Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (21 page)

Patrick now sat in the window of his room overlooking the keep grounds. He had his eyes closed and a cool breeze washed over his face. Off in the distance he could hear the laughter of Guests and the sound of paper kites diving and shuddering in the wind.

The day was a perfectly clear Avalon day, with its aquamarine skies.

No sooner had he begun to truly relax, however, than the weathercock atop the watchtower turned suddenly in the wind.

#

Aimeé rolled the fluffy dough with skill and care. Once it was exactly twice as thick as pie crust, she began to cut expert little shapes out of it with a paring knife. The portly maidservant Anna approached her from behind and placed her chin on Aimeé's shoulder.

“What are we making, lass? That doesn't look like what Rosa Maria assigned to ya to be making for tonight's supper.”

Aimeé shrugged. “What fun is working in the kitchen if you can't make it fun?”

“Well, if I were you, I wouldn't wear my heart on my sleeve so much,” Anna said holding up the heart shaped dough. “...Or in my dough. Still lovesick, are yea?”

Aimeé threw more flour on the dough and rolling pin listlessly. She also took back the heart. “I'm just sad, that is all, Anna. The men around here are either young weakling servants, uppity knights and noblemen who don't know I exist or care if I do, or old married villagers. It's not fair.”

Anna shook her head sadly. “I wouldn't worry about it, girl. It will pass. There is somebody for everybody out there...uh-oh!” She suddenly grabbed for the heart shaped dough while looking over Aimeé’s shoulder, but Aimeé pulled the heart away.

“Hey! What are you doing?” she cried.

Before Anna could reply, the kitchen Madame Rosa Maria walked up and snatched away the heart. “What this?” she exclaimed in her barely understandable Italian accent. “This is not breadstick.”

Aimeé hung her head. “I'm sorry, Rosa Maria, I have been distracted from my duties.”

Anna was giggling, and the other servants looked up from their tasks. Rosa Maria held up the heart so that she could look at it better. Her face lightened. “Ah, the girl is in love!” She placed the heart over her own breast and danced around. All in the kitchen laughed.

Aimeé's face turned bright red, but she was smiling. She was glad that Rosa was not terribly angry with her, otherwise she wouldn't be poking fun at her like this.

When her dance was finished, Rosa Maria placed the heart back on the counter. “I know we would all rather be making love right now, and not breadstick, but we must make breadstick. Back to work you,” Rosa looked into Aimeé's flour bowl. “You need more flour, get more off the shelf, and close that window while you’re at it. My joints are aching; I think a storm is coming.”

Anna laughed. “Don’t be silly, it’s beautiful out there.”

#

Outside the keep, even the Guests on the verge of adulthood played like children. Jason McFowler dozed at the edge of the kite-flying throng, sleeping through his own history lesson on how kites had been used at the Battle of Hastings as communication devices. This was one of the many reasons he was favored among the Guests; he was lax and more fun than the scholars and priests who gave the majority of lessons.

Jason snored heavily. Two of the youngest Guests tickled his nose with a cattail just to watch him swat at it in his sleep.

“He is so adorable when he's asleep, isn’t he? He looks like a big furry bear in hibernation,” commented Lady Clarice, who was several years older than the two girls.

“And his feet are stinky,” said one of the girls, and giggled.

“Well, look what I made for you two,” said Clarice. She held up a delicate kite of reed and parchment paper. In the center of the kite she had painted a stick figure in water colors. The figure was of a smiling man with bright red bushy hair and beard, and who carried a sword. “Who do you suppose he is?”

“Jason!” They exclaimed. “Let's fly him!”

They stood and ran up the hill, waving the kite overhead until the wind caught it. Yarn unspooled behind it, and it soared higher, flapping merrily in the air.

They giggled as Elaine, one of the younger students, pulled on the string to make the kite dive and swirl.

“Let me try,” said Rachel, the other younger student.

As Elaine started to hand it over and Rachel reached for it, the yarn pulled through Elaine's hand viciously. She cried out as she snatched her hand back and looked at it as if it had been bitten. Rachel caught the string just before it disappeared into the heavens with the kite which was now thrashing in the air.

“I can't hang on!” she cried, a quiver in her voice.

Clarice reached over to control the device, but was soon struggling herself as she pulled with both hands and leaned back on her rear foot. With a scream of surprise she lost hold of the kite and fell backwards, knocking her comrades over and landing on top of them.

Heavy dark clouds roiled into existence like ink drops as on the clear sky, and the sun vanished. Fat droplets smacked the ground and left large wet spots on the Lady Guests' gowns. The rolling mass of clouds flickered with lightning.

Guests were crying out and laughing as the rain and wind came down harder.

“Alright everybody, back into Greensprings,” McFowler called, stumbling to his feet.

“But why, Sir Jason? It's only rain,” said a little boy who was standing on Jason's foot and clutching his leg.

The Highlander reached down and picked him up. “The rain is fine, but I don't think Father Hugh or King Mark would be too happy with me if you were suddenly fried by lightning. Though I'm sure you would make a tasty treat.” Jason tasseled his hair and the boy laughed. Jason once again called for all Guests to go inside.

As they rushed in through the Back Door, one kite remained behind. It was Clarice's, which caught in a tree. A branch had impaled the stick figure, and the figure's smile was now blotted by the rain. The paint that made its red beard was running like blood.

#

Father Benis, the librarian, put down a tome he was reading and looked up at the window shutters. They had been chattering in a strong breeze. He moved to close them, and when he did he noticed a marked difference in the weather. Rain was pelting the tiles on the buildings and towers, and the entire courtyard below was shoe-deep in water. He shook his head sadly, closed the shutters, and turned from the window.

But he had accidently caught his prayer beads between the shutters. When he turned, the beads snapped and broke from their string, falling all over the floor in a noisy shower.

“Oh, my.”

#

The violent wind guided a black ship towards the isle. The ship was a great longboat, with the effigy of a flame-tongued dragon at its bow. Black sails were fat with wind.

Whereas seafarers on longboats normally enjoy the windy elements offered by most such open-aired vessels, this particular craft seemed more designed for concealment and separation from the world. This was evidenced by a single ark-like structure that occupied the majority of the deck. Monstrous oars bristled from its sides and beat the water, moving effortlessly to a drum beat somewhere within the belly of the ship.

The same wind that propelled the vessel cut the mist surrounding Avalon, and admitted the ship to the enchanted isle. Lightning flashed.

The black ship slipped into the harbor. The huge oars dragged in the water, then suddenly lifted skyward to accommodate the vessel near the dock.

Within moments of reaching the isle, a wide section of the ship between oars collapsed neatly inwards, revealing an opening. Horses could be heard from within just as a ramp extended forth from the darkness onto the dock like a protruding tongue.

The sound of thundering hooves on wood could be heard as the beasts galloped forth. They were six great black creatures with flaring nostrils and wild eyes, harnessed to an elegant carriage as black as their glossy coats.

This vehicle clattered across the ramp without hesitation and continued on its way along the now muddy road to Greensprings. The ramp was withdrawn, the opening closed up, and the strange ship slid into the mist that had collected around it, and disappeared without a trace.

#

Just as suddenly as the storm came, it left. The dark billowing clouds rolled on, taking with them the pelting rain and driving wind.

The gutters and rain spouts rattled and gushed. Gargoyles all about the keep disgorged water at such a rate that it spurted out horizontally, but within minutes the streams faltered and sunshine glittered on the puddles.

Guests ran about the corridors, shouting and excited.

Patrick stepped out of his room. “What's going on?” William and Trent were drenched.

“Somebody is approaching the keep in a rich wagon. It's a new Guest,” Trent said. Patrick followed the two up onto the castle walls where a crowd was gathering, some soaked, some dry. They looked over the wall and watched the sleek black carriage approach the keep.

“Who is it? I didn't know any new Guests were coming,” Trent said to Patrick.

Patrick shrugged. “You're asking the wrong person. I didn't even know that Amy du Lac was coming, let alone leaving so soon. Well, actually, now that I think about it, I could have guessed she would have left that quickly.” A few people within hearing distance chuckled.

The carriage reached the gate and waited for the drawbridge to be lowered. Mark was standing at the forefront, legs apart and fists on hips. He was in Avangarde garb, with a huge broadsword belted at his side. He looked very kingly. Gathered around him was a retinue of knights, and behind them were milling Guests and staff trying to get a better view of the new arrival. There were murmurs in the crowd, and many questions. The drawbridge was down, and the horses pulled the carriage across and stopped in the courtyard before the assembled greeting party.

“Does anybody have any idea who this is?” King Mark asked from the corner of his mouth. McFowler at his side shook his head.

A stocky driver scurried down from the carriage and approached the coach door. He was a pale looking creature with narrow slitted eyes and a shorn head. He looked more a toad than human. He lowered a stepladder from the side of the coach by a metal hinge and then opened the door for the passenger.

First came his glossy leather boots, followed by kidskin leggings. The man who stood upon these tall legs was thin with a craggy face and a well-groomed beard and mustache. His hair was dark to the point of having a blue sheen. His eyes were an indiscernible color and were situated perfectly between razor sharp cheekbones and finely arched brows. In short, he was all angles and edges. Even his ears were oddly elongated, slightly pointed, and he wore a golden ring in one of them.

The man stood momentarily gazing upon Greensprings. Then he threw back his cape and leaned forward on a silver-tipped walking stick. His entire wardrobe was composed of fine dark fabric with a rare lavender lining.

He stepped forward, motioning to his dwarfish servant to retrieve something from the carriage, and walked up to King Mark and his entourage.

“Greetings,” said Mark. “Welcome to the Keep at Greensprings. I am its Steward. And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” He extended a hand in friendship. The man took Mark's hand and smiled. His teeth were extremely long, but perfectly straight and white.

“I am the Viscount Loki, of Jotunheim. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” The sun was back out and shone radiantly on Loki. A sweet perfume surrounded him. The servant returned with a scroll, and handed this to his master who in turn handed it to Mark. “I believe this is for you.”

Mark took it, looked it over then popped the seal on it. It glowed for a moment as all the swan-sealed invitations did. Mark unrolled it and read silently. His brow furrowed, then cleared. He folded the document and placed it inside his surcoat. He shook hands again with the newcomer, and then turned to all assembled.

“Welcome our new Guest, the Viscount Loki.

Chapter Six

The Viscount Loki was an enigma.

He did not at first interact with the other denizens, and he did not make many appearances. His first many days at the Keep at Greensprings he stayed concealed in his room, sending out his dwarfish valet, Minion, to fetch his meals and do his errands.

In the process, Minion was into everything. His odd squeaky voice was everywhere as he asked directions or for assistance—anything to make his master more comfortable. Minion's spikey haired head was seen in the kitchens, the stables, the vestuary, the library and even managed to be kicked out of the Hall for Lady Guests, having wandered there, so he claimed, on accident.

Loki's arrival may have been a surprise, but he bore an invitation, so he was given all the hospitality afforded to any other.

“What does he look like up close?” Sir Jeremiah asked McFowler at the dinner table one night.

Between large bites of food, Sir Jason answered, “He's a thinnish fellow, all bones and edges. And his face, Mother of Joseph, it's all pock marked as if he tripped and fell face down in an alchemist's vat. His ears aren't all that easy to look at either; all stretched out and chewed on looking, and they say I'm strange looking?” Jason shoveled more noodles into his face and caught many of them on his beard.

“Who invited him anyway? I hadn't heard of his coming. Who's his Patron on the outside?” asked Sir Waylan.

Sir Geoffrey shrugged. “I was right there when Mark read the invitation. It was signed by Marcus Ionus himself, but it didn't mention who recommended he come here.”

“Where's he from anyhow? What's his reason for being here?” Sir Jon asked, reaching for bread in the middle of the table.

“He said Jotunheim. Where's that?” asked Sir Corbin.

“He has a funny accent, like those people from the far north...” McFowler began, but Sir Brian shouted; “You would know!” His smile suddenly turned painful and he jumped in his seat, as if he'd been kicked underneath the table. McFowler finished, “...but his mannerism and dress are completely unlike them. His speaks eloquently. I can't place him.”