Avalon Rising (28 page)

And then his cheeks and ears and neck warm from surely what is the growing heat of day, but I can’t help but wonder if the worry in Marcus’s eyes is about something else. He takes a quick breath, like he’s bracing himself to ask.

“Vivienne, what happened before you fell through the ice?”

Before I fell through the ice, I stole magic to save myself from rogues. I look at Marcus, and I do not blink. I feel my pulse pound against my neck and wrists as seconds pass between us. Finally, I gather strength, but my voice is weak. “What do you mean?”

He searches me. “The rogues’ eyes were gorged out, and there was no way anyone could have done that with a firelance.” A step closer. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say, in a clipped voice.

He traces my neck and shoulder, watching the path his fingers makes. A lazy shrug sets his mouth into a line. “Strange. It seemed like … like there had been magic nearby. And that wasn’t the only time. I mean, the Black Knight had every reason in the world to torture you, and he didn’t.” He looks at me with a face I cannot read. “He didn’t hurt a hair on your head, like you were… ”

I wait for him to finish, but he doesn’t. I think of how frightened the Black Knight was of me. How I called him out on it. “The Lady of the Lake is protecting me, Marcus.” And I pray she never finds out about the magic I stole.

“Certainly. And she did a hell of a job when the Black Knight took you aboard his ship.”

“That was my folly.”

There’s uncertainty in his gaze. “It’s almost like … there was a reason she turned a blind eye.”

Finally, I recognize the look he wears. It’s the same look of denial or disbelief when he paused on the other side of our room’s door at the inn, not realizing I was watching. He was lost in thought with only the sorcerer on his mind and a familiar pistolník at his waist.

“Where were you for that month, Marcus?” I ask, turning around the interrogation. “It wasn’t Corbenic; that much I gather now.”

He draws in a nervous breath.

“And who were you with?”

He rubs his stubbled cheeks with his palms, weary exhaustion from our lack of sleep falling over his eyes. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.” He presses forward, those roughened palms on my cheeks now. “As soon as all of this madness is over, I’ll tell you everything. I swear it.”

It’s strange, but I have to believe him now. Not because of the love we’ve admitted to each other, or—

Oh God. Merlin.

For an entire month, Merlin was also unaccounted for, according to Azur.

But I don’t mention that. I smile warmly and nod, pressing my lips to Marcus’s cheek and wrapping my arms around his neck. I want Marcus to confirm that Merlin is involved, but part of me wonders if somehow that would mean Marcus knows of the magic I stole. If Merlin had been able to tell him.

Or warn him. And pass along a prized pistolník in the meantime.

And once again, there are untruths between Marcus and me.

The sands go on forever, and each cliff we pass is even more gargantuan than the last. Marcus holds me as I lean against him, riding sidesaddle, the reins in my hands. The aeroship ports are only hours away now.
“Almost there,”
he tells me over and over.

Then, down the way, a rider makes for us, and as soon as he breaks into a gallop, Marcus grabs the reins, drawing our steed to a halt. I feel a rise of fear in my throat at the thought if it being a rogue who might try to kill Marcus, but then I bring out my viewer, elongating it to see better. It’s not a rogue. No, it has the armor and shape of a knight of Camelot, but as I focus a little more, I make out the face.

“It’s Owen,” I say, relieved.

“Damn,” Marcus growls.

Owen, who wanted the Grail even if it meant his sister would remain in the shackles of the Black Knight. “He would have been off his feet for a day, I wager,” Marcus says in a low, dangerous voice, “after what I put him through.”

I look through my viewer again. “He’s furious,” I say, but it’s more of a question.

“He should be happy to see you alive and well.”

Owen’s steed kicks the sand out from under its hooves. My brother sees us, but doesn’t wave, doesn’t offer a greeting. On the contrary, I’ve never seen him so angry. His body is beaten up from Marcus’s heavy punches, and he winces through his injuries as the horse’s hooves thump in the sand. There might as well be whites in his pupils, golds in his irises.

“I’ll talk to him,” I tell Marcus.

“I should.”

“He’s my brother.”

“He’s my adversary.”

Marcus and I drop from the saddle. He storms toward Owen, arms lifted in spiteful surrender.

Owen’s steed reels to a stop. A spray of sand hits Marcus in the eyes, forcing him to turn and grunt.

My brother looks at me. “Stolen from the Spanish rogues and then returned unharmed. I suppose marble signets are to thank for this?” His voice is different: harsher, resentful. Full of hatred. “And now the Black Knight will claim what should be mine.”

Marcus faces my brother, hands still raised in case Owen would turn quickly on him. “Vivienne is safe. That’s what’s important. If you want something to do, return to Camelot and tell Lancelot—”

“That’s
not
what’s important,” Owen growls, his face drawn up in a sneer. “The Spanish rogues have all they need to use against us. You fools.”

Marcus steps forward. “Owen, step down. Talk to me on my level.”

But Owen’s bruised and bloody chin jets up in defiance. “Why would I lower myself to a
serf ’s
level?”

Marcus flinches at the insult. He lowers his hands. “Your mother,” Marcus tries, slowly, patiently, with much anger dancing on his own voice. “The rogues have Camelot’s subjects. They might have even captured the rest of the infantry, at that.”

Owen shakes his head. “You’re taking the attention from the Grail, trying to force me to do the same. Now that Avalon is revealed, you want me distracted so you can seek the Grail for yourself.” He spits at Marcus’s feet.

Marcus ignores the gesture and steps forward. “Hear yourself, Owen! We have to send word to Lancelot—”

Owen shakes his head. “Let them save themselves. The strong amongst them will rise up. The strong always do.”

I brush past Marcus for my brother who now notices me with much indifference. “You don’t see how the quest has changed you! You don’t see how heartless you’ve become!”

Owen’s cold eyes shoot ice at mine. “I see how much time I wasted in Camelot. Now that I’ve left its restraints, I’ve only become stronger. Being banished from the Round Table is the best thing to have happened to me.”

Marcus shakes his head. “Forget that, Owen! Vivienne said your mother was amongst them!” His voice wavers, and I know he must be thinking of his own mother. “Please, know the torment I felt. Find them while we go after the Black Knight.”

Owen seethes. He glares at us, at our entangled hands, our bodies pressed together in urgency and love. He doesn’t know about the Lady of the Lake’s prophecy, about Rufus, or what the Fisher King told me about Marcus. He doesn’t know how we must follow the Black Knight.

I swallow. I have to find the Owen I once knew. “Owen, please. We’re wasting time fighting.”

But my plea is lost on my brother. The Owen I grew up with no longer exists. He might as well be on his way to becoming a rogue.

“You stand before me declaring all this, but all I see is a whore who gave herself to a lowly serf, no more worthy of you than you are of him.”

My heart shatters, and before I can stop him, Marcus drops my hand and runs at my brother. He tackles Owen off his horse and slams him into the sands.

Marcus’s fist clashes with Owen’s jaw, hitting him three times or more.

“Marcus! Stop!” I shout.

Owen shoves Marcus so he can sit up and grab a long dagger from his boot, aiming the point at Marcus’s neck. Owen readies to strike, but Marcus’s heavy grunts give him the force he needs to wrench the dagger from Owen’s hand and throw it aside. The blade lands point down in the sand.

I scream, “Stop! Both of you!” My voice is frantic, but amongst the heavy waves and the terrifying grunts and shouts of pain, I can’t get a word in. My enraged heart pattering against my chest, I run to the horse and seize Marcus’s pistolník and fire it twice into the air, shattering the sky with loud bursts.

Marcus sees me armed and stands, hanging at his waist, breathing heavily. Owen’s face reddens with fury, and his nose swells from a break.

And then his hand slips to his side.

“Marcus!” I scream.

Owen is on his feet before I can blink, and he frees a fusionah from his holster, but Marcus is just as fast and wields his own blade, lifting it high and saving himself from losing an arm. Each points their weapon directly at the other: Marcus in defense, Owen to kill.

“Owen!” I scream, running for them, but before I reach his side, my brother’s quick punch sends Marcus to his knees, and then he clicks the barrel out from the blade’s hilt, pointing it directly at me.

I stop quickly in the sand and stare down the black tunnel belonging to the last person I thought would ever cast a weapon in my direction. Before I realize what I’m doing, Marcus’s pistolník in my hand aims right back at my brother. I hear the click of my fingers pulling back the hammer.

“Stay back, Vivienne,” Owen says purposefully.

I don’t move; I don’t breathe. My feet sink into the sand, and my heart pounds against my ribs. “How did this happen, Owen?”

Marcus finds his feet, eyes manic and wild. He runs at my brother with his blade and slams it down just as Owen turns, the long, steel barrel of his fusionah horizontal at eye-level.

“Threaten her again, and it’ll be me who kills you,” Marcus growls dangerously as Owen backs away to gain balance.

My brother swings his own blade viciously. Back and forth they go, back and forth until their blades are at a standstill.

Then the sword forged by Marcus’s father shatters Owen’s steel into three pieces that fly across the sand.

Marcus pulls away, and I sigh in relief, lowering the pistolník.

Owen steps back, back, back toward his horse. Not in a way that indicates surrender. As though he might have a cannon to trump Marcus’s blade.

And that thought sends my heart into a panic. “Owen, what are you doing?”

“Owen!” Marcus shouts, lowering his sword. “It’s over!” His voice is gruff and on guard.

Owen reaches his horse and disappears into the carriers and furs it boasts. Marcus storms toward him as though his ferocious step might startle Owen into yielding. Owen retrieves his dagger from the sand and attacks Marcus with it.

I dash across the beach, over sand and water, as I follow them at the sea’s edge.

When Owen’s dagger catches the hilt of Marcus’s sword, Marcus’s weapon tumbles from his grasp. He loses balance and falls to his knees, glancing over his shoulder for his blade lost in the sand. His eyes full of urgency, he scrambles for it and then stands again. But when he faces Owen, a crossbow my brother had retrieved from the horse and hidden on his back, aims at Marcus’s heart.

With a cruel smile of power and victory, Owen releases the arrow.

It strikes Marcus in the chest, extending to the other side.

The iron plates click outward in a horrible, deadly rhythm into a complete circle, locking the arrow inside him.

No. I didn’t see this. I hear myself scream from a faroff place, but I know my eyes were tricked by the shine of the sun, the reflection against the water. It didn’t happen. My feet wobble in the sand, and I’m not sure I can move, but somehow I’m running quickly to Marcus. I watch as he glances at the arrow that couldn’t possibly be stuck in his chest. I watch as Owen regards the empty crossbow in hand, blinking as though he’d been under a spell. He stares at Marcus, who looks back as though thinking,
How could you?

Marcus falls to his palms. A trickle of blood spills from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin and onto the white sand. He falls onto his chest, landing with a soft thump so much quieter than the waves.

My head is not with me, and my feet are no longer of my own control, and I slide in the sand to reach Marcus, pulling his body and turning him over, a waterfall of hot blood spilling over his clothes and skin. He writhes in pain, his eyes a horrid gray, blood staining his teeth and mouth.

“Marcus … ” I’m too shocked to cry. I look at Owen.

My brother’s mouth is agape. “He shouldn’t have fought me,” he whispers, sounding like the boy I once knew and loved when we were children.

I shake with anger. I can’t control myself anymore.
“What have you done?”

Owen steps away as though by doing so, he might somehow undo such an awful mistake.

My hands flock to Marcus’s heart, where the gentle thumping I love so much has slowed to a horrifically sluggish beat. He fights for breath, and his eyes gloss over, glancing everywhere in a fast panic.

I lean in to kiss his face and lips, feeling the thick warm blood coat mine as well.

“I’m here. I can—I can save you.” I nod to reassure both of us. “I’ll find charcoal. I can turn it into gold, and from there, I can make
jaseemat
to keep life within you. Alchemy … ” I trail off when I see how his face twists in agony, how he cries without realizing it, how his body shakes like his life is trying to escape this horror. “There’s always a choice. Hold on, Marcus.”

Owen watches.

I glance sideways at his still figure. I cannot look anymore at him. “You’re no longer my brother.”

Owen says nothing. Perhaps he regrets his actions. Or, perhaps, he’s looking at the girl he called a whore and is hating her with every inch of his being. Perhaps he’s nothing more than a boy desperate for the Grail for his own selfish reasons.

Owen sputters for speech, but no words follow. He backs away to his horse, and I hear the gentle gallops of his steed take him far away, off these shores, out of Greece, and from my life forever.

My tears drench Marcus, cleaning off the blood still warm, still spilling from his mouth. He’s in great pain, drifting between delirium and awareness. The arrow hit his heart, but not cleanly enough that death would be immediate.