Camelot Burning (29 page)

Marcus stands not far off holding a smoking
fusionah
. His eyes go wide when he sees me. “Vivienne!” He breaks into a run.

Then Morgan's blood-soaked grip is tight around my throat, forcing me to stare into her demonic, white eyes. Marcus fires again. He misses. I dig my nails into Morgan's icy wrists. The blacksmith turns from the dead drones at his feet and throws his
fusionah
into the air. It lands a good distance behind me.

I reach back, and my hand falls upon its familiar shape of twisted metal—

The fingernails of Morgan's other hand grasp my temples, and there's a flash of light—

But then another fusionah blasts. This time straight into her forehead. This she cannot avoid. Her fingers drop from my skin.

She stares at me in confusion. Her eyes narrow on the hot
fusionah
in my hand. “An apprentice?”

Morgan collapses like a rag doll at my feet. Through a break in the smoke, the blacksmith nods, folding over to rest his hands on tired knees. Marcus slides in the dirt to my side as the smell of burnt trees and grass envelops us. I throw my arms around his shoulders, and he pulls me into an embrace.

“It's all right,” I say. When I look up again, the blacksmith is gone.

But around us, drones disengage, one at a time. Shut off, fall dead. Freed from their magical bindings. Human again.

Finally.

Victor glides above the land, burning the bodies of Morgan's dead, leaving knights and warriors intact for proper burials. Then it lands in front of Azur. War has taken a toll on both man and machine.

“Well done, old friend,” Azur says. “You can let go now, but not for the next world. Meet me in Jerusalem and I will restore you. The Grail awaits.”

The monster falls still, its mace-like tail shortening to the mechanical one I built, eyes black and lifeless. A burst of steam escapes from the valve at the top and whistles to nearly nothing.

The ghost within finds the sky, the form no longer a man. I can hear Merlin now, “Let the Trojans have their horse while Camelot has her dragon.”
Like rhythmic tides under moonlight, he flies in waves as though he's done it for centuries. As though he always had a monster dwelling inside.

With a final look to the fallen castle, the great weapon of Camelot soars east, letting a strong current guide him to Jerusalem.

“Goodbye, Merlin,” I whisper in amazement.

Azur walks amongst his dead, kneeling and uttering prayers. He closes their eyes. Those who survived sing funeral hymns.

The stillness is peppered with slow, agonizing cries of the dying. I walk amongst them, knights and squires and serfs I've known my entire life now in desperate need of the Grail's protection against death. Blood spills from their mouths. Eyes glaze over in pain at the loss of hands or entire arms. Stabs to the chest. Peeling skin. Most hopeless with fatal wounds. Warriors from Jerusalem, tranquil.

Up ahead, a bloodied Lancelot collapses in front of the king lying by Mordred's shriveled-up body, now an ugly tarnished bronze. The poor boy looks nearly too human with pitiful mechanical features.

Behind me, Guinevere races out onto the field with Galahad following.

“Arthur!” The queen falls to the blood-drenched ground and lays the king's head in her lap. I crouch next to her, and my hand finds her shoulder, squeezing gently, not feeling the thin fabric of her garment for the devastation surrounding us.

As Arthur wrenches Excalibur from Mordred's body, Lancelot kneels. “It can't be that bad,” the knight says.

Arthur cringes as he lifts his armor, pulling his tunic with it. Blood stains the queen's dress. I want to look away, but I catch a glimpse of purple and black skin peeling away from his serrated wounds, and my heart sinks.

“Can't say I've had worse.” Arthur's voice balances on a fine line between frightened tears and mortality. With this, he regards his champion. “Find Avalon, Lancelot. Send the knights to help Gawain's infantry. We've abandoned the legend that the coordinates are inside Camelot, but we can no longer afford to. Make sure all this wasn't done in vain.”

I should speak, tell the king we're close, that with Merlin's help—oh,
Merlin
—we could understand how it's all connected to me. I squeeze my fists around Guinevere's sleeve, but say nothing.

Lancelot nods. “We could have used you on the quest.” He forces a smile only a brother could offer, and I'm grateful my outpouring tears are quiet.

Arthur returns the smile. “If you'd been king, and I'd been your champion, Camelot would have found it long ago, my brother.”

Galahad stands close by. With a rough incline of his head, the king sputters, “Make sure it is so.” The knight nods.

Guinevere touches her husband's cheek. The king presses her hand to his lips. “Had this been your home, I'd have made sure you never suffered like you did in Lyonesse.” Arthur shakes with agony, pleading for a few more breaths. But death hears nothing and shuts his eyes. The king's hand falls to his chest, limp and lifeless.

Lancelot rises, running a hand over his face. Guinevere holds Arthur close and cries. I stand, looking across the land that is Camelot. Arthur's land. I wonder if all of this was for naught—if those here fought and died so Arthur would die, too. So strange it is to think only moments ago he was still here.

Then, across the way and through the trees, I make out a grayness that wasn't there before. “Oh God,” I breathe, running to the forest's edge.

The eastern farmlands originally spared, the barn we slept in, his family's home. On fire. All is gone but the remains of those who tried to escape. Even more ruthless is the horror that he who double-crossed Morgan would face.

I look back. Marcus approaches Guinevere and Lancelot, jogging from a band of squires helping the wounded inside the castle. He catches my eye and reads the dread on my face. When he looks past me, his lips part, and he rushes toward the fire and smoke.

He's swift and nearly passes me, but I hold him back.

“Gone. They're gone, Marcus,” I whisper.

He tries to free himself, teeth clenched with mania. Then he inhales a breath and holds it, the truth of it washing over him. He spurts out violent sobs as we fall to the ground. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his bloodied cheek as we watch.

Thirty-Six

The living retreat to the castle in silence.

I don't know how many survived. Perhaps thirty knights, forty serfs. Maybe more if I were feeling optimistic.

My brother catches up as Marcus and I pass over the drawbridge. Owen throws his arm around my shoulder and kisses my head. He doesn't say anything about Marcus's hand in mine. He wouldn't. Not now.

We're surrounded by memories of Morgan in a paradise now lost: shattered gallows, destroyed streets, and crumbled towers. Guards carry the bodies of fallen soldiers to lie in the gardens for now. Behind us, Lancelot and Galahad push a small wagon carrying the body of the once king, hand grasping Excalibur's hilt, sword's point at his feet. The gauntlet is warped from Mordred's hold. That which gave Arthur Camelot, a burden he never wanted, was the very thing to have seized his life. By way of his own blood, no less. The queen follows in tears, having quietly refused when I asked if she'd wish to have me by her side.

My father staggers at the king's corpse, clothes tattered even from the supposed safety of the archery front. When he sees Owen and me, his shoulders fall with relief. He assists Ector and Bors with carrying in the wounded.

Marcus and I meet Azur in the courtyard. The alchemist sets his goggles atop his turban and takes my hand. “Jerusalem will mourn Arthur's death. But those who died today died with honor. Never forget that.”

He waits, possibly to see if I'll ask to escape this wreckage for Jerusalem, to work alongside him to bring Merlin back—and how could that even be possible? But I don't ask to leave Camelot. I hug Azur goodbye, and with that, he knows I'll stay here for now to mourn the home we once knew.

Azur boards his aeroship, and it lifts off, sails beating the air, propellers guiding it east, following the rest of the fleet. The flags of Jerusalem lower to half-mast. A salute.

Marcus drops my hand. His eyes are red. “I'll take to the knights' quarters now.”

I nod, and he leaves.

We convene by the cliffs where the anvil that once held Excalibur stands covered in moss, skirted by long grass. Waves crash into the rock. I squint in the sunlight, searching for aeroships that might carry my mother and the rest of Camelot's subjects. But Owen says they'll likely take to the north for now. No one would want to see their home like this.

Few dress for the occasion, even if it is the funeral of Camelot's king.

As the earth falls over Arthur's shrouded body, Galahad reminds Lancelot of the king's last request: the Grail. The thought of
why bother?
drifts until the king's champion speaks.

“If we rebuild Camelot and find the Grail, our home can be the paradise Arthur wanted it to be. I owe him that.”

Lancelot holds Excalibur's shining blade, avoiding the armored sleeve. He regards the sword with an unreadable face and slams it into the anvil. It sparks as it slides into place and goes still to wait for the future king.

Guinevere stands next to her husband's champion. She finds me amongst the people, letting me see in her eyes how grateful she is for my part in this war. Lips form the words
thank you
even though the idea of gratitude feels foreign. I nod once.

Marcus clutches my hand. It's the first time I've seen him in days. He went to the farmlands after the fires died
and stayed there for a long time. Now he's distant and looks as though he's abandoned food and sleep. The slice on his face is a faint red line now. His eyes are dark.

There's another crash from the ocean. I look over the cliff and watch birds fly through the clouds. I think of Caldor. I think of Merlin.

Marcus leads me into the gardens.

In the privacy of barren trees and trampled flowers, he searches for words. My elm has been shattered to a splintered stump.

Finally, he speaks. “I have nothing left to fight for.”

I brush my fingers across his cheek. I have no words of comfort.

He takes a breath. “My mother was the only reason I had to become a knight or betray Camelot. I didn't even get to properly bury her. The last minutes with my father were ones of—” He stops, biting his quivering lip still. “Her apron was all that was left, tied to her waist.” His eyes finally meet mine. Oh God, their sadness. “I will seek the Grail.”

A tremor hits the back of my throat. My own lip quivers now. I wonder if this is the last time I'll look into his eyes and, if so, how will I remember them in the years to come?

He squeezes my hands. “They offered me a place in Galahad's infantry after my role in activating Merlin's machine. Gawain said there are rogues in Athens. Three months away at most before the Grail is within our grasp. Maybe I can make it up to Arthur. I did nearly hand Camelot over to Morgan.”

I turn so he won't see me cry. His arms circle my waist, and his chin rests on my shoulder. “Please, Vivienne.”

After a deep breath, I nod. “We knew this day would come.”

Guinevere's gown is modest, the color of sand. A veil covers her shorn hair. In the grand hall, she stands where she took her wedding vows, ready to see through her final act as queen before leaving for a nunnery in the north, leaving Lancelot to oversee the kingdom.

The blade in her hand is identical to the knight's. With hooks of copper instead of steel, it's the appropriate sword to knight Marcus with.

He kneels in front of Guinevere in a leather-lined blazer atop silver breastplates. Eyes kohled, fingers clenched around the tail of some dark fabric peeking out from his sleeve. He'll leave tonight in Galahad's infantry as a knight of Camelot. It could have been a very different outcome for Marcus, had the farmlands not burned, had his loyalty not swayed to Arthur's side.

Perhaps that's why she chose to burn them again.

I wonder if Marcus thinks of that.

I'm next to my father and brother by the window where the night is finally clear of smoke, showcasing a starry sky I haven't seen in days. Something flies across the moon, and for a moment, I think it might be Merlin and not the last aeroship to the north my father will insist I board. I suppose I should be elated that I'm finally leaving Camelot for another kingdom. But why do I feel empty instead?

The blade in Guinevere's hands touches Marcus's shoulders. He watches the queen with full eyes. “I knight thee Sir Marcus of Camelot.”

We applaud as Marcus rises. Lancelot embraces him, and Marcus smiles, but it's a different smile now. His eyes find mine just briefly, but I would swear we stared at each other for an eternity. Mine well from happiness and grief as I recall the joyous seconds we stole under the tree. In the barn. When he asked me to run away with him. His very words “For love?” the closest we got to saying it aloud.

A dark figure by the doors catches my eye. Outside, a tall man heads for the village.

It's the blacksmith, the masked man who gave me the
fusionah
that ended Morgan's life.

Inside my family's tower, it's quiet.

Smoke looms over my mother's dressing table, dusting her jewelry with ash. Guinevere's lace veil sits next to the music box, mended by my mother's meticulous hand. A spool of thread winds down the carpet. Outside, there are no aeroships bringing her back. No joyous voices above the crashes of waves. All that remains is the story of Avalon. A tale different from what everyone else knew.

My mother meant to tell me something before Morgan's War. What was it?

A knock at the door. Owen steps in. “You missed dinner.”

“Blood-thirsty handmaids do not live by bread alone.” I smile in hopes it could rid me of nightmares of Morgan's haunting death at my hand.

My brother reaches me at the window. There are unspoken words between us, but we leave it alone. I owe him everything for saving Marcus's life. “I didn't expect to see you at the knighting ceremony,” he says. The silver bolt in his ear is missing.

I watch the clock on Merlin's tower tick. The numbers are still there, save for the ones between the ten and the two. So strange to be away from it.

“It meant something to Marcus, having you there. You should know that.”

My fingers wrap around my hair and drop the tendril just as quickly. I know this. I don't want to be reminded of it. “You fought, too. You weren't knighted.”

“Don't deserve it. Maybe the quest will be my penance.” He smiles as if he isn't hurt by the snub.

I return his smile with as much happiness as I can manage. It isn't a lot.

Outside, the knights are preparing to leave. Setting off after dusk gives them a head start without facing daytime heat in armor right away. They talk amongst themselves, possibly sharing the news of Morgan's curse being lifted from the rest of the land. The alliance with Corbenic has been reinstated now that Lancelot sent word of Morgan le Fay's death. But news of Arthur hasn't left Camelot. Not yet.

Beyond the drawbridge, Marcus leads his horse to the lake. I look elsewhere, not about to cry at something as silly as the thought of never seeing him again.

Owen adjusts the furs about his shoulders in preparation for cool northern nights. His kohl-lined eyes are smudged. He takes my hand.

“Vivienne, there's something else you should know.”