Avalon Rising (13 page)

The iron piping torn from the heavy doors works splendidly for any appendages the blacksmith and I could build. I have some of Merlin’s
jaseemat
in my possession, and I prep two small, gear-work hinges that would attach to the Fisher King’s knees, allowing Rufus’s primitive iron legs to attach to what’s left of the cursed man’s body.

The Fisher King nods when I inquire. “Every few hundred years or so is the only time parts of me turn to dust.”

I keep a watchful eye on him, a man who’s sat only in a throne for centuries. He cannot seem to go ten seconds without laughing quietly under his breath. And he won’t tell me what amuses him so—won’t even give me a hint. Eventually, I’m furious, but forced to let it be so I can help Rufus.

“Your legs,
my grace,
” Rufus says. The makeshift feet are flattened beds of wood inserted into a set of old, pointed shoes. I adjust the appliance and add a small bit of
jaseemat
that spills temporary life into the legs as we attach them to the Fisher King’s rotting knees.

He’s intrigued by the devices. “Impressive. Clearly derivative of Merlin’s work. Has he told you much about alchemy, my dear?”

I ignore the taunt in his voice. “It’ll work only for a short amount of time.”

“It will be long enough. We’re but minutes away from the end of all this.”

The old man’s eyes rest on mine as Rufus’s iron hook slashes through the seaweed cuffs. I help the Fisher King to his feet, and the blacksmith and I each take an arm, leading him out the door and into the foyer where there is no way to approach the stories above us, lest we were to forge a quick-winged aerohawk to take us there. I hold my breath at the thought that we might need to return to the watery trenches, where a sea monster might wait for a second go at my feet.

The Fisher King points ahead. “Look.”

I glance up. The window on the other side of the room, right above the descending stairs, lets in the sunshine, but as I peer closer, I realize it’s not a window but a yellow-painted door leading higher in this castle. My lips part in awe. “But how do we—”

The Fisher King takes my chin between two old fingers and tilts it so that my line of vision changes, and I see his world in a new way. In fact, the set of stairs that descend to the water are now ascending to the sky; shadows and platforms transform to take us to the next floor. “That’s impossible.”

“By definition, perception is subjective, Lady Vivienne. There is no need to return to where you came from; now, your journey lies straight ahead. Shall we?”

He takes that first step, and Rufus and I drop his arms so that the king’s trident can lead us to the summit.

At the top, I can already see the brightness of the white sky. The light falling into this part of the castle sparkles like the moon on lake water. I know Marcus is somehow on the other side of this monumental task, whatever right judgment might entail. My brother, as well. And the lives paid in Morgan’s war will finally have meaning if Camelot can find the Grail.

The light grows strong enough to nearly blind me. I shield my eyes and look out, finding the Fisher King hobbling toward some widely-spaced parapets, where, beside him, Caldor sits, its head cocked in my direction. This balcony reminds me of how the Round Table looked over the whole of Camelot with nothing but stars and navy sky as company. Summer had made the world bright and lovely and full of rich vitality then; here and now, in the dead cold and infertility of winter, the world is so much more brutal.

“Now, dear girl, the third test. I’ll have to ask your companion to keep his distance this time.”

The Fisher King reaches the edge, and as my eyes adjust, I see a tall, lanky figure join him out of nowhere, as though born of the old king’s silhouette. Or perhaps this man has been waiting just as long as the Fisher King. The old king sets a warm, welcoming hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“This test is my favorite. Because no matter who was to pass the first two, once they arrived here, it was guaranteed to be a surprise.”

Finally my eyes adjust, and I look ahead at the man in question. Just as his face turns to mine. Dark hair longer now, smile a little more worn for wear. Eyes violet as they’ve always been. And that smile, that same nonchalant smirk.

Oh my God.

I’m staring at Marcus.

My breath caught in my throat, I race for the edge, but Marcus makes no move to greet me. Instead, the Fisher King steps forward, his trident’s three prongs holding me back.

“Marcus!” I shout as the sun somehow brightens. I turn quickly to the blacksmith who looks at me in confusion. “Don’t you see? What’s the matter with you? It’s your son!”

I turn back. Behind the Fisher King, Marcus’s face is blank, eyes empty and without the ability to recognize mine. It’s not Marcus.

“This is the third test,” I whisper.

The Fisher King inclines his head. “With no haunting whispers of magic to lure you this time. At stake, we find the life of this boy, a life you value. Particularly interesting since it’s a fate I know well: the demigods have loose tongues when it comes to the mortals they find to be of special interest. And so your test of right judgment is this: shall his life pay the price for the Holy Grail?” In his gray, powder-like hand, he now holds a matte cup whose grip is worn leather and studded with iron. I blink in the sharp light of the sky. The Holy Grail, surely.

As my eyes lock onto the chalice, the vision of Marcus hops upon the parapets, his back to the frozen land. I inhale sharply; it’s just as it was all those months ago, when Marcus balanced atop the balcony overlooking Camelot and told me of his life as a squire.

But this isn’t real. And so it wouldn’t matter how I’d respond. “It’s not him.”

“Ah,” the Fisher King says, steadying his trident so it returns upright. “Do not be fooled, Lady Vivienne. As we saw in the stairwell, perception is in fact subjective. Just because this isn’t the version of Sir Marcus you know doesn’t mean it isn’t the truth in front of you. In fact, Sir Marcus is in a more dangerous place than this, isn’t he? The vision you see might fall, but all that’ll happen is a puff of smoke as it hits the icy ground beneath us. The real boy is out there somewhere. Is he safe?”

My mind fights to assure myself
it’s not Marcus,
and yet I can’t look away. “Then what is the test?”

The Fisher King takes another step. He lifts the dull chalice high. “I’ve already said: the Grail, or Sir Marcus?”

The echo of the Lady of the Lake’s prophecy rings in my ear. I shake my head stubbornly. “They’re not separate paths; one follows the other. You promised you’d give me a clear path to—”

“To Avalon. Yes. And it’ll be up to you to reveal it once you’re there. Regarding Sir Marcus, it might be true that the boy’s destiny is one of imminent death, but that death might allow the Grail to be Camelot’s.”

I know this. But I also know what the Lady of the Lake said: Marcus’s fate could just as easily be one of betrayal. I don’t know which might be worse.

“So I must decide which I’d prefer: Marcus’s life or the Holy Grail for Camelot?”

“No. You must decide which would be the right choice.”

My lip quivers. This might affect Marcus and the real Grail waiting to be found. What I choose might create the sacrifice. Does the Fisher King possess that sort of power? Would the demigods allow it in the course of releasing this man of stone from his curse? A bout of frustration comes over me. I’m just a handmaid; I was just a handmaid.

Rufus approaches, and even though he looks straight at Marcus, his eyes waver instead at the dead scenery beyond. “My lady, I can’t see … but you have to know what Marcus would want.”

I do. I know Marcus would never want his mother’s death to have been in vain. But I also know he never wanted to be a knight. Instead of the honor the quest would bring him, he longed for escape, just as I did.

I take a breath. “But could it mean Marcus’s life is lost?”

The Fisher King lifts his chin. “You must choose.”

The vision of Marcus steps closer to the edge, his foot swaying over the nothingness below.

With timid steps, I walk toward him—toward this vision or ghost or trick of the mind. With every step, he becomes more glorious, more heavenly, like he’s long since died on the quest for Avalon and returned as a spirit before ascending to heaven. His blank eyes watch me without the happiness the real Marcus would boast, and I step up onto the parapets with him, my boots finding their grip as the Fisher King watches us in the blinding light. I touch Marcus’s hand, arm, neck, his skin is softer than a serf ’s could ever be. Proof it’s not him. His violet eyes blink like a child’s would, and he watches me wearing a ghost of a smile I beg to be real.

“I know what you’d want. I know the right answer, Marcus.”

I lift to my toes, making myself tall enough to plant a small kiss on his cold, ghostly lips, and I feel warmth cross my skin with an easy sense of peace. When I pull away, I realize he was never really part of the kiss in the first place.

The words I speak do not seem to arise from any part of me, and yet they come forth, loud and declarative to the waiting Fisher King: “Camelot must have the Grail.”

Marcus leans back, shutting his eyes. He falls from the parapet, and even though I know this is not real, I cannot look. I listen for the thump from the fall of his body, and that dreadful sound never comes. I breathe and open my eyes. But Marcus is gone.

The Fisher King nods. “You have passed.”

I hold the Holy Grail in my hands, and it shines like a mirage and cannot be real. It’s heavy and dull and so ordinary—

And suddenly, the world around us turns into an inferno of heat and wind, and it spills around the Fisher King, lifting his body and taking him into the next world, a world of death, a world he’d longed for as his limbs fell to dust while the memories of his loved ones didn’t.

“Remember, Lady Vivienne, to reveal Avalon only when the time is ready. You can do so once; to conceal it again would mean the kingdom and the Grail it guards would be lost in seven days.” The tension and anger in the wrinkles by his eyes smooth over with relief, and he smiles. “Thank you.”

I step closer, the light nearly blinding me. “Wait. Marcus’s destiny. Will he soon die? Is he already dead?”

The Fisher King shakes his head. “Sir Marcus has a different fate.”

And then he’s gone.

My hands are empty. The Grail, lost again. In its place now is a heavy and old signet a king would use to seal documents. I think for a moment that it must belong to the Fisher King, but the material is not wood or silver or even iron—it’s dark, heavy marble with ridges on the side that renders it similar to a puzzle piece. On the rounded top is an engraving of a chalice, the same shape painted in that third panel in the castle. From the song children would sing in Camelot, we knew machines guarded Avalon. This small piece of marble might be what Merlin told me I’d need to claim the Grail. Confound it all—another key, of sorts.

Rufus and I look out across the Perilous Lands, and the clouds part in front of us, galloping across the sky and letting a shade of winter blue spill over. A gentle and quiet snowfall accompanies it. A return to the natural cycle of the seasons. A voice against my ear sounding of the sweetest harp opening up a part of my mind that, until now, I hadn’t been able to explore myself.

Where rogues make their port.

Where sea and sky and sand consort.

Ninety degrees in angle and heat.

No king to fish, no knights to meet.

But one found long before her age.

Alive from portrait to show the stage.

An array of numbers, a flash of gray stones against breaking waves, an erratic form of sandy shores off-setting an aeroship port to the north. And then Avalon. The kingdom I’ve seen in dreams and wake for as long as I can remember.

Oh, I know how to get there and claim that glorious chalice. All I need is my aeroship and more
jaseemat
to get it. The Fisher King unlocked the coordinates in my mind, and I have a signet unlike any other in the world that will grant me entrance to Avalon.

“Yes,” I say. Though there’s a small bit of uncertainty inside me, and I don’t understand it until I realize the Fisher King’s last words and how they relate to the Lady of the Lake’s prophecy. I realize I’m more afraid for Marcus now than ever.

For a while, I stare at the spot where the Fisher King once stood. Gone now. Vanished. In the world after death, with no proof of him ever existing in the first place, except for the makeshift iron feet that clattered to the balcony. I don’t know if I should expect the Perilous Lands to become lush with pine trees or firs—they don’t. The only difference now is the impression of life in a castle where there was nothing but dead silence before. Now, the humming of winter insects, the presence of wind sculpting branches of trees. There’s a change, but it’s a subtle one.

Every time I blink, I see Marcus falling from this balcony. I see his foot drifting to the side of the parapets, and my heart splits. I feel like I might simultaneously laugh and cry at the idea of him teasing me on that warm June day. The day we ran through the castle together with his rough hand gripping mine and his eyes alight with excitement as we sought Excalibur. Compared to the ghost from the Fisher King’s test, I don’t know how I could ever have mistaken such a shell of life for Marcus.

The tests.
And now I cannot think of anything else. My head knew the right answer to the third test, but my heart felt quite differently. I don’t know if I could have let Marcus die, even if it meant Camelot would lose the Grail. And so, in a way, I failed.

Rufus stands with me. The clouds are tumbling outward, showing us a clear path that somehow leads to Avalon, but the sky has fallen dark from dusk, and soon, night will follow.

“My lady, you should rest now. Best to leave the Perilous Lands at first light. This place is known for privateers who might find interest in your aeroship.” He steps away from the parapets, returning to the stairs. “We’ll start our search for Marcus tomorrow.”

A sharp bite of anxiety hits my heart at his declaration. That’s right: I agreed we’d both search for Marcus. But something nags at the cogs spinning in my mind: if Rufus comes with me, he might bring Marcus and me back to Camelot and take on the task of delivering the knights to Avalon himself. Perhaps he’ll hold the instructions on how to create
jaseemat
over my head, not as an adversary, but a father. Rufus is clever.

I close the signet into my fist. “Give me the instructions, blacksmith,” I say before he can make his descent.

Out of my periphery, I see Rufus glance over with a semblance of uncertainty falling over him. “You told two lies to me in the short time since you found out who I was. Why should I trust you with these?”

“We’re out,” I declare. “What I used for the Fisher King’s feet was the last of it. We can’t hope to reach Camelot now, let alone the wilderness beyond to find Marcus. I need to make more.”

It’s a reasonable request. Rufus slips a hand into his pocket, withdrawing that folded piece of yellowing parchment. I note the crisp edges, the small tears in the corners. My fingers are itching to touch it. My eyes crave to read Merlin’s own script. My head begs to know what that parchment contains and how it might change my understanding of alchemy forever.

Rufus stares at it, tucked between his fingers. “It’s the wrong path, my lady. This science, this exploration of manipulating the elements. It’s only grand for so long. And then it’ll refuse to sustain your interest.” His eyes are solemn with images dancing in his irises I could never hope to understand, a look I’d seen in Guinevere as she silently mourned Lyonesse. Rufus clutches the parchment tighter. “I’ll give you these instructions so we can find my boy. But promise me: once this is over, you’ll give them back so I can destroy this knowledge. No one else can know of it. It can only end badly.”

I scoff inwardly at such dramatics. “Don’t patronize me, blacksmith. I can tell the difference between alchemy and magic.” Though my voice betrays me with a wobble of doubt.

Rufus grabs my hand and squeezes tightly. “Vivienne,” he says, and I don’t miss how he doesn’t use my title. “If you pursue alchemy, it’ll take you to a threshold of magic, and by then, you’ll already be a thief yourself. Please.”

Azur warned of the same thing. But Merlin, when I claimed oh so long ago that only magic could bring my violet-and-dragonfly hairpin to life, assured me alchemy was nothing of the sort. Come to think of it, though, the old man had hesitated.

“Very well,” I say. “Afterward, we’ll destroy the instructions together.”

He smiles sadly and presses the parchment into my palm. “I’ll collect the charcoal,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

I stare at the splotched ink and the smudges from the blacksmith’s nervous palm. Unfolding the parchment stamped with the green phoenix, I read the title: HOW TO CREATE THE ELEMENT
JASEEMAT
WHICH GIVES LIFE TO THE INANIMATE.

The way to do so involves charcoal and fire, dissolving the makeup of burnt wood so that it could be reassembled through vials and glasses into a rough element, then refined as it’s filtered through boiling water. From there, it is smashed and smashed again, until its makeup is indistinguishable from golden powder.

But then, an element I never expected. “Blood?”

A chill falls over me. I study the handwriting. Merlin’s instructions call for a human contribution to balance the natural elements. A few drops of blood could do it, but there’s more—it must be the blood of someone the alchemist cares for. The stronger the connection, the more powerful the
jaseemat
.

I shake my head. “Can’t be.” It doesn’t sound like alchemy, like instruction to the elements. It sounds … darker. I read on:
The elements of charcoal have learned to react to the alchemist. Where there is love, there is always life, and through sacrifice, that life comes about in a most divine and intriguing way.

“Now you know,” Rufus says behind me. I turn to his devastated face as he glances at the parchment in my hand. “There comes a point in the exploration of alchemy where one can no longer go any further without crossing a line.” I don’t speak; I nearly wish I hadn’t asked for any of this. Merlin’s
jaseemat
was always weaker than Azur’s— whose blood did each man take for their batches? Who did Azur hold love for? And Merlin?

Rufus steps forward and drops the pile of charcoal he was carrying at my feet. “But it’s for my boy.” He holds out his palm.

I glance up at him. “What is?”

Rufus stares right through me, and for as long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the love I saw in his eyes. “You need blood. Take mine.”

The vials from Merlin’s satchel separate the elements easily. It’s not a simple process, but it’s relatively fast. The first batch of
jaseemat
I collect I test on Caldor. The falcon comes to life much faster than it does from Merlin’s
jaseemat
. So much that I’m shocked by its strength.

Rufus grunts in surprise. “I didn’t … ” He narrows his eyes on Caldor as though thinking of the proper words to choose. “I didn’t realize how much you cared.” Without waiting for me to respond, he takes the stairs to the Fisher King’s throne room.

My cheeks warm. I understand what he meant, that my love for Rufus’s son enhances my love for Marcus’s father. A love once-removed, but a love nonetheless. Caldor’s ability to move is strong, but still rather primitive, as though the falcon must get used to my life-giving powder. It might be the same reaction for
CELESTE
.

The air crisps up around me. Tonight, up here, I’ve never felt more alone. I glance up into the dark nothingness, and I lift Marcus’s quicklight high, using my other hand to navigate the approximate direction to Camelot. Home. Caldor waddles toward me, its head cocked in innocent curiosity. I pick it up and set it on my arm, the usually-sharp talons gentle, nothing more than a kitten’s needlepoint claws. If I had been able to obtain blood from the mirage of Marcus somehow, I wonder how much stronger the falcon would be.

Hours pass, and I don’t sleep, obsessed with tweaking my
jaseemat
as much as possible.

And then below, I hear shouts calling for a handmaid and a blacksmith. Slow and bouncing off the bricks of the towers in a voice I had nearly forgotten. I rush to the parapets and look down. Sir Tristan commands his men in their native tongue with little distinction between their accent and his. He might be around Lancelot’s age, but as he’s already seen so much of the world that he might as well be a thousand. They’re still searching for us, even though they—

Dawn. They’ll leave at dawn. By then, they’d have to give up on us, and I wouldn’t blame them in the slightest.

I let a horrible thought pass through my mind—
please take the blacksmith with you.

And then I decide to ensure that future for myself. I pull the hood of my cloak over my hair, even though there’s no reason to stay hidden in this abandoned castle, and certainly I’m the only girl in these parts. Taking the multi-perspective steps that now lead straight to the courtyard, in sight of Tristan’s aeroship, I find myself in the sailors’ presence.

One calls to the others in Arabic, and Sir Tristan runs to meet me, surprised I’m still alive, perhaps, or surprised another soul would be stupid enough to be out in this freezing weather.

“My lady,” he says. “We nearly thought you both dead.”

I bite my lip. Rufus might never forgive me. “The blacksmith. He must go with you.”

Tristan glances behind me as though expecting to see another person there. But I’m alone. “Why are you so concerned about your manservant?”

“Sir Tristan, you must take him with you.”

Tristan’s eyes narrow on mine, and his head is slow to incline to the side, as though he’s incredulous of my request. “My lady—”

“Please,” I say, stepping closer, my hands clenching his.

Now Tristan’s eyes are harsh. “And you? Where will you go?”

I hold his gaze for as long as I can handle it. “I have a different path. Surely, you can understand how I must find it on my own. Even the blacksmith won’t be able to deny that. One day.”

Sir Tristan glances at his aeroship, letting me study the intricate wrapping of his turban loose around his head and neck, tucked into the furs necessary in these Perilous Lands. Then he lifts his eyes to the sky, and together we note how the world around us has changed. Surely he must realize that the Fisher King has been saved.

And perhaps he does. “I assume I couldn’t begin to understand what sort of burden you might have upon your shoulders.” His bright eyes find mine, and their harshness has melted, allowing understanding to bore through. “Likewise, I suppose you haven’t asked the blacksmith to refrain from accompanying you.”

I shake my head, confirming his suspicions. “He’d never let me go alone.”

“Should I?”

I think about his question. “You, my lord, should go and aid Jerusalem. If, by chance, you were to find Lord William there, you should tell him his daughter Vivienne survived the Perilous Lands.” I don’t say if Lord William’s daughter will return home. Because in all likelihood, that girl never will.

Tristan straightens. “We leave at sunrise, Lady Vivienne.” He hops aboard the aeroship and helps straighten the newly repaired wings. “Best for you to be on your way a good hour before then.”

I spend the rest of the night readying
CELESTE
. My fingers are stained black from a quill I found in Merlin’s satchel. It bleeds over my fingers as I scrawl an apologetic message to Rufus. I wedge it under his iron hook, letting its crisp edges stick out enough that he wouldn’t miss it. One quick, silent good-bye, glancing upon his sleeping figure, the father of my beloved. Perhaps our paths will never cross again. Perhaps he’ll hate me for this.

I leave the castle and reach my aeroship, signet in hand like a sword in its own right. The damage on the wings and sails is bearable as long as I can use the navigational mechanism to avoid any heavy storms. I board
CELESTE
, my sleeves rolled up as I submit my own alchemic powder to the engine—it spreads through the veins of the ship, reaching the wings and sail above. Caldor is on my shoulder, and my crossbow is on my arm—I set both aside. I must be fast.

When the stairs crank up, I hear a loud, panicked cry. I jerk toward the castle to see Rufus running for me, a vision of Marcus as he sprints from the lowered drawbridge. I can no longer hide my deception. In truth, Rufus shouldn’t have given me the instructions on how to create
jaseemat
just yet. He should have known.

Rufus is close. But I’ve already yanked on the lever to free the helm, and it jerks across the ground. Rufus runs beside it, but the ship speeds up.

“Stop! Vivienne!”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing he’ll never hear it. But it must be this way. “It’s my burden, not yours.” I remember the iron wording on the cross in the catacombs; I remember Elly. “If I can save you from her fate, let me.”

Rufus grits his teeth as his flesh concedes before his spirit will. “At least tell Marcus I’m alive!” he calls, voice desperate and sad. He slows as I outrun him. My wings grip the swaying currents and glide above them, and I look below at the small speck of a man standing in the middle of a forgotten place. I know Rufus won’t try to convince Sir Tristan to come after me. Rufus will let me go.

He’ll let me go as long as I tell Marcus that his father survived Morgan le Fay’s war. It’s the least I can do, and we both know this.

And so I take comfort in knowing I’ll find his son.