Avalon Rising (18 page)

I gather the courage to face the blade and then the blade’s owner. I look at the white lace at the wrists, cuffed to luscious black cloth. I look at the detailing in the seams, the golden thread not unlike the kind my mother preferred. The long fitted gentleman’s jacket, midnight black above a pair of dark trousers with buckled shoes.

Then I glance up, up, up, into an olive face with a square jaw, a dark, curled moustache and groomed beard fashionably set around full lips. A green eye looks back at me from under dark brows. His right one is covered with a golden patch.

I don’t miss the cap. A rounded hat, set to the side, the brim embossed with decorative goggles. These goggles are brass and impractical, the sides boasting a kind of face: gaunt cheeks and a tilted cross underneath.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Hello, darling.” Romantic, like music. “It seems you’re in the need of an aeroship, yes?”

That isn’t a face—it’s a skull and cross bones. Like the emblem air pirates—

Oh God. The Spanish rogues.

The Black Knight offers a smile that tilts unnaturally, like a crescent moon’s constant watch. “It seems we were both fortunate to cross each other’s paths tonight.”

My fingers fly for the sword at my waist. But faster than the alarm of danger ringing in my mind, does my arm come into the Black Knight’s grip. He slams the blunt edge of my blade against my shoulder. Holds it there. Squeezes my wrist until I drop my weapon and cannot move. He grips my wounded shoulder until my vision is a cascade of stars and then touches his head to mine as he hushes my cries, his lips grazing my ear.

“Now, now, Lady Vivienne. You don’t know how difficult you made it for me to find you. With your permission, we’ll talk.”

His breath is sweet with absinthe, and his voice is a lullaby filled with promises too sanguine to trust. He doesn’t wait for my
yes
; he releases me, certain I will not run. And I won’t—my hand clamps onto my throbbing arm, and I futilely pray it could stop the pain.

The tavern’s patrons have stalled in their drinking and philandering. Their pints float in front of their faces as they watch this legendary ally of the Spanish rogues confront a girl from the north. The barman’s gaze steadies on the Black Knight. Slowly, he reaches under his counter and pulls out a tarnished firelance.

But perhaps the Black Knight is a devil or perhaps he saw the reflection in my own frightened eyes. He sighs in annoyance and withdraws his own firelance—polished silver barrel twisted against a steel blade, Spanish insignia carved into the handle—and throws the weapon across his chest, lazily aiming behind him. A blast of smoke shatters my eardrums, and the barman falls over dead.

The Black Knight sets his weapon on the counter with careful fingers. Specs of ashes linger on the smoking barrel. His well-polished fingers brush them away, steering clear of his immaculate garments.

“Anyone else wish to stay to
chat
?” he declares, too preoccupied with the lapels of his coat to look around. Instantly, the patrons and barmaids leave, and cries of “
The Black Knight!”
echo into the village as he adjusts the lapels on his gentleman’s jacket, rustled from seizing me and the inconvenience of a rebel barman.

I’m trembling underneath my strong façade of narrowed eyes and heavy furs. He knows who I am. Word spread about me leaving Camelot as fast as Merlin’s absinthe would disappear during feasts—I wonder if it’d been my father who sent word to neighboring kingdoms— but even more frightening is how the Black Knight knows my
name
.

I must think. Calmly. Now’s not the time to be rash. He’ll try to force Avalon’s coordinates out of me. He might use torture similar to Gawain’s hacked-off arm. Or blackmail. I imagine what sort of sinister plans he has concocted for those who would cross him. But the seconds are passing, and I have no plan other than to keep the Black Knight stalled for just a little longer.

And so I whisper, “How did you find me?”

He touches his chin absent-mindedly and looks off, like a fond memory has found him. His words tumble from his lips like the smooth smoke of a hookah. “The squire in my hold is blond, curly-haired, looks a bit like you. Before we caught him, he’d been tracking my rogues for some time, but I’m not sure he realized I was with them. To disappear into the background is not hard for demigods.”

Owen. He has Owen. But that’s impossible—it’s only been an hour since I left Marcus and my brother. Were the Spanish rogues following us even then? My hands shake uncontrollably under my cloak, but I can’t let the Black Knight see that.

I swallow. “They say you’re a devil amongst men.” I force a smirk so that perhaps the wolf in front of me might think me just as sadistic; I likewise make sure he sees how I study his luxurious garments. “But certainly, it’s a vast exaggeration.” Do I speak to gain the truth or to anger him?

“Oh, Lady Vivienne. I don’t need to prove anything to you. The wonderment of who I am is much more enjoyable, don’t you think?” He speaks as though considering how the weather will be tomorrow. “I could see days ago how this would all end, though with you it was a bit more difficult. You’re quite hard to read from a distance.” He taps his fingers to his temple, slow and purposeful, like this about me annoys him. “Your mind is too much like the sorcerer’s, I wager.”

I suddenly feel like the Black Knight can see the magic I stole written all over my face. I press a palm to my cheek to soothe the warmth, but keep my hounding smile. “A compliment from a devil. Lovely.”

He stares. His one eye pierces mine like he’s hoping my secrets would be carved straight onto them. There’s a look of inquisitiveness, and there’s a glance of caution. Then he scoffs. “And still… ” He strolls the empty tavern, and his walk is indicative of what power runs in his veins. I’m looking for a way to escape and trying to understand the meaning behind his words, but—

“What I wouldn’t give to see Master Owen’s rage now.” The Black Knight laughs jovially. “Indeed, people are fascinating when they lose their tempers! And then, there’s the knight.”

I freeze. I realize I hold love in my stupid heart for Marcus.

The Black Knight takes another clacking step, its echo like a thunderstorm of danger. “Specifically, the knight’s face when he realizes I’m closer to you now than he is… ” I don’t know who’d be angrier by the Spanish rogues’ ability to outsmart us. Marcus would be furious that my wayward brother led the rogues straight to me; Owen would blame Marcus for his sin, stating it was because of him that I left, only to find myself in the Black Knight’s clutches. But they must realize it was my own fault.
It was my doing.

Something inside tells me to protect Marcus and Owen as much as I can. That intuition, strong like a rumble of thunder in a spring storm, forces me to stand straighter and fold my hands together. My governess would be so proud of the lady speaking.

“I don’t know whom you mean, my lord.” I speak in hopes the Black Knight wouldn’t bother dealing with those I claim not to know. But my lie is horrid, and my voice breaks as I speak. Perhaps they’ve already killed Marcus and Owen; perhaps they’ll hold Camelot over my head now as the price for Avalon.

The Black Knight doesn’t blink. People never go this long without at least a twitch of an eyelid. “They’re your brother and your lover, certainly, darling, and I don’t tolerate lies.”

I hold my tongue, though inside, I’m a mess of rebellious tears and anguish.

“Lady Vivienne, just as many people are searching for you as they are the Holy Grail these days. The girl who knows where Avalon hides.” He saunters toward the bar to help himself to a pint of hot ale and swings around to lean an elbow on the counter, lifting the glass to toast me. “What good fortune I had tonight.”

Still, I am resilient. “I’m not her.”

He slouches against the counter now, his gaze averting mine. Then he takes the forgotten glass of the drunk Bill and smashes it against the wall. I jump, my cold blood poisoning my strength.

“I said I don’t tolerate lies
.
” A jagged-edged dagger with an emerald handle finds itself in his tight grip, and the Black Knight slams the point into the counter. “You might be able to fool
them
, but you cannot fool me. I’m very good at carving dishonesty free from mankind.”

It’s the first time in my life I can claim to be Merlin’s apprentice, an inventor, an alchemist, as I’ve always wanted, but it’s the truth that’s put me in danger. But I will not be afraid. I look into the Black Knight’s face, inches from mine and full of brutal threat.

“I’m not lying. I am Merlin’s apprentice, yes. But this business about knowing the coordinates to Avalon is absurd. If I knew where it lies, why would I be here looking for an aeroship home? A smart girl would have gone straight to Avalon from Camelot.”

I cannot read the Black Knight’s face, and I desperately hope the Lady of the Lake has kept him ignorant of the Fisher King and the marble signet. The Black Knight is quiet, fingers tracing the rim of the pint glass he’s barely sipped from. He watches me as though trying to decide whether to believe me and tilts his head with curiosity.

“Quite convincing. But you must realize I simply can’t take your word for it.”

A surge of hope runs through me as I realize he hasn’t killed me yet. He hasn’t killed me because he needs me.

But Gawain warned:
he can keep a man alive for as long as is needed.

“So,” the Black Knight whispers, “conveniently enough, I do have an aeroship in my possession … ” He turns for his pint.

Under my furs and at my waist sits my firelance, and the Black Knight has looked away. I seize my weapon and pull it free, my thumb clicking back the hammer, my index finger finding the trigger. The Black Knight turns back quickly.

I aim it. “Fly it to hell, for all I care.” The firelance blasts, but the Black Knight ducks out of the way. The bearing misses, hitting a bottle of mead on a shelf, which explodes like a tempest of snow. I run for the door, ignoring the melodious clang of Merlin’s blade catching on a chair and promptly falling from my waist to the floor—I can’t help that now.

Outside, the village has been abandoned. I duck around the tavern’s corner and run straight into the snowcovered woods—

“Lady Vivienne, really!”

The Black Knight’s voice is like warbling steel, confusing me and my ability to tell up from down. It forces me to stop running so I can search amongst the trees, black as a hellish abyss. All from him.

His laugh is demonic; no, his laugh is playful.
“You really think you can run?”
He
tsks
three times like a mother scolding her child for stealing sweets in a market.

A rush of determination sends me onward. Branches scratch me from the trees I dart through, and my breath hitches from exhaustion and distress. I spill out into a meadow and come to a fast stop. Then I gasp.

Because the sky is empty of stars, and even the moon wouldn’t dare show its face. Taking up the space above me is a fleet of rogue aeroships, anchors keeping them to the ground.

Laughter pulls my gaze across the terrain. Only a hundred yards away are scores of rogues themselves, sunburnt skin shining under the moon, cloaks and vestments ornate and lush, like the Black Knight’s. Their rugged faces and crooked smiles suggest I might be a table of sweetmeats, and they’ve been sailing on a wind’s current for months without a taste. Sabers hang at their sides, firelances affixed beside them.

Some have bloodied lips and bruised jaws. Those worse-off hold iron restraints tied to heavy shackles.

And in those shackles are Marcus and Owen.

I can’t breathe. Not when the knight I still love and the brother I’m afraid I’ve lost are made into captives, bloody and restrained. Marcus glances up, and his face falls with relief to see me. But Owen is unreadable.

Footsteps crunch on the dry snow behind me. Slow, heavy. “Darling, for someone whose fate might change that of the world, you certainly act carelessly.”

The Black Knight appears in my periphery. He dusts fallen snow or leftover glass from the forearm of a sleeve as I turn. The green in his iris brightens in the moonlight, and I cannot look away. I’m bound to him, and perhaps I’ll never be free again.

He stops within steps of me and glares. “The coordinates.”

I shake my head. “I’ll never tell you.”

His full lips turn up in a smirk, and he takes a careful step closer. The snow under his feet softens, like he’s docile, safe. His green eye seems all the more childlike the longer he stares at me, as though trying to trick me by appearing as innocent as a dagger-wielding lamb.

“Stay away from her!” Marcus growls, struggling against the three brutes holding him. Blood spills from his nose.

The Black Knight raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps there’s an easier way to get Lady Vivienne to talk.”

He nods once at a rogue, and suddenly that rogue elbows Marcus in the face. I want to cry out as Marcus keels over, wincing in pain, and it takes every bit of strength to stop myself.
If I react, the Black Knight will know he has me in the palm of his hand.

But nor does the Black Knight react himself, and that is worrisome. Instead, one pristine hand lifts his golden eye patch, revealing not a blind eye or even a socket, but a round contraption with a glass lens. A scar runs diagonally across the skin; the extraction of his eye must have been particularly painful. His thumb and forefinger adjust the lens carefully to extend the glass—cloudy and mechanical—and he peers at me as though to study me. It’s futile even to blink, but if I were to try, it’d be of no use. The glass has enchanted me with a glowing, emerald light, and I can’t tear myself away.

“Do you know what it means to see a rogue with a golden eye patch, darling?” The other eye he covers with the patch to focus better, letting me see up close how the sinew of his facial muscles overlaps with each other to compensate for the wound’s gash.

I shake my head, lost on words.

“It means he once battled a worthy opponent, a wellrespected enemy. I lost my eye to a great man, someone it would have been an honor to kill.” The backs of his fingers brush against his lapel. “Horribly disfiguring, clearly, but sometimes things happen for a greater reason. Even to demigods. This artificial eye forged for me by glass-smith Druids is stronger than my real one ever was. Able to see greater distances than a normal person, able to see in the pitch black of night. Even able to surpass the limits of time or memory.”

The allure has nearly claimed me, but I fight for rule of my mind. “And yet, here you stand without the Grail in your grasp, nor any idea of where Avalon lies.”

Now his glass eye casts my own reflection back at me. I look desperate, and my skin is wind-burnt. The Black Knight smiles. “My, you’re a brash one, aren’t you?” A laugh, but there’s a strange sense of nervousness to it. “It’s true Avalon has been a little more of a challenge.” As though he were explaining the rules of etiquette at tea. “Location is all that stands between the Grail and me. The temptations these two faced—”

He seizes my wounded arm, forcing me to cry out in pain, and faces me to Marcus and Owen.

“—slowed their quest to an embarrassing pace. For me, it’ll be faster. I am immune to the Grail’s temptation.”

I can feel hot blood spilling from my arm through my sleeve. The Black Knight’s tight grip reopened the gash.

“The Grail can only be found by someone pure of heart,” I rasp, the wobble in my voice telling of my anguish. With the stain of stolen magic on my soul, it cannot be me who claims the Grail, but there are others who can.

“Correction,” he says, adjusting his mechanical eye so it retracts back into its socket. The golden eye patch covers it, and he focuses his true sight on his prisoners. “It can only be found by someone whose soul has no blemish. And since I have no soul to begin with … ” He lifts an eyebrow. “A delightful loophole, yes?”

I stare in fury. I’ve never felt more hatred for another.

“And so,” he says, “I need the coordinates. You have them. I’ve asked several times now, and all I’ve gotten from you is
lip
.” The way he says the word comes out like an exploding cannon, adding wrath to his already vengeful presence. “But you’ll tell me, you know,” he whispers low enough that only I can hear. His fingers find my neck and trace its line—his touch is cold and patient. “Because right now, I have thirty-score rogues in the aeroships above me, and they have firelances pointed straight at your loved ones’ hearts.”

I glance up at the gleam of iron barrels lining the aeroships.

“I’ll let them go. I’ll let
you
go free to live your life without me to bother you. All you have to do is tell me which godforsaken isle or valley I must search. Where is Avalon?”

I’m silent for too long for the Black Knight to believe I’ll tell him.

A dirty-faced rogue behind Marcus slams the heel of his boot into his back, and Marcus falls to his elbows, pain twisting his face. It’ll be him the Black Knight tortures first if I don’t speak. And it won’t be another kick in the back.
He knows how to keep a man alive for as long as possible.

Like my mind is nothing but an open scroll for the Black Knight to read, the devil nods once at his rogues. “Do it!” His fingertips rest on the back of my neck now, pressing into the base of my skull so I cannot move.

They yank Marcus forward, and through the awkward chains about his wrists, he falls to the snow with a grunt. I twist against the Black Knight’s hold, terrified of what might come next, but his grip is like an iron vice. The rogue pulls on the thick iron links between Marcus’s wrists until he’s dragged him toward a snow-covered stump, setting his bound hands on top.

“What are you—?” I shout. “What are you going to do?” My breath is short, and my words and thoughts are frantic, jumbled.

Marcus glances left then right as two more rogues close in on him. His face hardens with ferocity, like he might try to fight, but deep in those violet irises, I see how frightened he is.

One rogue with sunburnt cheeks and a black leather eye patch pulls a firelance free from his waist—no, it’s not a firelance. I look closer: it’s all silver gears and spiral drills built into the hilt. He lifts it against the black sky to reveal a shining, twisted point. With a pull of the trigger, the drill spins, and the sound is loud and choppy and a clashing of metal against metal in a way that digs into my bones without ever touching me.

“Stop,” I whisper. The Black Knight’s fingers press deeper into my neck.

Marcus’s eyes widen, and he yanks his bound hands from the tree stump, but the rogues holding him in place are strong. Marcus grits his teeth as the rogue with the drill presses the point into his palm, held flattened by the other two. Owen’s hands slam over his mouth, and I’m screaming for them to stop, not even feeling my own wounded arm with the Black Knight’s fingers tightening around the gash. The rogue pulls the trigger again and the drill presses slowly—horribly—into Marcus’s palm as he screams through gritted teeth.

I watch blood and flesh spill over the sides of his fingers.
“Stop!”
I shout, as loudly as I can. “I’ll tell you!”

The Black Knight raises one halfhearted, indifferent hand, and the rogue pulls out the drill from Marcus’s palm. Marcus yanks his impaled hand to his chest and falls onto his back, his face soaked in sweat and agony.

The Black Knight lets go of me and waits, the brow over his eye patch cocked. I breathe long and slow, and the fury in my heart sends my blood coursing like a river through my veins. “But you won’t be able to claim the Grail, even if you are a
demigod
.” I say the word with acid.

“Please do not suggest I’ll need something as ridiculous as
alchemy
,” he mutters with rolling eyes. “Demigods have no need for your childish world of science.”

I look straight into his eye and smile, thought it might very well cost me my fingers. “I’ll never say.”

But then a rogue next to him with eyes shining like a black cat’s leans close. “One moment, Captain,” he says in the same eloquent English as the rogue I killed on the lake. “With rumors of this girl coming from those who used to be of the Fisher King’s people, I’d wager you’d need a sort of puzzle-like contraption.”

I feel the blood pool from my face; I think of Briana and Seamus and the two burly men who held me still while I was studied like a plate of meat, fit for selling. What sort of fate met them in exchange for this information?

The rogue’s eyebrow, curved like a hill of desert sands, jets up at the surprise on my face. “Their legend states that to claim the Grail requires the seal of Avalon. If this one freed the Fisher King, she’d have the signet needed to open the castle’s gates.”

The Black Knight shifts his gaze toward me. In his green eye, curiosity and wonderment, but most of all, a sense of victory.

I shake my head at the rogue’s words, thought it might not do me a lick of good. “Foolishness. I know of no such thing.”

The Black Knight thinks. And then he leans closer until his lips brush again my ears. “The apprentice from Camelot is a shrew, aren’t you, darling? Does the knight know the secret I can see written all over your face, the secret that would wreak destruction and vengeance upon you and yours if the demigods were to realize it? Does he know how you
adore
the taste of magic? Come, now. I can see right through you.”

His eye welcomes me into a world of debauchery and thieving, and for a glorious second I feel like the Black Knight might understand me better than Marcus would. I let my eyes fall shut, and the only warmth I can grasp on to is from the tears gleaming at my lashes.

But then they freeze, and my blood follows. “I’m telling the truth.” It comes out thick and heavy, and there’s no reason for the Black Knight to believe me.

There’s a tinge of fear surrounding him when he looks at me, though, and it ruffles him enough that he steps away. “Very well, then.” One quick glance at Marcus. “Take his hand.”

Rogues make for my beloved, and his eyes widen as he desperately backs away. My heart is stuck in my throat, but still I scream in protest. “No!”

The Black Knight waits. I’ll speak the truth now, and I don’t know what he might do when he hears it. “The signet. I crashed my aeroship and lost it when I fell through the ice.”

Marcus rises to his knees, his injured hand still vulnerable against his stomach. “I know where it is!” he shouts, clambering to his feet. The bruise on his face has already deepened in color, and his palm is spilling over with blood. “It’s yours. I’ll get it myself, but not until you let Vivienne go.”

No, Marcus.

The Black Knight shoves me off to a pair of rogues whose grips on my arms are painfully tight and saunters toward Marcus. “Your eyes are quite captivating. Quite … how shall I put it?
Regal.
And yet you’re nothing but a farmer’s son given the wasted chance to prove himself as a knight.” He strolls toward Marcus as rogues hold tight to his arms. “Why should someone of my caliber trust you?” The Black Knight leans in to study Marcus. “Besides, why negotiate? I think you’d rather kill me, would you not?”

Marcus’s voice trembles with rage. “In a second.”

The Black Knight laughs loudly, a horridly jovial sound that suggests he has been nothing but entertained tonight. “I don’t blame you, Sir Marcus.” He sets his golden eye patch to the side and focuses his ocular lens on Marcus.

Marcus pulls away, but rogues push him forward, and a spark of white light brightens his pupils as the Black Knight explores his thoughts.

“Hmm,” the Black Knight mutters. “I didn’t recognize you, all this time.” He turns back to me, one cloudy eye watching for my reaction as I ponder what the Black Knight could have seen in Marcus.

The Black Knight’s chin tips upward as though speaking at court. “Well, Sir Marcus, clearly there’s some honesty in what you say.”

Marcus struggles, but the rogues hold him back.

“But in addition to a missing trinket, Lady Vivienne has coordinates I need, and there’s no way I’ll let her go. Nevertheless, I’m willing to negotiate. Bring me the signet she spoke of. I’m a patient man, but I’m not going to waste any more time.” He spins on his heel to pace. “You know of the rogues’ port in the Mediterranean, yes?”

Marcus nods. “Yes.”

Owen glares at him.

“Wonderful!” the Black Knight says. “We’ll convene there in two days’ time, and as long as I have what I need to get to Avalon, you can have Lady Vivienne back. Two days is long enough, isn’t it?”

The Black Knight isn’t killing them. He drilled straight into Marcus’s hand. He tore off Gawain’s arm. He has the power to kill all of us right now, but he’s … letting them go. I don’t understand.

Then, perhaps a miracle. A propelling sound in the distance churns the air around us, and I look up. The Black Knight hears it, too, and regards the scores of aeroships soaring across the skies. Marcus and Owen and the rest of the rogues likewise cast their gazes high—we stare at a new fleet arriving, only visible because the shy moon has come out to illuminate the hope making its way toward us.

Marcus’s mouth drops in utter disbelief. “Galahad!” he shouts.

I watch as the aeroships draw closer, riding the waves of the night winds with Galahad at the forefront, blond hair unmistakable and stoic face determined.

Galahad’s infantry has found the Black Knight and the Spanish rogues. And now they’ve found us as well.

The Black Knight growls like a wolf. “Take her aboard
MUERTE
!” he calls as the most ominous-looking ship in his fleet drops a set of extending stairs. I jerk away from the rogues around me, but too late—they pull me toward the ascent, lightning-fast.