Avalon Rising (19 page)

“Let go of me, you bastards!” I scream.

“Don’t take her! I’ll go with you!” Marcus shouts. The knights of Camelot are too far away for him not to negotiate with every last second. Marcus gestures to my brother. “Owen can find the aeroship. He’ll bring the signet to you. Let Vivienne go!”

“No, Marcus!” I shout, my eyes holding his for as long as I can bear it. I won’t have him die for me.

The Black Knight smiles gleefully as he pulls back toward the stairs. “Master Owen doesn’t think you should be sacrificing all this for one person, even if it is his sister.”

Marcus tears his gaze to Owen. My brother’s face reddens with bitter guilt.
Oh Owen, what happened to you?

“Two days to bring me what I need to get to Avalon or else Lady Vivienne will be kept alive for longer than you’d ever wish.” The Black Knight climbs his aeroship’s steps and signals to those above. Anchors rise, and sails extend. A storm of wind spirals around us from the steam valves that’ll send us flying like hawks across the sky.

The rogues holding Marcus and Owen are the last to let go, and when they do, both knight and squire tackle them and seize firelances from their crooked hands, Marcus’s reclaimed pistolník a gleam of ancient bronze stained red from blood. They leap to their feet. Owen fires straight into one’s temple, and the rogue falls over dead.

The Black Knight drags me up the steps. He hasn’t forgotten how my right arm has been weakened, and his grip tightens, forcing my submission. My face twists in pain, but my defeated heart hurts even more.

“I think you’ll like
MUERTE
, darling,” he says. Despite the aeroships quickly leaving and those hurrying to arrive, the rogues’ aims at their enemies are careful and calculated. The stairs slowly lift and retract as we reach the deck. On the ground, Marcus halts, his body shaking with cold and shock. He catches my eye and mouths my name,
Vivienne
.

“And,” the Black Knight says, tipping my chin with one finger that utterly repulses me, “I think you’ll
adore
the Great Sea of the Mediterranean.”

When we reach the aeroship’s deck, the Black Knight drops my arm so he can shout orders to his scurrying rogues. He faces Galahad’s approaching aeroship and withdraws his pristine firelance from his inner jacket pocket. Sets the scope against his good eye. Smiles. I dart my gaze across the storm between aeroships at the tired, thin faces of knights I know. Particularly the one at the forefront.

Percy. The Black Knight is aiming at Percy. I run at the brute and seize the barrel of his firelance just as he fires. “No!” It sends the bearing scattering into the sky.

“Damn you!” the Black Knight shouts, grabbing my hair at the base of my neck and lifting most horribly until I’m on my toes. He studies me like a vagrant wolf might study a dying cat, but though the delicious thought of tearing me limb from limb has certainly crossed his mind, he does nothing of the sort.

My fingers reach for the firelance at my waist—to kill him, to strike him, to do what I can to make him drop me—but he finds it first and snatches it from my grasp.

“You just signed his death warrant, girl. And it’ll be
slow
.” A bearing from the other aeroship nearly catches on his ear, whizzing past both of us. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the second attempt, for Death to call me. But the only thing the Black Knight does is plan for retaliation. “Lift anchors! Set the fleet to full speed ahead! We return to the Mediterranean, with or without these bastards on our tail!”

Cannons from Galahad’s aeroship fire. The Black Knight throws me to the deck and sheathes my firelance for himself. The planks of floor holding up this vile flying vessel shudder from the impact of iron. With the ship’s instability, I tumble into the mast and grip the rough wood tightly, wishing for Merlin’s sword, dropped at the tavern.

The Black Knight gnashes his teeth through a vengeful growl. “Greet them in the same way they’ve greeted us!” he shouts. He heads for the helm and the rogues manning it.

It’ll be another full minute until Galahad can fire again. More than enough time to take in the spectacular bat-like wings of the Black Knight’s aeroship—boldly colored and massive in span. The rich golds, burgundies, and emeralds are prominent, like this is not just an aerocraft, but a world of luxury where only the finest tapestries and linens could ever enhance the aesthetics of such violent contraptions aboard. The helm is solid gold facing the pointed bow where a naked mermaid encased in bronze looks out. She wears goggles that curve into tear drops, the points of which line her eyes like a cat’s. She has a fish tail, and the scales are sprockets.

Above the wings, a massive gray body is the real monster behind
MUERTE
. Long and pointed and smooth, the rogues call it a zeppelin
,
and it seems to be where they store the power that sends us flying across the sky at unimaginable speeds.

Another cannon blasts into us. I grab the mast tighter. Galahad wouldn’t know I’m aboard; he might not even know I’ve left Camelot.

A third cannon, and this one slams into the sail whose mast I’m gripping, sending me straight to my knees with my arms covering my head. I’m desperate to breathe, but there’s no way I could. I panic for the air I want, and I pray for the home I left.

I look up in time to see the Black Knight smiling at my brush with death. “To the Mediterranean!” he cries to his rogues.

And they cheer. The zeppelin above us churns, and we soar across the sky.

I press against the splintered mast as though it might absorb me into its bark. The Black Knight glares at me with diabolical thoughts, perhaps entertaining the possibility of slicing me piece by piece, as he tried to with Gawain. Only the start of his planned torture for me. He might have his rogues pierce my palms, the same way they did to Marcus, before finding enough reason to dirty his own hands. And this could very well be his plan, for suddenly he is at my side, and the sharpness of his small, jagged blade bites into my neck.

“I’d be honored if you joined me in a more private place, Lady Vivienne,” he whispers. “We have much to discuss. I won’t hurt this pretty neck of yours, not after seeing how Sir Marcus looks at you. What he’d love to do to you exceeds the neck, I’m sure.” His free hand grabs my arm to lead me below deck. Before we can take the first mahogany step toward a well-lit cabin with an exquisite red door, he turns to his rogues manning the cannons, “Get word to the other ships. Half the fleet will fight alongside
MUERTE
; the rest will return to the village. Burn it and the people there!”

“No!” I scream, pulling from the Black Knight’s grip to no avail. The memory of burnt land, burnt people, the woman whose hand I held in the middle of Camelot’s courtyard. Marcus’s mother and the apron of ash tied to her waist. I can’t bear it. “How could you be so cruel? They’ve done
nothing
to you!”

The Black Knight might feel nothing at my words. “They knew I was there, darling, and they might send word to other villages. And they knew
you
were there. Had you not run, perhaps none of this would have happened.”

I feel the weight of Atlas atop my shoulders. So this is what it feels like to steal life without ever firing a weapon.

As the Black Knight’s commands are relayed across the whispers of the skies, I watch a half-dozen aeroships steer away from this battle for the village we’ve left behind. I remind myself that the villagers ran as fast as they could once they saw the Black Knight in the tavern. They’ve certainly escaped. Their homes might be forever gone, but at least they’re alive. Marcus and Owen, too. Surely.

The Black Knight takes me to his private quarters.

I hate how it reminds me of Merlin’s clock tower in its size, its world of craftsmanship and planning, its intricate details each with a history of their own.

A creak sounds from a nearby closet matching the tilts and blows from the battle above. I struggle to stay upright, but the floor is unstable from the winds, and the world even more so. I glance out a foggy window at Galahad’s English-styled aeroship coursing along the skies, fighting to keep pace with
MUERTE
. It vanishes from sight, sailing overtop to attack from the starboard side. Once it’s disappeared completely, I take in the entirety of the cabin. A counter sits beside me, set up with spirits and ales. In the opposite corner is a long day bed, complete with pillows and blankets of silk and wool. But nothing of comfort that could ward off the chill of fear from my skin.

The Black Knight is cool and stoic as he saunters in next, shutting the door with an air of elegance and chivalry. But there’s also frustration as he goes to his spirits’ counter and slams down his firelance. Such annoyance undoubtedly comes from the cannons’ blasts ringing in the air.

“Galahad’s talent of being a thorn in my side has outdone itself tonight. Even the realm of the demigods wasn’t this irritating.”

The winter skies follow him inside this cabin, but such a monster might be unaffected by the cold. When he sees me shiver, he points at the unlit hearth next to the day bed.

“Where are my manners? You must be chilled to the bone.” A wave of his hand sends flames to rise from the wood. It reminds me of the fire Marcus built for me in the barn, and perhaps the Black Knight knows that somehow.

“I’m not,” I reply, hiding my shivering arms.

“Always with the lies.” He shakes his head as he pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter.

Perhaps Gawain was wrong, and the Black Knight is nothing more than a trickster, an illusionist. I’ve heard of them before: traveling merchants who will take your money once they get you to look the other way.

My arms will not stop shaking, and I nearly hate myself for letting my furs and cloak drop in the village snow. I take a woolen blanket from under the decorative pillows and wrap it around my shoulders while the fire grows strong. There’s another call from the knights’ ship for cannons and steel sabers from deck, and I send a prayer to whoever would listen that Galahad might at least start with crossbows, which would never shatter these walls.

In the meantime, I need to find something that could free me from the Black Knight’s clutches. Perhaps a looking glass. If I can find one, and if he leaves, I could get in touch with Azur, since my soul isn’t tainted—

I draw in a sharp breath. But my soul is tainted now. I stole magic, and it was remarkable and horrifying, and the power in my hands was unlike anything I’d ever built, greater than forging the mechanical dragon, Victor. Even forging my aeroship. And although Merlin was able to use looking glasses to help me finish up the monster we’d hoped would defeat Morgan—after stealing magic in the woods, at that—I can no longer believe that Merlin was always truthful with me.

I shake the thought free. Something else, then. The cabin is full of globes and maps strewn across luxuriouslylined tables that would cost an entire kingdom. All major ports on those maps have been marked and targeted, pinned and circled. Trade routes have been traced; islands conquered.

Oh God, there seems to be nothing. I take a breath and will myself to be practical about this predicament, to search for an advantage against the Black Knight. But I can’t move. I’ve never been in such danger before, and I can’t see a logical way of ever getting out of it. Instead of a step forward, I take a step backward, and to take another is tempting indeed. It sets me straight against the aubergine walls within reach of silver trays boasting preserved fruits and meats—all fit for a king or demigod. Despite my terrible hunger, to eat now would nearly be traitorous.

Instead, I force my eyes at a map of the world with pins and pins and pins on it. There’s no pattern, but I force myself to count them, the ease of which lets me trap fear inside me and turn it into my own captive, not to be freed until I can kiss the ground in Camelot’s gardens.

But then I pause in my counting. I step closer to the map and lift my right hand, despite the sharp pain ringing through my arm. Ladies in Camelot do not take up the study of cartography unless they are queens, but Merlin was of the opinion that a girl of intelligence should know how to navigate. My finger drifts over Britannia.
Home.
The range of mountains I could see from the height of my bedchambers, the forestry that takes over a good part of the English countryside and carries the subtle aroma of wildflowers once the month of May has bloomed. There it is, even the cliff where Excalibur waits in an anvil for Camelot’s future king. I let my fingers drift over it. My home. The home I might never return to.

A pin marks it, and I frown.

When were the Spanish rogues there? I think back to all the times aeroships docked, how I watched them from the balcony that circled the knights’ verandah with Marcus. Those were aeroships of trade, of commerce. They were nothing out of the ordinary in a country at peace, though on watch for a witch.

But, no, there was another aeroship that came to Camelot. When the subjects evacuated, when Morgan’s armies were about to attack. I watched from Merlin’s tower as it pulled to the cliff.

“No, that can’t be right,” I whisper.

“Darling?” the Black Knight asks with an air of indifference, turning to me from the task of fixing himself a drink.

I shut my eyes, forcing myself to think further back. My stomach twists in a way I don’t understand. I see my mother’s face in my mind’s eye. I see her board with the rest of the nobility and serfs.

Now I’m worried that the flags, the sails, the burgundy—

Oh.

The Spanish insignias, the unassuming call and response for help when Camelot needed it. In the midst of a crisis in the kingdom. Arthur wouldn’t have paid attention; aeroships were called for, and aeroships answered. We’re allied with the kingdoms of España, and perhaps one was set to come to our aid. The perfect cover for air pirates whose treacherous flags bear similar markings. My hands are shaking, and it seems like there will never again be peace in my heart.

I trace the rest of the landscape surrounding Britannia, unexplored and wild, and run my finger between the two bodies of land leading me from Camelot to a flattened bit labeled
the Holy Land.
Worlds away from where I am now, home to a new war to lure Arthur’s knights from the Grail quest. It was supposed to have been a way to slow us down, but here is the Black Knight, like he might have known I’d go after Avalon myself, right into his waiting clutches. My finger pauses on the Holy Land, where there’s another red pin, and perhaps a fleet of aeroships carrying Camelot’s subjects.

“Rogues took them.”

I sent my mother to those ships.