Camelot Burning (8 page)

Surely, he would realize I'm not the kind to let this sort of thing go.

Horses arrive from the knights' quarters, their hollow footsteps barely heard in a panicked kingdom. Squires, including Marcus.

Marcus, who sees what lies beyond the city walls. I press the cloth to the girl's forehead and watch the upside-down scene of squires lining up in the rippling bowl. As ribbons of blood float around them, the squires still their horses, waiting for further instruction.

Marcus doesn't.

He rides to the gates. Dark-circled eyes look to the eastern farmlands just barely spared. People pass, but he's distracted, and his mouth parts in dread as the truth of what happened catches up. I watch him grip his horse's reins as though tied by them. Squires cannot leave the castle without permission, especially in an emergency such as this.

“Marcus!” Lancelot calls from the farmlands, throwing his fingers between his teeth and whistling when the boy doesn't turn. I look up as Lancelot rides for his squire.

“I need to make sure they're safe,” Marcus says, unable to look his knight in the eye.

Lancelot contemplates it, glancing back at the courtyard in case someone were watching. “Tell no one, and be discreet.”

Marcus takes a deep breath and glances across the range of people. He finds me amongst the dying, eyes so expressive but possibly not even registering mine. He kicks his steed, galloping past those returning with more wounded.

The burnt girl lying before me emits a pained cry. Her eyes roll into their backs as she shudders for breath. “My lady,” she rasps. “Tell me a story. A song. Anything. Please.”

Ladies of the court take up the dreaded practice of song, though I've never been very good. But I understand the request. Whenever ill as a child, I'd ask the same of my mother. I choose the one I know best:

“By the trees in Avalon,
Machines guard that which Camelot's son
Will one day find should all go well.
Rogues of España will come to dwell
In clouds above three kingdoms past
Following enlightened thinkers vast
Where sea and sky meet with a kiss,
The Grail, our hope, cannot be missed.”

My voice breaks with the last line. The girl's eyes are strange. “We didn't know it that way. Surely, the legend of Avalon was different in your world.” Her lip quivers, and her eyes lose focus, as though gazing into a childhood of farmland clouds and fields of grain. “No mentioning of the kingdom being in the sky.”

Calls from the burning land draw my attention back to the gates. I glance up as Marcus disappears through the smoke.

Arthur's advisors have found Merlin. As they fume about the absent king, the sorcerer catches my eye. He holds up a hand so naturally that the rest wouldn't notice, but his palm facing me is a message, one he's given me scores of times. When frustration at my inability to fix Terra builds so much, I'm near tears. When worries of my future, and who would decide it, make my stomach turn so horribly, I can't drink his tea.

When a witch assumed something about me, something I don't understand myself.

Fear not.

But Merlin makes no further acknowledgment. He never would with so many people watching. He disappears as the clock tower strikes four.

The sleeping girl clutching my hand stops breathing. Her fingers go limp. Death has chosen her, not me, and what a strange thing to see.

I stand in a crowd of many who are close to their own escapes from Camelot. The queen is amongst us, serfs unaware of who she is despite tanned skin peeking out from under her cloak's sleeves. She kneels before a man twice her age with blackened feet, teeth grinding in torment, and mutters quiet words. A prayer, likely one Camelot wouldn't condone.

I stay with the nuns even though Merlin has left. All concern for my safety has waned: my mother doesn't bat an eye at my disobedience when she finds me helping. The knights come and go as the hours pass.

Guinevere clutches a scarf wrapped around her wrist. From time to time, she holds it to her lips. It must be a memento from the king, her champion.

I look closer. It's lace.

Lace that must have been from someone in Lyonesse, because Arthur never would have heard of it here in Camelot.

Ten

“What makes you sure you saw them to begin with?”

Even though it's only Lancelot, I feel like the entire world must be waiting for my answer. Behind him, Guinevere sits on her wrought-iron throne, slouched and annoyed at how he practically harasses me as members of Arthur's council whisper beside her, glancing frequently at their timepieces.

They stopped the fire from spreading east, and the days that followed were bleak. A cloud of gray ash hangs over Camelot even still to remind us of what Morgan can do. When it disappears, the stark quiet might be interrupted all too soon by King Pelles's army for the retribution promised. If that isn't enough, word passes through the court that Arthur fled Camelot despite the wizard's protests. Reasons as to why run rampant. Days have passed without even a minute to escape to the clock tower.

And right now, while everyone else in Camelot either remains oblivious to what I blurted out in front of Arthur or couldn't possibly care less about the imaginative concoctions of Morgan's temporary captive, Lancelot is the only one who demands to know more.

“I'm not sure,” I whisper as my fingers touch the faint red line on my cheek, unable to recall any additional details about the black-armored soldiers. It's not the answer he wants.

But I'm too tired to think straight. Too exhausted to believe half of the farmlands are gone. I carry guilt on my shoulders at the thought of my bedroom untouched by Morgan's flames; I carry fear in my heart for what more she could have done. It could have been me in their place. To dream of demonic soldiers in what little sleep I've gotten is nowhere near penance enough compared to what the serfs have gone through.

Each one I pass in the courtyard is a reminder I haven't seen Marcus with the knights tending to what's left of the farmlands.

I find myself worrying about him more than a lady should of a squire.

“Then why speak up at court when it's not your place?” Lancelot growls. Once again, his gentleman's jacket appears too restraining for the fire inside.

“I don't know,” I whisper.

Guinevere keeps a steady eye on him. “Stop this, Sir Lancelot.”

From what my father has told me about the wild knight, I shouldn't be surprised by his short temper. If he were a squire, I'd lose my patience. But he wants to believe me.

His eyes shut. “If there was something at the gates, I need to know all I can.” They open to mine. “Think, girl.”

“I said already: there were hundreds. They wore black armor, their eyes glowed red. They were ghosts if I didn't imagine it.” My fingers clutch my temples. My head pounds from sleepless nights. One of Arthur's waxed-moustached advisors rolls his eyes at the waste of time he must think this is.

But maybe that's enough for Lancelot. “Then we'll have to be ghosts ourselves as we hunt.” He makes his way for the door without a dismissal or goodbye.

The same advisor perks up as the rest of the old men awaken. “Sir Lancelot?”

Guinevere stands, her gaze never leaving the knight. “Where do you think you're going?” Her champagne dress with a magnificent bone corset is dramatic for the early audience. Unkohled, natural eyes watch Lancelot make a point to ignore her and storm off, his walk like a devil's.

She marches after him, grabbing his arm. “Orders were to stay here!”

“There's no time for orders as such. Arthur will one day see my intentions were to save his kingdom. In a day, I could have the witch dead. Your handmaid's account is proof of the evils Morgan'll bring.”

“Do not think you know more than me about Morgan's evils,” the queen declares. Her eyes are unafraid to challenge his in the way one argues passionately with a companion, not a member of court she has just met. “Your duty is here.”

But Lancelot is not ashamed by her scolding words. “I've never known you to defend irrationality.”

I try to internalize Lancelot's strange words, but I must ask, “How would you kill Morgan if her legion is real? They were not normal men.”

Lancelot stops at the door. “I have to try.” His voice lowers to an angry hush. “Arthur should have stayed in Camelot. I've never been so angry about his judgment.”

“
You're
angry?” Guinevere's voice rises. “I awoke to an empty bed, the last to know my husband left to seek the sister he barely knew while the farmlands burned!”

“I know Morgan's guilt as much as you,” Lancelot says. “We both saw what kind of darkness there is in the world.” A foreign lightness appears in his eyes, one that reminds me of Morgan's translucent skin. It soon vanishes. But he steps even closer, able to touch the queen if he so wished.

That lightness appears in Guinevere's eyes, too. “Stop it.” Her voice lingers on a cliff of tears.

Lancelot glances sideways at her. “I don't mean to belittle your feelings.” The angry edge in his voice strives for a softer tone.

“Of course not! Like always, your eyes are on the prize—”

“I admit it's true! Had Arthur sent a handful of knights instead, the problem of Morgan would be long forgotten now, freeing up our time for more important matters. We cannot grieve forever.”

I hate that I agree with the scoundrel. “My lady, there's merit in what—”

“That'll be all, girl!” Lancelot growls impatiently.

My eyes narrow, but it's no longer my place to speak. Guinevere waves me off with a silent apology. I curtsy and leave behind the muttering advisors who will seek a pint after this.

I look back only once at the queen and champion regarding each other with zealous, vehement anger. Guinevere's eyes dart to mine. A cold-white glow turns them into two full moons laced with dishonorable intentions.

I pull the door shut behind me. She's never looked at me that way before.

There's a strangeness spilling into Camelot.

The court will dine in the grand hall tonight. To keep the faith while Camelot mourns her dead. To live our lives in the midst of tragedy and danger.
To indulge in the curried beef they'd already made anyway.

Guinevere makes no attempt to recover her lavender gown. “As many as you wish, Vivienne. Take them all.”

She searches her boudoir, tearing out gown after gown. When she offers a smile, I can't tell if she's putting on airs, ignoring how she threw cool eyes at me earlier. “Keep the veil, too.” She shrugs. “Lace was so
common
in Lyonesse. Millennia could pass without me needing to see that wretched thing again.” She speaks too much about trinkets and costumes after such anger overcame her earlier.

Tonight, I am a doll for her to dress up. A way to distract, I suppose. She chooses for me a scarlet gown whose sleeves drop to the floor with grace and copper ties. There's a bronze corset atop, and she loans me a wire necklace that barely fits the circumference of my neck, letting a bronze pendant fall onto my décolletage the dress so liberally exposes.

As she braids the corset's back, I wonder about Merlin. He hasn't appeared at court. “It's like Morgan cursed him to disappear,”
my irritated father complained to my mother.

“Ready?” Guinevere asks, eyes unblinking once she's tied the corset's final knot.

I nod and quickly set my hair into two long tails, pinning them up. There's a knock at the door, and I move to answer it. But first, she gives me a pair of silver-hued boots with clacking heels to wear, instead of my black lace-ups that simply do not match, and shall be left behind.

My mind is clouded during the feast.

Scores of tables are lined up in the grand hall, but the mood is different from the wedding. Ale isn't even offered, especially after the hangovers most recently faced. We sip water as servants lay out spreads of sweetmeats, pastries, and the sumptuous curried beef.

My plate is bare and will likely stay that way. I'm more curious about the sealed letter delivered to Guinevere, not to mention her sudden decision to forego the feast, than the caliber of the kingdom's cuisine. There's an odd silence in the grand hall as no bronze-lined china passes to and from hungry hands. Wooden bowls and plates haven't had any role in Camelot since Merlin brought the mechanical arts from Jerusalem, and with it, a mishmash of European styles and conventions of the Holy Land. I've grown used to the tinkering at supper.

Knights and squires lean their elbows on their table, sipping tea and nothing else. Decorative silver breastplates weigh on them from under red-lined gentlemen's jackets. Their heads are low. Lancelot is not there.

Owen is, but next to him, an empty seat.

A squire leaves home when he becomes a knight, but some bonds cannot be completely severed. It was unlike Lancelot to give Marcus permission to leave in such an emergency. I wonder who's in the east. I wonder if they're all right.

There's movement in the far corner, and my eyes flicker toward it.

Merlin.

Merlin, who sneaked inside unnoticed. Smoking his hookah, as though he must always have it to avoid conversations with those uncouth enough to scold him for rings of smoke in their faces. Like the rest of us, he's distracted, entranced by a spot in the room as he mindlessly puffs away.

Build a weapon.

Not even the slightest hint as to what that might have been, but the wheels are spinning behind his eyes until they find mine. He rises to leave.

If Morgan were to return, as she promised, the sorcerer would want to be ready. I heard him ask Lancelot about the king's steel, and I want to know more.

And so, I stand to follow him.

“Viv,” says Owen as he and a few other knights step in my way. I glance over Owen's shoulder at Merlin pulling his hood atop his head, slipping out the door and into the night. Damn it all.

Owen ducks to put himself back in my line of vision. “Hello?”

“What?” I ask with impatience.

My brother's eyes widen. “What are you doing?” Behind him, a handful of knights watch me with worry, and their squires stare with interest.

My fingers clasp my temples to soothe a budding headache. “Leaving. Returning to the queen.” My lie comes off my tongue with ease. “Why?”

Owen steps closer. “You're appearing at court? After what nearly happened?”

Though my disposition is anything but patient, I do what's expected and smile politely. “Well, no one pressed a miniature firelance into my temple tonight.” I push past him with my eye on the door. “Excuse me.”

But Owen grabs my arm. “Hold on. We need to have a word.”