Avalon Rising (8 page)

I take a breath. What Rufus said brings the boymachine Mordred to mind. “Azur said by curing the Fisher King, Avalon could be within reach.”

Rufus clenches his fists. He rolls up his sleeves, and I watch the dancing of mystical, tattooed symbols as he clenches again in worry. “Why should I trust the alchemist anyway?”

I cannot tell Rufus all of this is so I can go after the Grail myself once we find Marcus. A quest that might mean a way to save Jerusalem, and perhaps even grant me my freedom in the eyes of my father. “What if the fastest way to Avalon was for Marcus to backtrack first? We both know he would do whatever it took to return to Camelot.”

Rufus thinks about my reasons and grunts once, and with that, I know my logic has aligned with his. The aeroship reaches a higher altitude, and the quiet of the air so close to the heavens is finally enough to let me feel a bit of hope.

We’re on our way.

As the aeroship flies high over the clouds, I poke and prod at the embers in the furnace. The mechanism Rufus built to expel more
jaseemat
into the ship helps us climb the harsher winds as we fly north. Once we find our momentum, I set up a workspace at the ship’s bow so I can properly fix Caldor. The mechanical falcon has fallen still, out of
jaseemat
. Its cold, beady eyes stare at the sky as I oil the hinges connecting the wing to its body.

Rufus stands at the helm, silent and brooding as I search the leather satchel for Merlin’s journals and scrolls. I run my fingers over the thick leather binding and the pressed words nearly worn out through so many years of use. The letters are not ones I can read properly—it might be written in Azur’s own alphabet. But inside are Merlin’s own scratches and jottings; I’ve read this volume at least eight times since June, but only now do I feel like I’m intruding. I remember the sadness on the sorcerer’s face before I ran from the woods—I don’t know where that sentiment would have come from.

I open the journal and search carefully for any writings on the Fisher King. I smooth each page, and when my palms touch the rough, thick parchment, a sensation of wonderment and awe comes over me. I yank my hand free.

The blacksmith is watching me—I can feel it. I glance sideways over my shoulder. I’m right. “You could have left me behind, and you didn’t.”

Rufus straightens, his hands tight on the helm. “We had an agreement. Plus, you would have been chained to a parlor with a gold ring around your finger courtesy of a complete stranger. I don’t think I could have faced Marcus knowing I let that happen.”

After all this time, he still has hope his son is alive. “Marcus spoke highly of you,” I say.

The blacksmith chuckles in a low tone, a sound of pride mingling with grief. “He’s a good boy. I’m tempted to breach etiquette and say you’re lucky.”

The silence between us is long after that, filled with unspoken—yet identical—worries.

I pass the time soldering Caldor’s copper feathers to hold his wing in place. A bit of Merlin’s own
jaseemat
brings the falcon to life before I return the small box to the compartment inside its belly, and I speak of the Perilous Lands to my little friend to help navigate us. I make sure the blacksmith sees Caldor flit to the aeroship’s bow, where it perches. Once we run out of
jaseemat
, navigation will prove to be more difficult if the cloudy skies don’t let up.

I don’t want to think about that, but once I push that worry to a far corner in my mind, I’m reminded of an even bigger concern: the danger Azur and the people of Jerusalem have found. I turn in my seat, noticing the blacksmith’s shifting feet, his hesitant breathing at seeing the falcon.

To distract both of us, I ask, “Did others in Lyonesse know about the Perilous Lands?” I’m envious of all the stories Rufus might have.

His gaze rests on the horizon. “Legends like that can’t help but be passed down. My grandfather was just a boy when it was already ancient. And the tale only grew by the time I was a young man in Lyonesse.” He loses himself in a forlorn memory. “Some said the kingdom was destined to find the Grail, despite what efforts Merlin put forth for Camelot. Many said there was an undeniable connection, but it’d only come about once the kingdom sank.”

It must be because of the wind that I feel my skin prickle. I turn back to my work, my fingers shakier now than before. Briefly, I wonder why something so removed from my own life in Camelot would affect me so. “The queen never spoke so freely of Lyonesse. She was more protective of her home.”

“She would have been. She had status.”

I don’t turn, but my eyes flick upward until they’re locked on the wooden grains of my table. “What do you mean?”

“Only that a princess of Lyonesse, set to marry Arthur of Camelot, would never dwell upon the horrors in her home.”

I force a smile. “You make it sound as though she was as guilty as Merlin when it came to stealing magic.” And of course Guinevere never did.

“Well,” Rufus says, “I suppose it’d be inaccurate to say I was the only innocent one in Lyonesse.”

The implication that Guinevere might have stolen magic doesn’t sit well, but I don’t speak up on her behalf. For some reason, even to think of doing so feels like I’d be lying.

Thicker clouds touch my skin with their cool, wet breath, reminding me that I’m soaring like Caldor as gears and cogs pedal us through. Just like Victor, this creation needs a name, and since she flies as high as the heavens, the stars, the celestial sky, I silently christen my aeroship
CELESTE
.

“It flies well, Lady Vivienne. I commend you,” Rufus says, as though he’s just as captivated as I am by this glorious vessel.

I offer a meek smile and turn back to my work.

“Could have used some of my own touches, though.”

He speaks in a strange way now, in a low voice I cannot place, and instantly I turn back, almost defensive. “I beg your pardon?”

Rufus blinks. “I said the aeroship flies well. I commend you.”

“No, after that.”

Rufus inclines his head in question. “I didn’t say anything else.”

“Course he didn’t,”
the voice speaks again, and I’m not sure how I could have mistaken it for Rufus. I whip around, expecting to see Merlin, but he’s not there.

“My lady?” Rufus asks.

My heart pounds wildly against my ribs, or it’s stopped entirely, and the realization of whose voice it was comes over me slowly, like how night tends not to show its face until it’s already conquered the sun. I must be going mad, but I offer Rufus that same, weak smile again. “Must have been the wind.”

We return to our tasks. I fumble with Caldor’s copper wing. In a silence that only permits that wind’s eternal cry, I think about why I’d hear Merlin’s voice. If it really was Merlin. I think about the woods—did he defeat the Lady of the Lake? What became of them? And why would a duel between a thief of magic and a demigoddess come to pass for the sake of a girl, even if she does know where Avalon lies?

I don’t realize until too late how sharp the feathers of Caldor’s wings are, and one pricks my finger, letting a few drops of blood stain my skin. “Blast.”

I find my focus again and glance at the scrolls. There’s nothing in them about the Fisher King. But then a whisper of wind teases Merlin’s leather-bound journal, and I seize it in time for several pages to fly open. My hand flattens the pages in place, and I realize I’m looking at one I missed: a sheet folded in half toward the journal’s spine.

I unfold it. An entry detailing a conversation with Azur, and the hastiness of Merlin’s scrawled words in this particular passage draws me toward it. I settle in my spot and draw my furs around my shoulders, hiding the parchment from Rufus.

“Azur—could alchemy stop death if we fail in finding the Grail?”

My eyes go wide. Merlin’s penmanship is shaken, yet practiced, as though he couldn’t have been bothered with the prospect of taking the time to write legibly.

“I wonder if you aren’t letting the thought tinker away in your mind. We’ve already changed charcoal into gold. The next task is to utilize that gold in new ways. You claim to have found mystical properties in it, in the form of a powder that could bring temporary life to inanimate things. When I receive this element, I will test it on the falcon I’ll finish constructing before Arthur’s bride arrives in the coming week. I know we tread a fine line here, but you assure me there’s nothing to worry about. Despite the incantations we’d recite to activate its life, it’s simply an instruction to the elements to work in a new way. There is no magic here. I should be safe.”

The scribbles end on the first page, continuing on to the second.

“Azur, you have been silent. I wonder if bringing life to inanimate objects would be any different from bringing life to what once lived. One could argue it was also inanimate. But would it be the same life, or a new one? This endeavor reminds me of the pagan magic I escaped; in particular, one spell that could bring life back to those who’d died no more than an hour prior, with no counter effects. Only to the enchanter after a month’s time. A difficult feat, and the most intrusive thievery of magic I’ve ever witnessed—”

There are no words after that. I leaf through the pages to see if it continues anywhere else, but the rest are blueprints of Caldor, of quicklights, of simple gas lanterns.

The most intrusive thievery of magic …

The sputtering furnace pulls me out of this world of astonishment. We’re running low on charcoal. Merlin’s falconry gloves keeping my hands warm, I pull open the grate and use an iron fire poker to turn the whitened bits to dust.

I must think of something other than Merlin’s past thieveries of magic. “When will you give me the instructions?” I ask Rufus, the aura of alchemic mystery clinging to my thoughts. “I might as well use this time to create more.”

Rufus doesn’t waver. “I promised you’d have it once we found Marcus.” But he cannot look me in the eye as he speaks the words, and suddenly, I’m not sure he’s being truthful. But then I remember the parchment in his pocket with the sorcerer’s seal.

I’m careful not to get any hot bits of charcoal from the open furnace onto my skin or furs. Inside is the connection to the clockwork heart I used in Victor, but that alone won’t be enough forever. “With the Perilous Lands so far away, we might not find Marcus unless I make
jaseemat
first.”

Rufus still won’t budge, but now, he looks at me with an aura of suspicion that is, at least, honest. “I would give anything to spare you the danger of making it, my lady. You must understand.”

I turn back to the furnace to reattach the grate, feeling the insult dig into my bones as though perhaps Rufus thinks of me as nothing but a child. A brief moment of wonderment strikes my mind, that of Rufus possibly knowing about these notes of Merlin’s. If the blacksmith might have had a change of heart by remembering these words laced with danger.

The action of reattaching the grate is nearly automatic, but I’m irritated by Rufus’s refusal. “Don’t insult me, blacksmith. You don’t know—”

“I do! I was Merlin’s apprentice, too,” he says, and with the frightened force of his voice, he’s lost control of the helm. The aeroship twists before stabilizing itself, and I grip the grate to keep balance.

I stare at Rufus. So much of Marcus springs free in the passion behind his words, but in a way that’s terrified instead of enthusiastic. When he sees my reaction to his outburst, he lowers his chin until he’s staring at the helm, back in his grasp. “I saw for myself what sort of danger there was in alchemy. How it led to magic. Did Merlin tell you nothing?”

No
.
But Azur did.

I don’t say it aloud. We cannot afford safety solely in the mechanical arts, not when the Grail still has yet to be found. Alchemy must be employed.

“Merlin told me it was an instruction to the elements.” When I blink, I see a flash of the sorcerer’s face after he’d stolen magic. How he’d hammered a mask to his jaw to conceal his fading features. What sort of torment took hold of his soul? “I’ve seen magic, blacksmith. Not as much as you, I realize, but I can certainly tell the difference.”

My voice must carry notes of challenge or rebuttal, because Rufus’s shoulders fall. “I don’t mean to insult. I fear this task for you; I wish there could have been something else that would lead us both to Marcus. Do not ask me this now. We can certainly reach the Perilous Lands with the amount you’ve provided.”

I don’t want to wait. I can feel the knowledge only feet away, calling to me, tempting me with the revelation the stamped parchment boasts. This is torture.

“I promise,” Rufus says, “I’ll give you the instructions. Besides, you’ll need a stable surface to create
jaseemat
before I leave to find Marcus if he isn’t in the Perilous Lands yet.”

I turn my head quickly, in time for Rufus to realize the gaffe in his statement. “
We.
Not
you
, blacksmith,” I assert. As was the agreement.

He has goggles around his neck and sets them over his eyes. “Aye, my lady. That’s what I meant.”

But I don’t believe him.

“He never spoke much, even when I was a child,” Marcus said of his father. His stories were few and vague, but compelling and mysterious all the same. “My mother was born and raised in the farmlands of Camelot, but when my father arrived as a man, alone and with no name for himself, she was caught up in the mystery, I suppose.”

My eyes were heavy with fatigue as Marcus spoke, but I wanted to hear more. I rested my cheek on my arm, facing him as he mirrored my position. His fingers plucked at the bits of hay between us, and his eyes went back and forth between the dancing fire and me.

“He said there were people who knew about the Grail’s powers and could attest to how incredible they were. They wanted it for their own reasons. I’m sure to continue stealing magic was one of them.” He shrugged lazily. “Lyonesse knew of alchemy, but I don’t think those living there saw much difference between it and magic, to be honest.”

“Why did he leave?” I asked in a whisper. “And what made him decide upon Camelot?”

Over the course of Marcus’s storytelling, he’d certainly become exhausted by my many questions, but Guinevere had never told me what sort of life she’d had in Lyonesse. Only brief words in passing about her former handmaids, the luxurious animal skins and linens they’d use for ornate clothing, foods so different from our Jerusalem-styled feasts. She’d never said anything close to the likes of what Marcus just admitted.

He hesitated and raised a corner of his lips in an awkward smile. “Aren’t you glad he did? Otherwise I might not have been here to save you from this storm.”

I pushed him away playfully, my fingers lingering at the ties of his tunic, passing them between my fingers like weaving a loom. “Watch your pride, squire. You saved me from nothing.”

He shrugged again, his smile broader now. After a long breath, we both remembered my question. “It was dangerous to be there. Full of sorceresses turning men into wraiths a knight would have to slay with mechanical weapons. He didn’t want to turn into the likes of … ” He might have almost said Merlin’s name, but his voice was a lullaby I could fall asleep to, and I’d already felt my eyelids growing heavy. “You might stop me if I’m that dull of a storyteller.”