Avalon Rising (17 page)

I grow quiet. I won’t remind Owen of the condition Marcus agreed to in order to become a knight. That if he were to bring the Grail to Camelot himself, he could relinquish his vow without banishment. And if that were to happen, perhaps Lord William would welcome Marcus. I’m not sure what sort of ire that would ignite in my brother. Anger clearly clouds his memory—it was Owen, after all, who told me all this before he and Marcus rode out with Galahad’s infantry in the spring.

Marcus gallops further ahead as Owen’s horse steadies into a slow walk. It gives me time with my brother, time I didn’t think I’d get. “What happened, Owen?” I whisper. We both know I mean Galahad. Perhaps sympathy is the best way to Owen’s sense of reason.

I know he’s heard me because he takes a long, winded sigh. One of exasperation he would emit whenever we fought as children. He’d play up the dramatics so our mother would side with him. It usually worked.

It’s a weak excuse, and it makes me angry to hear such an excuse to explain how he viciously attacked a knight. “And so that difference forced your aim at Galahad’s neck?”

He yanks on the horse’s reins in response. “You don’t know what it’s like, to search for something that knows the evilest part of you and wants to use it against you. Do you think I
wanted
to pull a firelance on Galahad, Viv? Don’t you understand how
ashamed
I felt that I let anger get the best of me over something as simple as—” His words choke, and from how he clears his throat, I know my brother is trying to keep from losing a most vicious temper.

“As simple as what?” The black lace Kay brought back to Camelot is warm around my wrist. There’s no way I can show it to Owen.

My brother scoffs quietly. “Simple jealousy, it seems. None of us were oblivious to the fact that the Grail was turning us into the worst versions of ourselves. All but Galahad, frankly, and God knows how he could have been strong enough to resist. But what about Marcus? Did you ever stop to wonder, Viv, what his vice was?”

I glance at the tall, lean outline of Marcus riding in his dark furs. I remember running my fingers through his hair only last night, how heavy his eyes were with the fireplace’s heat dancing on our faces, the feel of our lips locked. How close we were to going just a little bit further, and how he stopped us before we’d gone too far.

Marcus’s gloved hand points east, where a small village lies with chimney shafts sending spiraling clouds of gray smoke into the air. The shine from the little sunlight in this countryside reveals the sea beyond it. The three of us will convene in the village for the night. Close to the sea. Possibly near aeroship ports.

I don’t have a plan; but I do have a brother as determined to find the Grail as I am. But Owen’s question—I don’t know the answer. Marcus’s vice? I think back to the times we were together and alone in Camelot, to the jokes he told that bordered on scandalous. I consider his quick winks, his horrified embarrassment when the oafs Stephen and Bors told of his attraction to me at Arthur and Guinevere’s wedding. Percy is on a quest for honor. Owen is on a quest for power. Lancelot was on a quest for glory. And Marcus?

Sir Marcus of Camelot didn’t want to be a knight at all. He wanted to escape with me to wherever I would go.

“You know, don’t you, Viv? You know the only reason I would ever strike a brother in arms as I did just now,” Owen whispers.

Marcus’s horse rears and then gallops faster, kicking out dirt and snow from under its wild hooves toward the village. Behind it, three aeroships lift into the sky, each heading in its own direction.

“I’m angry not just because he’s a serf honored in the kingdom before I was. I’m angry because he claimed to be honorable, and when some of the more idiotic knights found warm beds to share with harlots of the villages, he stayed behind. Until one night, he didn’t, and then in the morning, he was gone.”

Despite the cold air, my blood heats up with hurt and anger. “What is that supposed to imply?”

Owen snorts. “It’s a rite of passage, Viv, for new knights to have at least one night of debauchery in these parts. How noble do you think Marcus is?”

I don’t answer. My heart is still heavy with anger at the insult Owen cast in my direction back at the inn. Marcus was right: Owen has changed, and I’m not going to let my brother’s demons force me into a state of madness. “Owen, you have to come with me to find Avalon. You have to help me convince Marcus of the same.”

Owen twists his face into something vile and stares at the horizon, a low scoff escaping him. “Not going to risk Marcus getting my sister killed just because she doesn’t want to spend her life in a parlor.”

I press closer to him. “You want to go after the Grail anyway!”

When I face him, the brown eyes he inherited from our mother are full of a rage I’ve never seen in him. “No, Viv. I’d kill Marcus if something were to happen to you.”

The truth in his words haunts me, and with that, I cannot engage in this discussion anymore. Ahead, Marcus disappears into the village as we follow. Owen kicks our horse into a gallop, and soon we’re riding through a town with thatched roofs built around stout chimneys. Gas lanterns line the snowy streets. In these parts, street entertainers have molded wooden and gear-work dolls into moveable puppets that lift their knees high and their smiles even higher. Children laugh, and mothers draped in wool shawls point at the tiny primitive machines.

All of it is lost on me. In another world, I might have been delighted by all of this, a vision of happiness and ingenuity. Here is a place untouched by rogues, but all I can think of is how the Fisher King told me the fate of Marcus did not include death. Then, if what the Lady of the Lake told me is true, the only other option is one of betrayal.

And what Owen suggested might be as simple as Sir Marcus of Camelot betraying the girl who worked away in Merlin’s clock tower for six months, waiting for the chance to find him and take him into the skies.

We reach the inn with a swinging sign out front, wooden doors, and windows with clouded glass. Marcus steps off his horse and hands the reins to a small boy.

His eyes are on me as Owen brings his horse to a stop. I stare right back, reinforced with my brother’s anger, but not saying a word. Marcus holds out his hand to help me down, and God help me, I take it, squeezing my fingers around his. My sleeve lifts, and the strip of black lace around my wrist reveals itself.

“What’s this?” he asks. Clearly, he missed it when he was tending to my arm.

Steady on the ground, I pull my cloak tightly around my shoulders. “A forgotten memento, it seems.”

I stride past him toward the inn door. Inside is a bevy of people and a roaring fire, a dozen tables filled with candlelight and pints. Tiny glass bulbs of lantern oil have been set aflame and strung across the ceiling in a way that looks like stars are shining down on the tavern’s patrons.

“Hello!” A girl about my age steps in front of me. She has a beautiful face with sharp gray eyes and heavily arched brows that give her appearance an aura of drama. Her raven hair is tucked in front of one shoulder, long and straight, and weaves into the lace of her low peasant’s blouse, blue and silver, luxurious colors mixed in a familiar tartan. “Get you a warm drink, my lady? Or are you looking for a room for the night?”

Behind me, I hear Marcus’s distinct footstep, and the girl glances over my shoulder. When she sees Marcus, her smile vanishes and a look of surprise replaces it. “Marcus,” she says.

I turn in time to see the identical look of surprise come across Marcus’s face. His lips part, and he doesn’t blink for nearly a minute.

“Lena,” he replies.

The blood rushes from my face when Marcus says that name.
Lena
, the same name Merlin said in my dream, on my aeroship. And then, there’s the remark Kay made to Lancelot back in Camelot—
”With all the attention the girls of Corbenic gave him, I half-expected him to follow in your swaggering footsteps!”

An older woman dressed in peasant’s attire leans close to Lena, a scrutinizing eye on every part of Marcus without subtlety. Her passing whisper cinches the horror in my chest. “Handsome, Lena. This the one you told us about?”

Lena nudges the woman with an air of playfulness. “Away, you!” But she denies nothing.

Of course. I was so foolish. The possibility of betrayal was the likeliest of futures for Marcus, and I arrive at it with Marcus beside me, not knowing my humiliation because my last bit of dignity is wrapped up in the calm façade I’m desperate to cast into the crowd. But my heart—my heart is as cold as the approaching night, and just as dark.

A smile crosses Marcus’s lips, though I’m not sure he heard what the other barmaid said. “What are you doing here? Last time I saw you was—”

“Hold on,” Owen says behind me. He narrows his eyes at Marcus. “How do you know her?”

Lena smiles. “Corbenic,” she says. My heart plummets as I relive Sir Kay’s accidental taunt over and over; it shatters when I remember how Marcus was gone for a month. That’s more than enough time to reach Corbenic in the north of Britannia and return on the quest, possibly finding me in the countryside on the way. This is why Marcus has been so distant.

What Owen feared was the truth. Camelot wasn’t betrayed—I was.

I feel like a fool, standing here with all these drunken eyes upon us, staring at Marcus as he subconsciously rubs the ink lining his neck.

Lena’s face breaks into a bigger smile, and she steps past me to embrace Marcus, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Don’t just stand there as though I were a stranger! My God, it’s spectacular to see you here!”

Marcus smiles until his eyes crinkle, and I haven’t seen him smile like this since the spring. He returns the hug, watching me the entire time. My throat chokes me with my sobs, and my dying heart begs for the release.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” she tells him, the true and honest words shutting his eyes with melancholic happiness.

Owen scoffs. “I knew it,” he whispers under his breath.

The voice of Merlin is a horrible truth in my ear.
“Oh, there’s Lena.”

How could the old fool know about her?
How?
I step backward, unable to breathe, unable to find air in this smoky tavern. Those drinking their ale at the tables whisper, and certainly it’s about this liaison between a barmaid and a knight everyone knew of but me. There’s no other possibility.

I’m about to ask them both, but to hear Marcus admit it with so many watching … that would be unbearable. I’m holding my breath, and the room is spinning around me, and my eyes are burning with hot tears. And so I turn on my heel and run out of the inn.

“Vivienne?” Marcus says, as his arms drop from Lena’s waist. “Vivienne, what—”

But I’ve already slammed the tavern’s door behind me.

Happy laughter surrounds me from passersby on these streets as twinkling gas lanterns rock in the wind above in long crisscrosses. Though the cold is biting, and my boots aren’t thick enough to protect me from the knee-high snow, I will not stay in that tavern only to be humiliated. I want to forget Marcus, forget all of this ever happened. I want to return to a state of normalcy and staunch logic.

The inn door cracks open behind me. “Vivienne!” Marcus calls, and I hear him running after me until he catches my wrist.

I yank myself free and turn on him. “Stay away,” I warn, my voice quiet and low. A voice he’s never heard me use; a voice I don’t think I’ve ever used myself.

His eyes are wide and scared and confused. “What … where are you going?”

I turn my back to him and storm away. “To find the Grail and bring it to Azur,” I answer, not caring who can hear. “It’s the only honest thing I can do, and I’m leaving before you and Owen try to force a different future upon me.” I push through the villagers captivated by a puppet show with Marcus close on my heels. I head in the direction of two landing aeroships. The ports must be close by, and I have my fair share of gold.

“Vivienne, stop—” Marcus calls, his pace quickened as he tries to keep up.

He must think I’m an absolute fool. I spin to face him. “Everyone in that tavern knew as soon as you stepped inside who you were in Corbenic. Everyone but me. Were you ever going to tell me, or are you satisfied to have me find out on my own? Why did you bother coming here with me, and why,
why,
Marcus, are you so determined to keep me from Avalon?” At the very least, he should be able to answer that truthfully.

But Marcus is too surprised by my frantic questions to respond. I give him ten seconds of silence, more than enough time to come up with a diabolical
lie
, but he can’t even do that. He can’t deny anything now. Those passing us come to notice our lovers’ quarrel, and I no longer care. Several villagers stop, whispering and pointing, carrying on with blatant eavesdropping as though we might be actors in a street performance.

“You don’t know what … ” he finally manages. “You don’t know what it’s been like out here—”

“Then tell me, you bastard!” I scream. “Tell me the truth instead of ordering me around and carrying on like you ever felt
anything
for me!” And now we’re gathering a bigger audience.

As some onlookers chuckle, Marcus eyes them with viciousness and steps closer to me. His eyes well with angry tears, and he’s too furious to blink them away before they fall. “What is it I’m supposed to explain? You have yet to tell me.”

I ready myself for the truth that’ll slice me piece by piece in these streets. “Where were you for that month?”

He freezes. Wherever he was falls over his eyes, like he’d pushed away that memory for days or weeks. The seconds drift between us—more and more—until I realize he’s not going to tell me.

I step away, but then he draws closer. His voice is low. “I was worried about you
long
before I saw you fall through that ice. Seeing you out here means whatever is destined to happen is already on its way.”

He already knows of the Lady of the Lake’s prophecy. That must be what he means.

“No, Marcus. It’s already happened.” I feel tears stinging my eyes, and the crowd offers their low calls of witness and heckles. I have to leave now. I have to leave this village and do something with an ounce of integrity. “Leave me alone.”

He’s quick to grab my arm, but I turn and slap his face. My eyes widen at what I did, but I stay strong. He sets his hand to his reddening cheek, just as surprised by its sting.

I turn and run through the crowd, deeper into the village.

Marcus calls after me, “Vivienne—”

“Leave me alone!” I feel him following, and a band of older villagers have noticed my tears and the knight two steps behind me.

One heavily moustached man nursing a tin pint and dressed in the ornate costumes of the town steps forward. “Oi! The lady said to leave her alone, didn’t she, mate?”

Another likewise steps forward, eyes lingering on Marcus’s dragon tattoo, but not intimidated by it. “Causing problems for the lass, boy?”

I back away as the brutes stall Marcus. Defeated, his shoulders slump, but his eyes not only plead for me to come back, they ask me with blatant confusion why I’m leaving.

I turn, and I know I’ll never see Marcus again, and that thought makes the prospect of crying stupidly attractive. My pride won’t let me ask once and for all how he came to be acquainted with Lena; instead, I run through the crowd that’s long forgotten us, past a puppet show performing on the other side of the street, complete with whistles and metal-work dolls that send the entire crowd into fits of delighted laughter.

When I’ve turned the corner, I look back at the crowd swallowing Marcus up. My back against the stone wall, I fall to the snowy ground, pull my knees to my chest, and cry.

When it doesn’t seem rational anymore to sit in the snow and cry as villagers stroll past, I dry my eyes with the backs of my hands and stand, certain of one thing: I have to return to my aeroship, fix it, somehow retrieve the Fisher King’s signet, and go after Avalon myself. Find the Grail and learn more about its powers. Learn why the Lady of the Lake and I share the same name. Flee to Jerusalem to help Azur defeat the Spanish rogues. Maybe I could even find Galahad’s infantry. But no longer can I dwell on the humiliation of Marcus and Lena.

It’s grown late enough in the day that aeroships flying through the air are no longer visible; not only that—clouds drift over the village, shielding any ascending or descending vessels from me. I spot a young man and woman walking arm-in-arm, and I touch the lady’s fine mauve sleeve to halt her. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get to the docks, would you?”

The man’s eyes widen as he recognizes me. “We adored your performance earlier. These parts are frightfully dull with the same old minstrels and their pathetic, wilting damsels. It was refreshing to see a vision of broken love instead.” The woman nods vigorously in agreement and clutches his arm tightly. Their shared smiles and tilted looks of fawning are enough to make my stomach turn.

I turn my lips up, though it nearly kills me, and utter, “Thank you,” as quietly as I can manage without breaking that delicate lump in my throat. “The ports?”

The man points in the distance to a tavern on the other side of the village. “You’re looking for ol’ Bill, if you seek an aeroship. If he’s not in the skies, he’s romancing a pint.”

That tavern is alive with gas lanterns and music, jovial laughter and hearty cries for hot mulled ale on a cold evening. As I make my way through the crowds, I find a numbing peace inside, like a dam has been put up between my sense of logic and the emotions rattling me with shaken nerves. I hold my head high, though I know the slightest nudge of that dam will cause it to collapse.

I must stay rational, but by God, I wish Caldor were with me instead of lost in the countryside or drowned in icy waters. My falcon’s existence between life and the mechanical arts would at least keep me grounded and remind me that once I had a mentor who was an insufferable fool, yes, but even more so, a friend who would never let me face the goliaths of life alone.

In the tavern, I stand out painfully in my Camelot garments. These men wear serfs’ clothing, many dressed like Rufus. And, oh God, Rufus. I never told Marcus his father was alive. For a second, I think he might not deserve to know, but then I take it back. No one deserves that sort of cruelty.

An old man with wire-rimmed spectacles resting atop the end of a long nose welcomes me with a polite nod as I find the counter. “Drink, my lady?”

I shake my head. “I need an aeroship. I was told to ask for Bill.”

The barman leans back to follow the line of men sitting at his counter. He sends a whistle through his teeth, and two men glance over. “Get Bill.”

The two men step aside, revealing a patron leaning against the counter, halfway through an engrossing tidbit of gossip. “ … hasn’t been seen in ages, then. Sir Tristan of Camelot, on his way back to the Holy Land. Something must have stirred up if it meant he was forced to abandon the quest.”

Sir Tristan. With Rufus, surely, as the blacksmith wouldn’t simply return to Camelot to tinker with ironwork if the rogues’ attack on Jerusalem were something he could fight. I know this.

“Oi! Bill!” the barman calls.

The man glances over as the barman jets his chin at me. Bill eyes me up and down with a face too red and sweaty not to have already enjoyed his fair share of mead. His dirty hair isn’t dirty enough to cover the white from age. A belly indicative of constant attendance to a tavern hangs over a leather belt. “What have we here?”

I feel the drunk and yellowing eyes on me, but I cannot appear afraid. “You have an aeroship,” I say more than ask.

The old man flicks an eyebrow. “What of it?”

I reveal my small purse of gold and withdraw several coins. “I require passageway to the eastern countryside. I’ll pay handsomely if you take me there.”

Bill’s lips pull back over shining teeth in a sneer, contagious enough that the rest of the scoundrels around him laugh quietly. Then he leans forward. “What kind of a castle lady wanders into a village at this hour, demanding to be flown away? Go home, girl. Whoever your father chose as a husband for you isn’t worth getting killed over.” The laughter coming from Bill’s company is obnoxious, and he turns back on his stool to his band of friends.

“Please,” I try, my voice louder now. “This is a matter of urgency. If you won’t take me, at least point me in the direction of someone who will.”

Bill’s eyes sneak over his shoulder at me. “Careful, dear. You’re in the thick of a village where rumors of Merlin’s apprentice carrying some very valuable information run rampant. Don’t want to stand out now, lest some desperate souls were to think you’re her.”

I meet his eyes and lie perfectly. “I know nothing about that.”

Bill turns on his stool, the gratuitous sight of his twisting stomach off-putting as he faces me. “That so? They just let girls wander into these parts of the countryside, then? Well, much obliged for educating me, miss. If it’s true, you got nothing to worry about.” His voice softens, and he shuffles closer to me. I jerk away, my fingertips grazing my firelance, ready to seize its cool metal hilt and fire if necessary.

But then a long, curved sword splits the space between us and slams into the counter. Bill’s drunken eyes cross as he looks at the sharp silver beneath his nose. The patrons freeze. The barman steps back.

“The lady asked a simple question, and you have yet to provide her with an answer.” The voice sounds like tobacco and old spirits, a lifetime of leadership shouting orders to a crew. Magical and fluid, as though it knows well the Latin languages of Rome or France.

Bill backs away in complete recognition of this new character as the length of the sword follows.