Avalon Rising (9 page)

My eyes fluttered open again in time to see him shuffling closer. We had to be careful. But outside, there was still a thunderous storm and an angry witch eager to find us. We weren’t about to leave for a while.

He smiled again and rested against the hay bushel, his arm opened to me. “It’s all right. I’ll wake you when the rain stops.”

I knew it might be the only time I could feel his body near mine. I knew this sanctuary from the rain was all we could claim for ourselves. For now, possibly forever. I shuffled closer and set my cheek against his beating heart. His arm pulled me in; he took a long, deep breath like he was memorizing this moment, as I was.

I was desperate not to fall asleep.

The low and winded voice of Merlin returns with the force of crashing waves.
“Not only did you nearly ruin your reputation that night, you let down your guard and risked our plans of construction.”

My eyes snap open. The sky is dark from night; I missed any sunset to the west, but the clouds wouldn’t have let me see it anyway. We’ve been flying for nearly an entire day. The chill is terrible, and I draw my cloak closer, wrapping Guinevere’s black-and-white-striped furs around my shoulders. Caldor lies fixed in front of me, but as dead as the winter land. My breath is a fog, and Rufus manning the helm shivers violently. I glance at the furnace, still relatively warm, but the charcoal pieces are fading fast. We need an active fire.

“Here.” I stand to hand him my falconry gloves. He holds up a palm to refuse at first, but reconsiders and nods in thanks as he puts them on. As they were once Merlin’s, they fit him well. I kneel in front of the furnace and set my goggles atop my eyes so I can open the gate and toss in a few more lumps of wood and charcoal.

“We’ll arrive shortly,” Rufus tells me. “I’m steering her toward the sea to keep us from the blizzard heading south.”

I look out at the wrath of galloping, thunderous clouds of gray and white and sculpted out of rock by whatever god might have forged them. Snow comes quickly, and soon, we’re covered in it—sails, railings, Norwegian steel reinforcements. Everything.

We hit a current, and the aeroship wobbles unstably. I glance at the ship’s frame, in case I might have forgotten to tighten any bolts. The creaks of wear and tear are alarming, but everything holds. A particularly violent current strikes, and I reach for the railing. My hand falls upon the Norwegian steel that sings its magical song into my skin. It’s an opera of celestial music, and I want to feel it forever. But I must focus.

“Rufus! The wings!” I shout into the song of the gale as the silk sheets rustle. I used the strongest silk I could find in Guinevere’s and Merlin’s towers and sewed expertly enough that my mother would have been proud. But it might not be enough.

The ship dips suddenly, and with its strength, I’m thrown across the floor as the winds turn violent. I slam into the side. Knock the back of my head. Cringe and inhale sharply.

“Damn it!” Rufus curses, holding tightly to the helm. “You all right?”

I nod and climb to my feet, clutching the steel railings for support. The only emotion I see on Rufus’s face is through the gritted teeth he bares like a lion: he’s determined, but perhaps uncertain we’ll make it.

The port wing flails wildly, its strength fading. If we lose one wing, it’ll send us spiraling toward the ground. There’s not a moment to lose. There are lines secured over each side of the aeroship for this very purpose. But I should have tightened them long before we left.

“Keep to starboard!” I call, setting my goggles back over my eyes and making for the wing.

“What are you doing?” Rufus calls.

“I need to fix it!”

“No! You’ll fall!”

But I’ve already opened a window right above the wings. I squeeze through, and instantly the wind nearly knocks me onto my back. There’s the fraying end of a thick, white line, and I could tie it to the wing’s base, and perhaps that’ll hold us until we land. I stretch my arm toward it, feeling the icy death grip of winter’s ire, and immediately I regret giving my gloves to the blacksmith. But it cannot matter now. The silk whips like mad, but my fingers touch it, nearly catching it. I can do this.

“Just a little more,” I whisper.

“If the worst should happen—”

“Never mind that!” I shout back. I need to focus. “A little more,” I whisper. My hand stretches further, and my fingers are turning blue, and I might lose my arm, but I’m nearly there and suddenly, I feel the silk.

“Yes!”

I tie it to the base, and the wing stretches like a beautiful ship at sea. I jerk back inside and set my back flush against the wall. Rufus looks at me in amazement, but he wasn’t there when I activated Victor. He doesn’t know what more I’ve been able to fix myself.

“We’re nearly there,” Rufus tells me through his awe.

I nod. “Land her.”

The storm won’t ease up as we descend from the clouds— on the contrary, the winds quicken, like my aeroship is nothing more than a wayward butterfly needing capturing. I lower my goggles back over my eyes, but only seconds later, they fog up. As the storm spins us into a vortex, Rufus and I grab the helm to hold the ship steady. He’s wearing my gloves, and my hands are blue with frost, and I’m cursing the copper—not wooden—spokes, which hold the cold dreadfully. My face is frozen, but I cannot tell if it’s from the ice storm pattering around us that my skin is so sharp, or from the great speed at which we’re falling to the earth.

“We must find the current!” I shout, as Rufus and I coax
CELESTE
to stay upturned.

“No use! Take cover!” he growls loudly enough that even the winds subside to his tone. “We’re going to crash.”

I’m nearly blinded in this gray and white lightningrich storm, but I shake my head. “We’re not.” My fingers grip the helm tighter, and then I spot the edge of the storm: a border of flashing lightning and a curve of clouds. “Fly south!” The rounded glass navigator bolted to the helm confirms our direction; the arrow rattles wildly against the glass.

CELESTE
’s wooden beams shudder, and the furnace’s piping loosens from the ship’s skeleton. Out of the corner of my goggled eyes, I spot the wings holding tightly against their beams; they’re buoyant and the sails are strong enough, and yes, we’re going to make it.

A gust sets us on the edge, and Rufus and I put all our weight onto the helm to keep it steady. We break free of the winds, and now the winter sky is peaceful. I whip around to the storm’s darkness behind us as we fly onward. My shoulders settle in relief, and I feel a smile grace my face as I look at Rufus.

He throws a fatherly arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. “Well done. Well done.” We glide over smoother currents, and I watch the eastern sky as the sun peeks over the horizon. The air is blistery and cold, and every breath is an inhale of icicles and an exhale of fog. But the view—the view is exhilarating. There are pinks and oranges and roses, and light fluffy blankets of clouds expanding toward the moon and stars about to go to sleep. It’s remarkable.

“There!” Rufus calls, pointing north. I follow his gaze. “Oh,” I whisper when I spot what we seek. The Perilous Lands.

Endless infertile land. Not even desert, but muck and dirt and dead trees with no hope of ever a spring. There’s a lone castle in the distance, tall and black with too many pointed towers and not enough breaths of color.
CELESTE
drifts lower, and the closer we come to the realm of the Fisher King, the fewer the skeletons of trees and foliage, as though God himself might have seized everything lush and alive and cast it aside, leaving only a spectacle of silent, iron grandeur.

“Does no one come here?” I face the blacksmith, his expression of mourning and worry as heavy as his iron mask.

“Would you?”

I turn back to the view. “Let’s be quick about this.” Already, there’s a sensation of magic: the same eeriness I felt when Merlin and I strode through the woods for Arthur’s Norwegian steel. But this is different: the aura of death is powerful, but sentient, as though ghosts might still dwell. The aeroship’s tattered wings flap against the breeze as we hover over the ground. I help Rufus steer until we find a good spot to land, outside the castle walls, directly in front of the moat. Inside, there’s a labyrinth of pathways and streets. I don’t know how we’ll find our way through to come upon the Fisher King.

Like Rufus might be thinking the same thing, he speaks: “Maybe you should take another quick peek at the sorcerer’s scrolls and writings in case Merlin had a map.”

I nod without turning. I cannot pry my eyes away from such desolation. “Yes. There must be something.” Surely there must. Because the only other way to survive such a place as this would be to steal magic, for goodness sake.

And certainly Merlin wouldn’t put us in that sort of position.

The aeroship lands in front of the southern entrance with little trouble, and once we’ve sputtered still, I extend the steps and find my footing on the ground, a little wobbly at first. I tighten my cloak and furs as I survey the damage my aeroship suffered in the ice storm.

A sharpness hits my stomach when I see how much worse off we are than I’d anticipated. The sails are tearing badly, and I’m left wondering how we ever managed to land. The wings are no better. The ship’s bow received the brunt of the damage, but Arthur’s Norwegian steel was resilient enough even to combat the most gruesome winter winds. The ship’s entire body will need to be reinforced. The steel kept it strong, but just barely.

“It’ll be too heavy to fly if we add more,” I whisper to myself, thinking of how Rufus had to be very careful about the amount of reinforcement he added.

Rufus steps down from the aeroship, wrapping the ropes around his palm and elbow into a tidy bunch. “We’ll worry about it later,” he says with gravity in his voice.

I scan Merlin’s scrolls and journals, not seeing any maps. A sense of worry about Rufus taking my aeroship once he’s realized we’re here for the Fisher King, and not for Marcus, settles on my shoulders.

“Lady Vivienne,” Rufus says as he turns, making his way to the castle. “Let’s not waste time.”

I roll up Merlin’s scrolls, nod, and grab my satchel. Caldor is inside, inanimate, but fixed. “I haven’t forgotten you, old friend,” I whisper. I sneak some of Merlin’s
jaseemat
into Caldor’s steam valve, and the mechanical falcon returns to life.

If Rufus objects, I’ll simply argue that we need a guide.

We walk in silence toward the drawbridge, my right hand never leaving Merlin’s sword at my waist. The Fisher King’s castle is much grander than Camelot, but in a hellish way. It looks like it was built out of iron that’s fought the elements for eons. Now, we stand in front of these walls so tall that even the much-taller towers behind them are no longer visible. Caldor soars above to the highest point. The traitor.

Inside, it’s a mad inventor’s paradise. I look up, up, up at the sky concealed by countless statues hanging over windowsills, nightmarish monsters with ugly faces, something I would expect to see in the catacombs. I feel eyes upon me; I feel the aura of festivals that once were, of knowing there’s a man in this kingdom who’s slowly turning to stone or dust. I feel the bone-chilling sensation of shadows wanting to spring to life. I feel eyes staring and waiting for the right moment to attack.

For a moment, I wonder if we haven’t stepped into the forgotten, dismal lair of Morgan le Fay in Glastonbury, but the dried-up river dissecting the castle is a clear indicator that this land was once alive with plants and animals. This is where the Fisher King lived. This is where the fertility of his lands and the prosperity of his wealth were celebrated amongst nobility and serf, royal and servant.

Rufus scowls inwardly at the signs of magic scattered about: pagan symbols like Merlin’s tattoos scratched into wooden doors we pass, crystal balls and hanging burlap dolls with eyes X-ed out, pins poking through their hands and necks. Trinkets and apothecaries lined up in the village. And a strange element of the mechanical arts that doesn’t feel natural like it does in Camelot, but forced upon the people who once lived here. I see no shops where merchants might have sold spectacles or firelances. Instead, wires cross overhead, connecting the windows like fishing line. Puppets have been enhanced with brightly-colored paint and bolts in their arms and legs, wind-up levers on their backs so they could move about independently of their puppeteers. I should be able to hear the sound of children laughing, of gossipy subjects, of merchants playing with fiery tricks in the streets, of the same festivities I knew in Camelot and saw last at the wedding of Arthur and Guinevere.

An eternity ago.

Something draws my focus, and I dart my eyes to the left. Just in time to see a dark shadow disappear into an alleyway. “Rufus,” I breathe.

He follows my line of vision as I will the shadow to show itself again. It won’t.

“What was it?” the blacksmith asks.

But I’ve already got the firelance from my waist tight in my hand, and my feet are tiptoeing after the figure. I force myself to be weightless, a silent ghost as I follow. Rufus’s quiet steps barely stir up an echo behind me. We reach the slate-gray corner of a decrepit tower, and there, I pause. I set my cheek to the brick and listen. My eyes shut, and around me, a gentle wind rises from the ground, lifting dead leaves into my hair and snapping them across my face. But then, there it is: a breath. A simple breath. But not an exhale. A whisper. One word, and in a language I do not know.

It could be rogues. But better to find them now than the other way around.

I glance at Rufus, and he nods, holding tightly to his iron hook with copper plated on the point.

Taking a breath I pray will give me courage, I step into the alleyway and lift my firelance.

Staring back at me are six men standing around the wreckage of what must have been an exquisite aeroship. They all have sun-kissed skin like Azur, all in the same dress as the traveling alchemist from Jerusalem. Contrasting white and black tunics with silver-plated shoulder bands. Curved swords gleaming against the ugly white sky. Their eyes are on me, and I’m about to speak, but then a particularly tall middle-aged man with a silk turban the color of blood and the beginnings of an ash-blond beard steps in my direction.

And lifts a silver firelance back at me.

I breathe my surprised gasp, and Rufus steps in front of me quickly, his iron hook held high. “Lower your weapon, pilgrim.”

The man’s eyes won’t drop from mine. Though his firelance remains lifted, his gaze is peaceful, curious. “You find yourselves a long way from home, friends.” His voice commands obedience, and he speaks English like anyone in Camelot might. When I glance again, I realize his eyes are too light to be native of Jerusalem.

My firelance is steady; my gaze is focused. “Though perhaps not as much as you.”

A smile cocks to the side of his face as he studies me. “I’ve only ever had women in Jerusalem speak to me with such authority as you, and yet you come from the south of Britannia, am I right?”

He still won’t lower his firelance, and neither will I, but there’s nostalgia lingering on his voice, and I wonder if I could end this stalemate. “My name is Vivienne. I come from Camelot.”

“My lady,” Rufus scolds. I don’t care.

The man’s eyes flicker with curiosity. “A noblewoman from Camelot outside of the kingdom? Unlikely.” He regards me with Azur’s familiar propriety.

I lower my firelance to indicate that what I speak is the truth. “And yet when she’s the daughter of Arthur’s advisor and served as apprentice to Merlin, it’s very possible.”

At that, he sheathes his weapon in a thick leather holster. One quick glance at Rufus tells me he believes the blacksmith to be my guard. Then he studies me, eyebrows raised, but only out of polite curiosity. Jerusalem is no stranger to female inventors and alchemists. “Sir Tristan.”

Tristan. My father spoke highly of him when feasts were plentiful and absinthe was cold. Sir Tristan’s story as a Knight of the Round Table was cut short once his heart fell to Isolde, a married noblewoman in a Druid kingdom, and from then on he devoted his life to searching Jerusalem and its neighboring countries for the Holy Grail. A creature of loneliness.

Now he stands before me with few clues that would tell me of his Britannia heritage. His restlessness has vanished for poise; his eyes are focused instead of spontaneous. “Why would an accomplished lady such as yourself ever come to this place?” His voice trembles upon the verge of discipline, like he might set me atop my own aeroship faster than steam bursts from the valves on Caldor’s belly.

Rufus speaks. “We’re searching for my boy. Sir Marcus of Camelot.”

A blankness falls upon Tristan’s face. His eyes turn elsewhere as he searches his memory for such a name. “I don’t know him. Why would he be here?”

It’s my turn to speak before Rufus might realize my white lie. “Sir Galahad’s infantry was to come to the Perilous Lands. To free the Fisher King.”

Sir Tristan’s expression is one of amused pity. “That legend is an old one, my lady, and I’d wager it remains only that. No one else has been here in the time since we arrived in this desolate place. Why would Galahad bother?”

I take a breath and answer him with confidence. “It would mean finding Avalon.”

Tristan breathes a low laugh. “This castle is empty. Abandoned. It’s only served as refuge from these damned winds, particularly irritating when you’ve had to land unexpectedly while an alchemist waits in Jerusalem—”

“Azur,” I say. “Azur Barad.” So Tristan was the one to bring news of Jerusalem’s attack to Camelot, then. This is why he never made it.

Tristan looks at me in surprise. “Yes.”

I recall the last time Azur and I spoke, and I do not trust my voice to hide my worry. “I know him, my lord. All too well. Camelot has only just found out that Jerusalem is under siege. But there’s no one in the kingdom to send to help.” To speak this bad news puts my heart into a vice.

Tristan shuts his eyes tightly, as though to think of what might occur in the Holy Land is devastating. He turns to five other men standing at the Arabic-styled aeroship decorated with ornate gold and finer wings, the same style Azur sought to improve upon the rough and practical aerohawk Merlin and I built for him. The aeroship has a deep break in the starboard rails, and its wings are halfway to being reinforced.

“If that’s the case, we’ll return to Jerusalem. Six extra warriors might not make a difference, but perhaps they could.” He faces his warriors. “We’ll leave at dawn.”

Rufus steps closer to me. “My lady, we must—”

I lift a hand to silence Rufus. “Has no one in Jerusalem evacuated?” Though I know Azur would stay, if for no other reason than to ensure Merlin is brought back to his natural form, there are thousands who would have to seek refuge elsewhere.

Tristan shakes his head. “All ports have been claimed by the Black Knight’s rogues.” Then his eyes focus on mine. “Leave here, my lady. You and your manservant. This is a place of death, not exploration, and the Black Knight’s whereabouts are unknown—”