Avalon Rising (16 page)

Marcus lets his eyes drift out of focus on the fire. “We’d already lost a handful to the Grail’s allure. But then there was a brawl.” Now he grips my hand. “Owen and Galahad … God, it was nearly to the death.”

I find the will to breathe. “Is Owen all right? Galahad?”

Marcus nods tensely, but he stares through the bedspread we’re sitting on, lost again.

“Is that what made you leave?” I try. I can’t help the rise in my voice, thinking of the black lace Lancelot tossed on the table in front of me, now around my wrist. Marcus’s words send surges of sharp energy over my skin. “No. Not exactly. Being on a futile quest made me leave.” But as he says it, he averts his eyes. “The Grail won’t be found or it doesn’t want to be found or it isn’t real. This whole thing has hurt us more than it’s helped.”

“But the Lady of the Lake,” I say, clutching his hand tighter. He can’t believe she’d mislead us.

He squeezes back. “The Lady of the Lake might not have known if it were real or fabled.”

My eyes widen at his doubt. Though I cannot confess to Marcus about Rufus just yet, there is something else he must know. “No. I’ve seen the Perilous Lands and the Fisher King there. I went and saved him from the curse the demigods set upon him. He was the key! Of course you couldn’t find the Grail before. You didn’t know what to look for. I can reveal Avalon now!”

But Marcus has grown stubborn. Much more than he was six months ago. He shakes his head, refusing my words. I wait for him to ask more about this legend of the Fisher King, but perhaps he doesn’t care. “It doesn’t matter.” He takes a breath and cups my cheek in his hand. “We have to leave. We have to get out of here.”

“Do we?” I challenge. He told me he’d go on the quest for the sake of Camelot’s destroyed farmlands, and now when I blink, all I can see is Rufus calling to me from the Fisher King’s castle, begging me to tell his son he’s alive, if nothing else. But if I were to do so, Marcus would want to return to Camelot, and I cannot go back. Not without the Grail. Not when I’ve come this far and endured so much.

When he finds out the truth, Marcus will hate me, surely, for keeping news of Rufus from him.

We study each other like we’re seeking the truth between us that neither will share, and it’s just like it was before, when I was hiding my apprenticeship with Merlin, and Marcus knew about me long before I ever met him. Only now, our secrets are darker.

I stole magic, and oh how lovely it was. But Marcus can never know.

He squints into the fire, violet irises dancing with flames swirling in his pupils. His lips part as a thought comes to him, but when a line deepens between his brow, he shakes it off. The seconds that pass are quiet save for the crackling fire.

“Marcus, we must—” I begin before my eyes flash white and a whirl of dizziness comes over me. I grip his hand tighter as he clutches me.

“Careful,” he says as the wave of it passes. “Are you all right?”

I don’t answer because I’m looking at him and my breath catches. Were his eyes always so deep, so warm, so full of an ancient sadness? Has the bed beneath our bodies grown softer, temptingly soft? And the hearth, too warm to warrant the conservative ties of his tunic?

His worry fades with a quick swallow. “You must be hungry,” he says to break the silence.

He pulls back to reach for a wooden bowl set far from the lingering fire and sets it in my lap. I have to convince him to come with me to Avalon, but instead I smile meekly, my body overruling my mind. For now.

Red and green apples and a small knife to cut them with, half a loaf of bread, a slab of white cheese. After so long without food, it’s a small feast. He hands me the knife, letting me peel an apple, and sneaks his hand over to touch my wrist, my arm, drifting delicately at my shoulder, steering clear of the bandage.

His forehead leans against mine until I can feel the warmth from his body envelope me. “They didn’t have your favorite blend of tea,” he says in a low voice. “I told them you’d be furious, naturally.” A smile.

I’m using the small blade to slice apart apple skin from its flesh, but I cannot ignore the familiar roughness of his fingers. “Where did all of this come from?” I stutter the words and hide it by slipping a cut slice into my mouth.

“I gave a few pieces of silver to the barmaid downstairs for our stay and told her to bring our meals up. An additional gold coin ensured she wouldn’t tell anyone a knight brought—”

Our eyes lock and, like a tether, they draw us closer as he nearly mentions the thought so obviously drifting between us. For Marcus to have brought me to an inn alone in the middle of the countryside …

“What did she think—” I can’t even finish the question. My skin is lit, like the hearth’s flames have crawled onto our bodies without either of us noticing.

Marcus shifts against me, settling closer. “I’m a knight. I took a vow. And I’m not to be alone with a girl. They know that.”

They know it, but we might not. Because as he speaks, I can’t stop from tracing his arm to his open palm, resting in my lap.

Still. “Surely it wouldn’t have been any problem. It’s not like we’re—”

But then Marcus’s fingers drift across my collar bone, finding its hollow, and I’ve lost the sentence on my lips. He stares at my parted lips for too long, and then he locks onto my eyes. “It was best to pay the barmaid.”

I sweep the bowl aside in time for his fingers to slip into my hair. He crashes his lips to mine, and finally we disappear into a corner of the world where no one will find us: no rogues, no Merlin, no promises of death or betrayal. The fruit is sweet on my lips and even sweeter on Marcus’s.

As I move closer, the thin woolen blanket at my waist rides up with my skirt, and I vanish into a fantasy where his bare legs entangle with mine underneath it. I think back to the night in the barn and realize that, here and now and with no one to find us, it could be very easy to lose ourselves in each other. There’s a storm inside him that refuses to be still; it springs to life in his quick breathing, his steeled eyes locking onto mine before squeezing shut, his long, firm body pressing against mine. His hands are fast to clutch me as though to let go might mean either he or I would disappear. The feather pillows on this bed are useless, scandalously tempting us with a less than formal sitting arrangement.

I peek at him as he kisses me. I watch how his fluttering eyelids show how he thinks—or doesn’t think at all. His arms go around my waist and pull me closer, and to run my fingers through his hair and against the back of his neck is like I’ve brought summer to chase away a thousand winters. Between kisses he whispers,
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
And when my palms press against his chest, he runs his hands down my waist and over my hips, until he’s found my leg, which has revealed itself from under my dress.

With a quiet gasp, he stops. Our eyes flash open to each other. I can’t tell what he’s thinking—usually I can. Usually, Marcus is a wealth of anything I’d ever want to know. But I’m not sure if he’s worried we’ve crossed a line, or wondering if this could lead to something more.

Without breaking our gaze, his fingers trace my calf and under my knee, sending a shiver through me. Slowly, he savors the touch. Memorizes every bit of it. Suddenly, I couldn’t care less that my shoulder is bare to him. I press my lips to his, quick and full, but then he pulls away, denying us the chance to feel the kiss properly.

I feel my lips swell as he jerks his hand from my leg. His eyes are desperate, but sad, and they linger on my mouth for a moment too long before he takes a deep breath.

“That barmaid might get an extra gold coin tonight,” he whispers through a short laugh.

Somehow, Sir Kay’s words return.
With all the attention the girls of Corbenic gave him …

Marcus sits up. “You should rest. I’ll—” He rests his elbows on his pulled-up knees and searches the room as I sit up myself. “I’ll check on my horse and settle with the innkeeper so we can leave at dawn, when no one’s likely to be awake. They saw the ink on my neck.”

Propriety. Yes. In the middle of the snowy wilderness, his knights’ vow of celibacy still holds until we find the Holy Grail and bring it home. But he’s distant, and an entire month passed when no one knew where he was.

I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. “You’ll stay in the barn? With the horses? On a snowy night like this?” I tilt my head so he can see how pitiful the excuse is.

The smile that follows is a nostalgic one. He pulls to his feet. “Well, the last time I spent an entire night in a barn, it wasn’t so bad.”

I follow him to the door, the blanket covering my shoulders. When his hand finds the doorknob, I touch his fingers, pausing him. “Marcus, it’s been six months,” I whisper, feeling my heart flutter as I lift my gaze to his.
Six months without your lips pressing against mine.

His eyes, so heavy and so deep, pierce my eyes with a hint of melancholy and want, as though I might be a vision from a dream. “And we have the rest of our lives.” But his voice betrays his belief in that.

To return to Camelot, all we’d be granted is the slow journey there. A knight who abandoned his infantry and returned Grail-less? And a handmaid destined to be safely imprisoned in a foreign nunnery? There’d be no hope. My eyes well as I stare at him, seeing this future in his eyes. We both know it would be the most likely result. And yet, he stands here perhaps willing to see it through.

Marcus presses a fast kiss to my forehead, “Sleep,” and pulls away as though it might be impossible to stay any longer. He drops my hand and shuts the door behind him.

“Good night,” I whisper.

Through the window, the last of night pours inside. Dawn will arrive in a few hours. I have to convince Marcus to come with me to Avalon. He must understand it’d be the only way to part from Camelot honorably and return whenever we wished.

I peer through a small gap between the door and its frame. Marcus is still there, staring at the floor. He shakes his head long and slow.

“Merlin, you monster. Please be wrong.”

I don’t know what he means by that; I wait and listen in case he’ll say something else. But no such luck. He presses his hand to the door, and from the other side, my own hand matches it. There’s no warmth penetrating the wood, but regardless, I send him a silent message,
What is it you won’t tell me?

But Marcus pulls away and leaves down the stairs.

The window pane is frosted over come dawn, and bits of sunlight spill through the cracks in the glass, like snowflakes caught in a clear web. I press my fingers to the surface, and the coolness melts around my skin. Five foggy prints let me see the outside of the inn and its surroundings: Marcus and I are in the countryside, where there is nothing but trees and snow-covered paths. No ocean or sea or lake in sight. No landmarks I recognize. In Camelot, whenever the sky was overcast like this, I felt strangled, unable to see past the clouds to the day ahead. But in this beautiful wilderness, it feels like a piping-hot cottage.

“Not too often we see knights in these parts so close to Christmas,” an old voice says over the whinnies and neighs of the horses in the stables. I peer down at a balding man with a long nose and an inventor’s apron. He tightens the gears on the right side of Marcus’s saddle as the knight watches. I’ve only ever seen a mechanism like the one he’s affixed once or twice before, and it was always after a knight returned from the quest. It’s comprised of two pathways of sprockets and a lever attached to the rider’s preferred side. An easy and convenient place to lock in a firelance or a fusionah. “Right then,” the old man continues. “If you say you wish to keep your
sword
tucked away instead of your … mechanical trinket, we can certainly oblige, my lord.”

Marcus studies the land as though expecting a visitor. He runs his gloved fingers through the back of his hair. “I’ve lost my taste for the blade,” he says, a forlorn look in his face before he remembers his status in this innkeeper’s eyes. “And you might see more knights sooner than you think.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” The man gives his wrench a final tug and stands, letting Marcus study the handiwork and test the contraption. Marcus rotates his sword into the pathway and clicks down the lever to withdraw it. It pops out easily.

“Rogues will head for these parts.” Marcus ducks to tighten the saddle and then stands, giving the horse a pat on the nose. “By now, the rest of Galahad’s infantry will have retreated from the quest to seek the Black Knight’s head.”

Marcus’s firelance glints at his waist, and the innkeeper does a double take. “Goodness, my lord, that’s a fine looking pistolník. Didn’t know knights used anything that didn’t boast at least one blade.” He laughs a high-pitched chuckle. From my window, I can’t make out the details of the weapon.

Marcus’s hand flocks to his holster. “It was entrusted to me.” Then he pulls his furs closer to conceal it, the same pistolník that killed the rogue on the frozen lake. I know it. There was no hesitation in Marcus when he fired a weapon so close to the likes of—

“Knight of Camelot!”
breaks the silence of this tiny village.

I look out at the dirt path beyond the inn. Marcus, likewise, whips his head toward a rider headed straight for him, cloaked in the vestments of Camelot.

“Blast!”
he growls before throwing his effects into the snow and running for the inn’s door. The innkeeper calls to some attendants to prepare a room and bath.

I hear Marcus gallop up the stairs as I wipe the window pane to see better. When the knight arrives, I gasp. Because it’s not a knight at all.

“It’s a squire!” the innkeeper calls to his stable boy, readying to take the horse.

The rider comes to a fast stop. He yanks on his horse’s reins and casts a stoic gaze over the entire land. When I last saw him, he was equally full of ambition and humility. But that boy has changed these past six months. That boy is nearly unrecognizable with a light beard on his face and coldness in his eyes.

“Owen,” I whisper.

I tear away from the window and seize my thick furs to tie around my shoulders. I adjust my torn dress so it’s at least remotely wearable as Marcus throws the door open. “Did you see?”

I nod. “How did he know to come here?” I grab my satchel and lead Marcus down the stairs, my hand inching toward my cloak’s pocket, but I don’t understand why it would.

“It’s a popular rest stop. The innkeeper knows Lancelot well.”

“We have to speak with Owen,” I say. My father was worried about him; I have to know my brother is all right.

But not only that. My brother’s highest ambition is to become a knight of Camelot. To find the Grail would cinch that—having Owen on my side once I tell him I know Avalon’s coordinates would convince Marcus to continue on the quest. The three of us could seek the Holy Grail together, and then, I could stop whatever forthcoming horror that might come after me for stealing magic. Because I can no longer ignore that.

At the bottom of these stairs is a tavern, and together we get stares and bitter looks from a row of drunkards at the counter despite the early hour. A barmaid with gold in her eyes and silver jingling in her apron’s pockets steps between the tavern patrons and me.

“Hope you’re feeling better, my lady. Your
brother
was worried.” She flicks a knowing eyebrow at Marcus.

“Vivienne,” Marcus says, pulling me close before we can open the door to the outside. Eyes are still on us, but the barmaid’s loud declaration has lessened the chatter. “Owen has changed. He’s angry, and he’s resentful. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’d been switched entirely with someone else.”

Owen and his sleeping demons. Those demons might have been resurrected out here on the quest. With one look at Marcus, I make sure he knows I understand. And then I open the door and walk out.

Owen’s hair is also longer, as though none of the knights had the foresight to bring proper grooming shears. A sharp gaze shines with anger, eyes blinking wildly when they settle on mine, full of surprise. But then he sees Marcus walk out after me, and his gaze changes entirely.

“Owen,” I say, heading straight for him. “What in God’s name happened to you? Kay told us you fought Galahad.”

Owen drops from his horse and storms through the snow toward us. He tries to brush past me for Marcus, but I seize his arm. His furs carry the scent of smoke and ocean, and his eyes on mine are crazed, just as Marcus warned me. “What the hell is she doing here?” he says, looking at me, but not speaking to me. Then he turns to Marcus. “And with
you
?”

“Calm down, Owen,” Marcus says, his voice too low for safety.

Owen’s face twists into a bitter frown. “It’ll be a cold day in Hell when I take orders from a
serf
.” He shoves Marcus, eyes widening with relish as though he might hope Marcus will return the cold greeting and perhaps give him a reason for retaliation.

Marcus’s eyes fall elsewhere, ignoring Owen, his lips pursed in anger.

But Owen isn’t done yet, and he flicks a tempting eyebrow as he offers one last jab. “Couldn’t wait any longer to make my sister your harlot, then?”

My breath escapes me at the insult, but before I can slap my brother’s cheek, Marcus gets to him first and throws Owen to the ground. The leather plates of Owen’s armor dig into his neck, and Marcus holds them there. Owen kicks as he tries to free himself.

“Stop!” I scream, flocking to Marcus’s side to pull them apart. Owen sees me, and one strong kick sends me onto my back, into the snow.

Looking out the tavern’s windows are the curious eyes of its patrons, and they take in every bit of this brawl between a knight of Camelot and a squire—every strike, every hit.

“Enough!” I shout, to my feet and pulling Marcus off. He brushes the snow from his cloak and furs in a clumsy way and presses a quick palm to his jaw. My brother got a few choice hits in.

Owen saunters toward me until he’s right in my face. “You won’t have a place in Camelot, Viv,” he declares in a voice that strives to growl, but settles on a sob. I have to hold Marcus back from striking him again.

But I won’t be made into a distraction. “Tell me what happened.”

Owen relents. The whites of his eyes are colored blood red with dark circles underneath, as though his exhaustion has permanently bruised the skin there. “Galahad—” He bites his tongue on the knight’s name. “Forget it. There’s something more urgent at hand. I passed through a village last night and caught wind of peasants’ gossip. They claimed they’d found Merlin’s apprentice, that
she’d
left Camelot, but rogues attacked before they could bring her into the village. The entire countryside thinks she might know the coordinates to Avalon, and now they say Spanish rogues seek her.”

My lips part. Only two days past, a handful of subjects from the Fisher King’s castle plotted to sell me in exchange for food. A wave of fear runs through me, and it locks me still.

“Vivienne.” Marcus touches my elbow. His eyes full of worry look so much like his father’s. “We have get out of here. Go to Camelot, even. Lancelot might know what—”

“So it’s true. The Spanish rogues are looking for
my sister
. The Black Knight seeks
Vivienne
?” Owen growls. “You’re damn right she’s going back to Camelot, Marcus.” He steps closer with a fist ready to strike.

“Owen, stop!” I shout, coming between them. My breath hitches at the idea of returning home when this is the closest I’ve come to Avalon. I turn to Marcus. “I know how to find the Grail. You
know
that. It won’t take more than a few days. A few days, Marcus. All I need is my aeroship, tools to fix it, and the
jaseemat
—” My heart jumps into my throat when I think about the signet. It’s no longer safely tucked in my cloak’s pocket, but at the bottom of the frozen lake.
Oh God.

Marcus reaches for my hand and layers our fingers together in a tight clasp. “What the Black Knight can inflict upon his prisoners … ” He pauses to think and looks over my shoulder at my brother. “Owen, go back to Camelot with Vivienne while I go after the rogues. Despite what you say about the Round Table, it’s all you’ve ever wanted, and you know I could easily get you back in Galahad’s good graces.”

“Marcus!” I pull away from his touch. “You don’t get to decide this.”

Owen scoffs. “The Holy Grail is still missing,
Sir
Marcus, and to hell with the knights. I’ll seek Avalon myself. Where is it, Viv?”

I blink and see the floating castle high in the sky above the Great Sea of the Mediterranean. I’ve known for as long as I can remember that Avalon floats south from England. I know the knights searched Greece top to bottom. But it’s
there
.

“You won’t be able to find it without me.” Or claim the Grail without the signet.
Blast.

“Can’t matter.” Marcus shuts his eyes through his impatience. His eyes open slowly to mine, and he squeezes my hand. “I need you to do this. I’ll backtrack to find the rogues and lead them away. I’ll be only a week behind you both.”

I feel my eyes widen with amazement. How can he
think
this way? “And do what?” I counter, to which he has no response or viable plan. “I can take us to Avalon! Let’s return to my aeroship so I can fix it. Then all we’ll need is—”

“No, Viv,” Owen says, pacing restlessly behind me. “Rogues are soon to swarm this land. To head straight into the thick of them would be suicide. The serf might be a
deserter
, but he’s right about that.” He keeps a steady glare on Marcus.

Marcus sighs loudly, like this is an accusation he’s heard before. “I didn’t desert—”

“Then tell us why you left the entire infantry in the middle of the night. What captivated your interest so much, you’d abandon those you called brothers?” Owen steps forward. “Or tell us
who.
”

I let Owen’s words churn in my mind and feel Marcus tense up behind me. I duck my vision over my shoulder at him, thinking of the Lady of the Lake’s prophecy, of how death or betrayal was foreseen in Marcus’s future. But he wouldn’t betray Camelot.

Marcus chooses his words carefully, but I don’t miss how he refuses to address my brother’s accusation. “Travel by day; they won’t expect it. Rogues will recognize me, and if they know this much about Vivienne already, they might think I can lead them to her. It’ll give you time to make your way north.”

Owen doesn’t answer. He turns on his heel and storms back to his horse. “Viv! We’re leaving.” As he passes the stables, he slams an angry fist into the wood, sending a young boy watching to jump straight into the cold air.

“Vivienne,” Marcus says with a gentle tug of my hand. I’d forgotten he was still holding it, and I snatch it back. He steps closer. “Please.”

I look into his violet eyes, the ones that would always show me the truth whenever I asked for it. I want to ask Owen’s question again—
who were you with, Marcus?
—but I’m too furious at Marcus’s orders and how he pulled rank, and I’m scared of the two bleak futures facing him.

Marcus takes my cheek in his hand, and our lips are so close it nearly kills me to want to kiss him. “A few weeks at most. I swear. And then we can go wherever we desire. Don’t think I want this.”

He presses his lips to mine, despite the curious eyes watching, the ones he paid much gold to avoid. Even though a traitorous part of me wants to melt in his arms, I pull away. “I’ll ride with my brother,
Sir
Marcus.” And with that, I turn on my heel and head the other way, my lips chilled from early morning frost and deception, but my determination strong like fire.

Marcus follows me to the stables, footsteps heavy and angry. As I mount Owen’s horse, Marcus leaps onto his and rides off without another word.

Owen and I will travel with Marcus until we reach a fork in the path in two days that’ll take him east and us north. My brother is less than thrilled with this arrangement, but I’m already pondering how to convince him to seek Avalon with me instead.

“Damn serf. Doesn’t deserve to be called
knight
.” I’m sitting in an awkward sidesaddle position while

“Stop this, Owen. He was your friend once.” I stare at the flat, snowy scenery, wishing for the familiar mountains and cliffs outside of Camelot. It’s hard to imagine ever missing home, but I do.

“Father will never agree to it,” Owen hisses. “You know this as well as I do. It cannot happen. Not with a serf. Even still, Marcus is a knight now. He’s bound by the law Arthur set for those who would be a part of his Round Table.”