Camelot Burning (9 page)

Eleven

My brother refuses to look at me now.

I put forth a frown as though I couldn't possibly understand what the lot of them would want, but it's clear Lancelot wasn't the only one curious.

“Come along,” Owen says, dragging me to their table. I sigh inwardly at the dreadful inconvenience of it all, craning my neck toward the swinging door behind two dandies who've finally succumbed to the ale's tempting call. Outside, the hooded figure of Merlin reaches the gates and disappears beyond them, as does the only chance tonight to ask him about the weapon.

I sit as the knights surround me. No sense in joining me at the table, it seems, when it's not a friendly invite to break bread or share the sugar-dusted figs, but an interrogation. I glare at each of them. “Well, then?”

I'm half-expecting a knight of status to be the interrogator, but they push my brother to sit before me.

Owen's eyes rise to mine. “You spoke with Lancelot at the assembly today.”

“I told Sir Lancelot nothing different from what I said in front of the king.”

“And Morgan,” Owen reminds me. “Arthur wanted as few people as possible to know about that. But do you know how dangerous the castle is now, considering Morgan evidently thought you were someone of importance?”

My throat is suddenly dry. “Dangerous?”

“Only if she were to leave Camelot, Owen,” a knight named Darcy says. “And for a handmaid, that's impossible. No need to worry the girl.”

But Percy holds up a finger to silence Darcy. “There's a reason Pelles ordered Arthur to shoot Morgan on sight, Vivienne. There's a reason Arthur had to strengthen the perimeter. We've been wondering if perhaps the queen mentioned something, or if you overheard information that was not yours to know. What would make you an attractive hostage? This is serious, you know.”

I eye Percy with anger. “Serious? You don't say, Percy.” I tremble from the memory of a firelance's barrel against my temple. It takes all of my strength to keep myself from collapsing in a fit of tears or rage. “She threatened my
life
—”

“Yes,” Owen says. “And to get away, you were stupid enough to risk your neck. Now we're all wondering why Morgan chose a handmaid to take captive before abandoning her plan to overtake the castle.”

They think I know something. Something important. I feel my cheeks redden. Perhaps there are only minutes until everyone in Camelot will discover my apprenticeship with Merlin. Only minutes before Morgan will hear as well and know her suspicions were correct. But it couldn't have been that she suspected my apprenticeship—that's not enough. There was something else.

“Because I revealed the magic she brought with her! Is my life not worth taking?” It's but a way to distract. The end of my time in Merlin's tower cannot be
this
soon.

“This is why you should be guarded around the clock,” Owen replies curtly. He fumbles with the teacup in his hands. “Instead, you're strolling around the kingdom like nothing happened,” he adds under his breath.

“That was the sorcerer's decision.” Percy says, crossing his arms.

My brother scoffs. “Shouldn't the very name of what Merlin once was be illegal?”

Percy looks at me and ignores my brother's commentary. “With a shortage of knights, extra protection for a handmaid isn't of the utmost urgency, Owen. Forgive me, Viv, but it's true.”

It won't cancel out nightmares of Morgan, but it lifts a weight from my shoulders nonetheless. This is good.
This gives me more time to find out about the weapon Merlin wants to build.

Percy leans on the table. “Be cautious. Stay out of sight and keep to the towers at all times.”

A squire laughs quietly behind me. “Stay away from squires, while you're at it. Poor Marcus.” It's Ector, the buffoon. There are a few laughs, but more harsh words to stay serious. Owen says nothing to defend the friend who isn't here or the sister he won't acknowledge.

My eyes go chilly. “Noteworthy advice from boys who have years before they'll be men.” I face Ector. Stephen and Bors are laughing with him. They hush up, their hands raised as they back off. I glare at Owen. “Any other words of wisdom you wish to bestow upon a lowly maid?”

Owen's silent, but Percy's patient, shooting angry glances at the idiots behind me. “Vivienne, Morgan said she'd return for a kingdom ill-equipped to fight her magic. If anything else comes to mind, please let us know.” Percy beckons the others. “You'll excuse us.” They exit the front door as the eyes of the court watch.

It leaves Owen and me alone with too many thoughts drifting between us. One being how the entire castle clearly think I'm as dense as the pastries they've served tonight.

“I didn't realize the knights had so much leisure time to spend on a humble lady-in-waiting,” I say. “Granted it's been days since you were all granted your rations of ale, so perhaps you're bored.”

“Vivienne—” Owen says, exhaustion woven in his voice. “Please. You only got angry once Ector mentioned Marcus.”

Dauntless stares from the nobility make me fidget. My hands clutch the folds of my dress, crinkling its silk. I wish I'd worn my hair down so that my reddening face would at least be covered. Even a simple veil would have been better. “That's absurd.”

Owen rubs the stubble on his cheek. I sometimes forget my brother is a man; at twenty, I suppose he is. “I need to tell you something you may not like to hear.”

“Oh, good. More advice from Camelot's finest. The stars were certainly aligned in my favor.”

My brother takes my hand. “Be careful, Viv. Marcus isn't like the others. Word is he only agreed to be Lancelot's squire because his mother grows ill and needs the castle's infirmary. There are no healers in the farmlands anymore.”

Lives depend on Marcus. I knew this already.

“But when Arthur knights him, he'll take a vow of celibacy like the rest of us. It won't do any good to your reputation.”

“What are you saying?” I feel my eyebrows furrow, my cheeks go hot. My hand pulls free. “I'm not looking to ruin his honor or mine, if that's what you're implying.”

“I'm not implying anything.” He sips tea, cringing at the sharp taste. “But Camelot is not blind. People saw him look at you, and they saw you look back. It's just a bit of boyish fawning, certainly, and should pass, but … ” He shakes his head, and something strange inside ignites my temper at his flippant assumption. “Perhaps knights can get away with those types of shenanigans, but you're the queen's lady-in-waiting, and he's a serf. I won't have scandal tied to our family.”

Too still I sit in disbelief. His lecture is certainly not meant for me, especially at a time like this. But he isn't smiling. He isn't joking.

I have fire in my eyes and humility on my cheeks. “Of course not, Owen. Not when you're so close to knighthood yourself.”

I grab the folds of my dress and storm out.

The dimmed gas lanterns in Guinevere's tower tell me she's retired without dinner. I'm relieved of duty early tonight. I try to feel excited about that, but I want to drink proper tea with Merlin, perhaps tinker a bit with Terra. The
jaseemat
—how wonderful it'd be to create life with it. How I long to set some upon my own mechanical falcon just to see what would happen. For now, though, I should go to the gardens to test my crossbow—anything to extinguish my anger toward Owen.

What did the sorcerer want to build? My imagination explores the layout of the clock tower for clues in an attempt to eliminate any twitches of my heart regarding a certain squire.

Just as I've reached the courtyard, the clock tower chimes eleven. The front gates creak open. A familiar face appears.

Merlin's returned.

He dashes inside, missing me as I duck into the gardens. I watch him shove a small purse clanking with coins into a guard's waiting hand. Merlin gives him a reassuring slap on the shoulder and walks in the direction of his tower, his distinctive limp faster than normal.

The gas lanterns are too dim to see another person properly, so long as the individual in question is well-camouflaged. Thank God for beds of bright-red poppies hiding the hem of my skirt.

When Merlin's crossed the courtyard, I decide to forego my crossbow and follow him instead. I must know more about the weapon.

But as he turns the corner, I stop. It must have been a trick of the mind, something the dimness is to blame for.

Because for a split second, it looked as though Merlin's feet had disappeared.

Twelve

Perhaps it was the gas lanterns.

A logical conclusion, but one that doesn't sit well. And the quiet in the cobblestone streets doesn't help. I can't ignore what's pressing me with its peculiarity: the idea of Merlin disappearing seems eerily natural, as though I could drink his Irish tea with a spoonful of salt and not even blink at its strangeness. I almost expected it.

Someone touches my arm. “Alms, my lady?”

I jump, my nerves more shot than I realized. A girl no older than me draws a fraying shawl over her shoulders while balancing a child on her hip. Plainly dressed, like the mechanical arts have not trickled past the walls of Camelot, she holds out a cupped hand. Her nails are dirty from lack of water, from ashes. Not like my fingers, charcoal-stained by choice.

“Please. Anything you can offer for bread.” Her voice cracks. Behind her, several other pairs of desperate eyes watch from the infirmary.

“I don't—” They wait. I don't have any coins. Shame sets its weight on my shoulders for the hot meal I couldn't touch tonight.

“She'll return to Camelot,” calls a honey-coated voice in an accent I can't place.

Through the dense shadows come the taps of a wooden cane, footsteps, the jingling of silver. A woman with tea-colored skin like Azur steps into the lanterns' light. She clutches a threadbare cloak around her shoulders with one hand, a twisted handle of wood with the other.

“Who?” Though I'm quite certain I know.

She inches closer, watching me with a curious eye as layers of jewelry chime with her steps. A small, rounded lens flashes from her palm, and she sets it over one eye to stare me up and down. “Begging your pardon, you wouldn't mind giving a lame woman your name in lieu of the coins that aren't in your pockets.”

I wonder if answering her is the wisest thing to do, but the gypsy's crooked gait is eerily mesmerizing. I'm suddenly quite conscious of my empty pockets.
How could she know that?

“It's Vivienne,” I whisper.

Her eyes widen; she flicks the rounded glass back into her palm. “Vivienne? Hmmm. A good name. You wouldn't be the daughter of Carolyn and William, would you?” She gives the young mother a handful of coins that have appeared out of thin air. The girl is too relieved to question their origins and rushes off with her child.

I search for a purse, maybe a pocket hidden in the folds of her cloak next to such an elaborate timepiece at her waist. “How did you know?”

She leans on her cane, and a knowing smile crosses her face, nearly reaching long earrings speckled with brass and steel starfish.

“Your mother used to play by the lake outside the city walls as a girl. You look as she did.” She shuffles forward until she's mere feet away, her slightly curved back rendering her shorter than me, but not by much.

“Perhaps you have the same set of wits about you. In that case, pass on this warning: when the witch returns, magic won't be her only weapon. She has her fruit. Her creation. The dark magic machine that carries her blood in his veins.”

The idea repulses and fascinates me at the same time. “Even so, there's a veil of protection over Camelot. Morgan knows that. Her magic won't be able to penetrate it.”

The gypsy graces me with a slow smile. “Clever girl. You've been taught to think as Merlin's kind does. But he will soon realize Camelot's incantation isn't enough. Morgan knows what lies within Camelot, and she won't rest until it's hers.”

Her eyes appear in the light: bright blue, shocking against her skin. I wonder if she might be blind, yet a jet black pupil stares at me with such intrusion that I step away.

“I'll pass on what you told me,” I promise as I make my leave.

“To Merlin only!” she calls. “Though a former addict won't like hearing what it could mean.”

I turn. “Who are you?”

She lowers her head like a servant would. “I'm a simple woman who once knew of another kingdom, one that hides as the world seeks it. Best to guard your mind, dear girl. You never know who might try to steal your thoughts.”

Her necklaces and earrings ring in a harmony of notes as she leaves.

“Good night, my lady. To see Carolyn's child tonight was a gift.” She pulls at the hood around her neck. “If you need me, I'll be at the lake outside the city walls, where I make my home. Give my regards to Merlin.” She hobbles away.

“He used to be a friend.”

I burst through Merlin's door without knocking.

“What weapon, Merlin?” I declare, shocking the tattooed man by his window. He chokes on his tea, and his boots dig into his woven rug to keep balance. Of course I was mistaken in thinking his feet had disappeared, but I can't be bothered with that just now.

“God almighty, what's the meaning of this?” he shouts. He strides toward me through his limp, his red cape floating behind him matching his angry eyes. “Has all of Camelot lost the sheer decency of knocking?”

I stand my ground, unwilling to let any more secrets be kept from me. “I can't watch life pass me by. I can't drink bad tea as a lady-in-waiting day after day until my time in the clock tower finally runs out, I marry God knows whom, and my life is a prison. If it would stop Morgan, I need to be a part of this.”

“A part of what?” he growls as he paces.

“A part of whatever requires Arthur's Norwegian steel!” I confess to his shocked face. “You know I overheard you ask Lancelot for it. What could you possibly need his approval on? You're the one who made Camelot—”

“Enough!”

His voice reverberates against the walls, causing the leaves of gold on his desk to hum with vibrations. I swear his eyes go as red as a dragon's. He takes a calming breath. “Vivienne, you demand something you don't understand. The danger of being present in a forthcoming war, especially you … ”

What about me?
I want to scream. But I must remain calm, as Merlin prizes rationality over passion. Most times.

“And the Norwegian steel, the risk—” With a patient sigh, he takes my shoulders and smiles like an uncouth, black sheep of an uncle would. “You are so much like your mother sometimes.”

I consider my mother's popularity at court, her easy smile and contagious charm rendering her my polar opposite. I'm about to strongly disagree with Merlin when he motions toward his table and a wealth of broken copper machines just waiting to be tinkered with. Blueprints I've never seen before lie amongst them, and he studies the papers closely.

“Truthfully, I will need my apprentice's help,” he mutters. A long sigh erases the worry from his face. “Do you know the history of magic, Vivienne? The demigods created it to assert rule over mortals. But when mortals realized they, too, could employ its powers, the betrayed demigods were furious. They considered any use of magic theft. While mankind has free will, to dive into that thievery would bring about a terrible addiction and eventually require your soul as incurred payment. The simplest of spells were akin to tugging a mountain's weight behind you. And we couldn't help it. We'd die to feel that impossible pull of the land.

“But they allowed for requests, similar to how we ask for cooperation from the elements through alchemy. Though, granted, the demigods remain irritated about Arthur's Norwegian stee
l
. We discovered long ago that its magical properties allowed it to be molded, and the only way to tear it is by way of diamond. Perfect for a weapon. But Lancelot fears I'll fall back into old patterns by being around such enchantment. Rightfully so.”

“Then what will you do?” I shudder at the mention of Merlin's old vice.

He straightens, firming his jaw and setting down the blueprints on his table. “I will have that steel. This weapon I've had in the works for twenty years. Conceived when Camelot was threatened by the Celts and set aside as the peril dissolved and the kingdom prospered. Now that Azur's alchemic advancements are sophisticated enough, my creation will be the next great revelation in warfare and will fight whoever—or whatever—waits in Glastonbury for my incantation to lift.”

When I blink, I see black-armored soldiers. My blood goes cold, and yet my eyes crawl with relish over the sheets of gold on Merlin's desk. Hungry fingers inch forward, but he swipes his hand at mine, and I jerk back.

“Ah, ah. Those have nothing to do with it. With Caldor complete, I find myself restless.” Merlin clears his throat like he's unwilling to say more and returns to his waiting tea at the window. He beckons me. “Please.”

I pull away and pour myself a cup, only to have the sorcerer seize it immediately.

“Allow me to make a fresh pot.” He smiles in a way that makes my eyes narrow. It's unlike Merlin to waste his Irish blend. But when the sorcerer empties the pot onto the fire, the flames don't fizzle; the fire blazes green before crackling back to orange. The scent of it wafts over, and I breathe in.

His tea has opium? “Merlin, what is that?”

He's a terrible liar and even worse at hiding things. Like a boy, he shrugs, gesturing the cup stupidly. “Tea. Cold now, but when an old man's been interrupted, you can't expect the warmth to linger forever.”

It might be nothing more than a creative way to enjoy an old drug. But with Merlin's history of kissing absinthe glasses, not to mention the snuff box that might as well be welded to his hand, I wonder if it's not for a different purpose. Opium he doesn't readily smoke in private, only in the presence of inebriated company. He told me once it was a crutch when magic was destroying his mind and soul, but no longer.

My eyes must give away my thoughts.

“Nothing to be concerned with, my dear. Just rejuvenating the spirit with a gift from a traveling merchant I knew from the east. He passed through this part of the land tonight.” He smiles, but it doesn't fool me. The pot of Irish tea ready, he pours us each a cup, shaking fingers careful not to spill.

“There was someone in the village, Merlin.”

He flicks an eyebrow in curiosity.

“
From the lake. She said Morgan would return with a weapon born of dark magic. A combination of blood and machine.”

The sorcerer pales. He straightens in his chair, a crushing fist resting on the table.

“I didn't quite understand her riddles. But she knew you.” I leave out her advice of steeling my mind.

He nods. “Well, then.”

“What did she mean, Merlin? Who was she?”

He's slow to answer. “She's an enigma herself. We're not exactly on good terms these days, and it's not my place to tell you why. Huh. Azur will want to know of this.”

We're quiet, drinking tea that might as well be the common blend from the banquet halls.

“Oh,” Merlin says with slight surprise. He leans on the table, angling his head to get a better view of the gates. “Is that the boy you fancy?” He lifts his monocle to his eye.

I feel my heart in my throat at the thought of Marcus returning and scold myself for thinking something so foolish. Merlin keeps a telescope aimed at the stars on the window's ledge, and despite my pride, I tip it downward, peering through the eyepiece at the gates. Owen's words of caution aren't necessary, really. Marcus is only a fascination. Someone not from the castle who's seen the world. Nothing more.

He sits in a slouch, riding for the gates with an older woman crumpled in his arms. Her black hair is woven with gray, and her face sports a shape similar to Marcus's. Leather armor weighs on his shoulders, and he runs a hand over his eyes to clear away the exhaustion. The guards refuse to drop the drawbridge, but the clock tower is too high up for me to hear why. I watch Marcus's shoulders fall, but his resolve grow strong. He calls back, even foraging through his pockets for gold to bribe his way inside.

When the bridge finally drops, the woman's hand touches Marcus's cheek. His gaze seeks the towers, darting quickly from one window to the next, even glancing at Merlin's. Then he gallops toward the infirmary.

“Seems Arthur isn't the only one in the kingdom who'd put family above Camelot,” Merlin mutters.

I feel the sorcerer watching me and curse myself for letting him get away with his description of Marcus in the first place. “You were about to tell me about the weapon, Merlin.”

Merlin's eyes gleam, and what I told him about the gypsy is presently forgotten. “Indeed I was. To the cellar, then.”

I frown. “The cellar?” The entrance to Merlin's tower has nothing in it other than dirt and the excrement of rats that find their way down there.

“Aye. Now it becomes necessary for you to know one of the many secrets of Camelot.”