the chill. Marcus's hand lingers on mine as he closes the edges into my grasp. He pulls back the fingers of my right hand to check the red welt splayed across my palm.

“I'll live,” I say.

He sits next to me, head against the window frame. One muddy boot rests on top of the other, and he crosses his arms.

We keep to our own thoughts. Lost in the idea of what could have happened.

I glance up. “You're not cold?”

He shrugs and then shakes his head. “I'm all right.”

But I blew up a harvester as any amateur inventor would know how to do. Not a lady-in-waiting, certainly. Marcus must have questions about that, but as the quiet passes, it doesn't feel uncomfortable. His presence is calmer now that we're on Camelot's land, but still cautious, as though he might not trust Merlin's magic to do what was promised.

“The limes I stole all those years ago, the ones that could have put me in the stocks if Lancelot hadn't come to my defense … they belonged to a healer,” he says, fingers fidgeting in his lap. “Earlier this year, Lancelot and I passed through the same village, and there was the healer—Morgan le Fay, exiled, hiding from the rest of the world. She found me while Lancelot was off with some noblewomen and claimed she was owed for the opportunity to become a knight's squire. She promised me something if I could get her blueprints of Excalibur.”

I'm quiet, my heart twitching from the treason Marcus is dangerously close to.

He looks at me. “I saw Excalibur after the wedding as the knights discussed what to do in case Arthur's sister returned. I was terrified that if she came back, it'd be to finish the job before I could do it myself. Too much time had passed, and Lancelot and I were late returning to Camelot. I thought she'd recant on our deal. I was desperate, but I couldn't search for blueprints with so many present.”

I know this is because of his mother, even though he doesn't say what Morgan offered in return. I think of my own family, however insufferable sometimes, and I understand Marcus completely.

“I hated myself for this. And then you asked me to show you Excalibur, and it was reason enough to try again. But I saw her threaten your life. I saw the farmlands burn. I had to save my own mother from flames that reeked of the witch herself, and when I finally found Arthur's blueprints with you not three feet away, I couldn't do it. It's why I went to the farmlands this morning, to tell Morgan so, but now she'll … ” He bites his lip. “You're sure those in the infirmary were not affected?”

“Promise.” A silence passes before I find the courage to speak again. “My lord?”

He looks at me.

“We can't let Morgan claim Camelot,” I whisper.

He doesn't answer. He stares past the awning at the black sky. “As soon as the rain lets up, we should run. The gales out here don't reach the castle.”

I nod. “How much further?”

He looks at me in surprise. “Take your viewer and look.”

I frown. My fingers find the inventor's tool in my pocket and aim it at the castle. I peer into the eyepiece and click down two extra lenses.

My lips part, but I can't find the words.

In front of me, through the rain, is a perfect view of Camelot untouched by storm and rebuilding itself stronger after Corbenic's attack. Clouds tumble across the sky, slow unfurling bodies of gray looking like they'll ambush the kingdom, but never do. From where I sit, I can see deep into the clock tower. And inside, curled by his window's ledge, Merlin sits holding a cup of tea. Exhausted, pale-faced, but alive.

Alive.

“He made it,” Marcus says. “Miraculously in one piece. Told you.”

I breathe, letting the weight of it drop from my shoulders. Merlin disappears behind the curtain unscathed.

Marcus takes a breath, too. “From here, you see a lot. You learn the faces of Camelot, their passions, their secrets. For example, how many blonde girls are up in the castle's tallest point, building gadgets with a wizard?”

I face him, my lips parting in surprise as I register his words.

He looks at his crossed boots. “I saw you for the first time months before I left to be Lancelot's page. I was only twelve. You might as well know you've fascinated me for that long.” He confesses it in a low voice with no trace of lightheartedness.

But there's pride. He knew. When he saw me with Merlin, he wasn't nearly as surprised as he should have been, and this is why. Same goes for my crossbow or how I demanded to see Excalibur.

All I want now is to forget Avalon and Morgan and the dangers we faced today. I want to cast aside all responsibilities Camelot has given me and the charge of treason Marcus could face if someone were to know what he told me. I want to tell him everything about the clock tower, and even more of my willpower disappears as I realize how intensely he's looking at me and I feel myself looking back in the same way. His smile fades, and he glances at my lips.

Then, a crash of thunder. Marcus looks outside and then back at me. We read each other's minds, but he reacts faster. He grabs my hand.

“It's getting worse. We have to go.”

My blanket falls, but I hold tightly to his blazer. I follow him down the stairs, out the door, and into the storm where, other than this barn, there's no shelter in sight. Instantly, he's in a sprint, and I need to keep up. Rain floods the land.

“This is absurd!” I shout as thunder overtakes the skies. I drop his hand, unable to imagine myself running in this impossible weather for a castle that's still too far off. My body turns to ice as the rain drenches us. “Let's wait in the barn.”

Marcus looks about, ignoring the rain falling from each lock of hair in slow drips. His skin shines, and the linen of his tunic sticks to his chest. He rubs my shaking arms. “Could be hours. Morgan won't find you. I promise. The sorcerer trusted me to return you.”

“You want to run in a storm such as this? It's much more sensible to wait—”

“No, it's not—”

“It's not even dark yet! Merlin said to wait until nightfall so no one would spot us.”

He looks as though he'll give in, but when he catches sight of the barn something else keeps him strong.

I can't stop from shaking. “Please. I'm freezing.”

His hands run over my arms again, his muscles pulsating for warmth. The linen he wears is now no more than a wet rag. When he gives me a small shake of the head, I know what he's afraid of.

“My lord—”

“I can't.”

His fingers reach to touch my hair, but he has the good sense to stop himself. “I realized it when you set foot in there. When I finally met you, I didn't expect I'd … ” He blinks wildly. “To be in there with you alone, for perhaps hours
…
”

I frown, cursing the temptation—the fire around us I'm dying to embrace. Fire is a relentless villain. “Why did you tell me all this?” I demand.

He clenches his hands. “I don't know.” He pulls away, the distance an eternity. “Because I had to know what it was like to be near you. Because I'd seen you so many times—”

“Why hold me behind a column on a balcony to … Why knighthood if … ” I can't finish the thought, not when the reason is his mother. He doesn't answer, and I knew he wouldn't.

I feel like that moment after several drops of green fairy, right before you've had too much. You wonder what harm a little more could do, and when you have it, you realize it was for the worst the next day. But perhaps this could be the one—

His hand grabs mine and pulls me after him. He must be able to read my thoughts. “We need to return to Camelot.”

I stand my ground. Owen's warning, and Merlin's, they scream in my ears. “We're already going to catch our death of cold—”

“Yes, we are. But there are many ways to make it worse. Please.”

Owen was wrong. It wasn't a boyish fawning Marcus felt for me. I drop his hand. “More time to get warm. A fire to ward off the chill.”

Marcus's muscles shake from the cold. The ever-present smile on his face has vanished. Now he stares at me with freezing red lips on a white face. “Do you know what might happen if I were to go back in there with you after what I told you? After what we just went through? Don't you realize I might fall further and then have to leave? Do you really trust us to be alone in there, and not forget the vow I will one day take? Do you trust yourself?”

To not lie would mean inevitable heartbreak; I don't know why I speak the truth. “No, I don't.” My voice is barely a whisper. I drop my arms and give in to the sin in me that wants him more than heaven.

He moves toward me slowly but without pause. I hold my breath, unable to read his face especially with the rain.

“Hell,” he breathes.

Then he's too close, and I won't move away—not when his hands clasp either side of my face and draw me flush against his body; not when he breathes against my cold mouth—whether it's out of hesitation or an attempt to savor all of this, I'm not sure.

He kisses me, fingers all at once in my wet hair, pressing against my back from under his jacket. The rain from his locks drips onto my lips, letting me taste parts of him I'd only breathed before. The back of his throat emits a moan traveling from his mouth to mine. Flashes of light pulsate in the sky, but we're hidden from Morgan, and nothing will find us tonight.

He lifts me, pulls away far enough to breathe against my lips. My eyes open. The violet slits of his eyes watch me with lust and disbelief. He carries me for the short strides to the barn, hastily forcing the door open. It shuts behind us, the refuge saving us from the ruthless, bewitching gale.

He sets me against the wall, his mouth lingering a hair's width from my own, palms on the wooden planks behind me. I dart my tongue across my bottom lip as my hands coil up in small fists against his chest.

His body leans into mine. We breathe in together as our kiss turns from desperate and sudden, to slow and full. His fingers trail down my arms to my waist. My balled fists stretch around to the back of his neck, under the hair dripping rain onto my fingers.

He takes my lip between his teeth and bites gently, breathing out as rationality takes him.

“I can't go any further. For your sake and mine.”

I try to respond, but it's a whimper. His lips return to my lips, and my shoulders slump so his jacket and my cloak fall to the ground. His fingers clutch my waist and slide down the wet fabric to my hips as his discipline weakens. I feel the sides of my dress shift, the hem lifting as he rolls the pleats into his fists. My sensibility returns.

I still his hands. His mouth freezes against mine, but I'm the first to pull away, tasting my lips while he catches his breath. He squeezes my palms and then drops them, using the wall as leverage to push himself off. Our clothes are wet, and wrinkled lines decorate our bodies from pressing against each other. The linens are transparent. We each look away.