Ruins of Camelot (16 page)

"And so," Bishop Tremaine said later that night, his voice echoing in the expanse of the academy cathedral, "we thank You, our Heavenly Father, for the gift of this new life.  Even in the midst of our earthly travails, You provide us the proof of Your everlasting promise through rebirth."

Gabriella cradled the baby in her arms where she stood before the bishop.  The Little Prince was asleep, his lips pressed together in a solemn, little bow.  She turned back and smiled at her father, who sat on his throne in the front row.  He nodded at her, his eyes twinkling, obviously anxious to hold his grandchild again as soon as the ceremony was over.  Behind him, a rather surprising amount of people had gathered, forming a reassuring mix of nobles and peasants.  They smiled in the dimness, lit only by the rosy light of the sunset, tinted by the stained-glass windows.

"I am somewhat challenged by this christening ceremony," Tremaine commented wryly, changing his tone of voice, "since a christening ceremony usually requires a name to christen with."

There was a murmur of congenial laughter.  Tremaine beamed indulgently at Gabriella and then touched her baby lightly on the foot.

"But God our Father does not need us to tell Him the name of this young Prince.  As the scriptures proclaim, our Lord has knitted this child even whilst he was still in his mother's womb.  His name is already well-known to the hosts of heaven, as are the number of his days and the course of his entire life."

Gabriella hugged her baby gently, thrilled with the warmth of his small weight and the slow, metronomic rise and fall of his chest.  Someone sniffed behind her.  She wasn't certain, but she thought it was Professor Toph.

"And thus, we christen this young Prince with the name his parents will soon choose for him," Tremaine went on.  "The name that God Almighty has already writ upon his tiny beating heart.  May he live long, bear much fruit, and surpass us all in wisdom, stature, and nobility.  Amen."

The crowd responded in unison, echoing the bishop's final word.

The front doors of the cathedral were thrown open, letting in the evening breeze and the burnished light of the sunset.  Outside, the bells of the tower began to toll, ringing stridently in the clear air.  The noise woke the baby, who stirred, stretched out his little fists, and began to cry.

"Allow me, daughter," the King said, approaching her as the crowd broke apart.  "It seems only yesterday that I was calming your infant cries.  Let us see if I still know the way."

Gabriella reluctantly turned her son over to her father and then smiled at the sight of the two of them.  All around was the sound of chattering voices, laughter, and shuffling feet as the throng milled towards the wide open doors.  Over it all, the bells continued to toll, operated enthusiastically by a pair of young altar boys at the bell pulls.

"The Little Prince," the King said, tickling the boy beneath his chin.  The baby glared up at him solemnly and blew a bubble between his lips.  "Name him soon, Gabriella, lest the moniker stick to him for life."

"We will, Father," she promised, accompanying him into the twilight near the doors.  A thought struck her, and she touched his elbow.  "Wait for me outside.  I've left my cloak at the altar."

The King nodded, barely listening as he peered happily into the face of his grandson.

Lightly (much lighter than she could have earlier that morning), Gabriella strode through the emptying cathedral, approaching the altar.  Her cloak, looking red as blood in the dimness, lay over the altar, exactly where she had left it.  She scooped it up, turned back towards the entrance, and then stopped.

The last bell tolled, leaving only its echo to roll across the valley into silence.  With it, the thrum of voices finally drained out of the cathedral.  Near the entrance, standing just outside, were Sigrid and Treynor, talking quietly in the coppery light.  Gabriella drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying, for the moment, the unusual sense of being alone.

She turned around again and rested her hands upon the altar.  The light of the central stained-glass window coloured her features as she stared up at it.  On it, King Arthur knelt nobly at the feet of Jesus, who stood in radiant glory with his hands spread, showing the ruby red of his nail wounds.

"Thank You, Lord, for my boy," she prayed, merely mouthing the words.  Her relationship with God, as evidenced by her tantrum in the graveyard only a few days earlier, was far from perfect.  He still frightened her nearly as much as He comforted her.  But for now, she was grateful, and she felt she should express it.  "Thank You… thank You for my Little Prince."

The cathedral was thick with silence, alive only with the subtle flicker of the candles in the gallery of vaults.

Gabriella looked at them for a long moment.  Slowly, a thoughtful frown deepened her features.

She left her cloak, rounded the altar carefully without taking her eyes from the candle gallery, and climbed onto the dais.  Her movement was slow and deliberate, diminishing, so that she stopped some feet away from one of the alcoves.  She stared into its gently glimmering light, her frown deepening, her brow furrowing in silent disbelief.

Finally, she crept closer, almost as if she were in a dream.  She placed her hands on the railing that lined the vault.

"No."  She said the word calmly, just above a whisper.

Before her, surrounded by the dancing lights of all the other candles, Darrick's candle stood cold, its wick burnt black but utterly, finally, dark.

"The candles are only symbols, Gabriella," Sigrid assured her that night.  "An errant breath of wind might blow one out, or a drop of water from a leak in the cathedral roof might accidentally extinguish it."

"I sensed it even before he left, Sigrid," Gabriella whispered, laying her son in his crib.  "This mission was doomed.  Darrick's involvement was a terrible mistake.  I should have ordered him to stay."

"You couldn't have even if you'd tried," Sigrid admonished, leading Gabriella out of the dark nursery and easing the door shut.  "You are not yet Queen.  The King's commission supersedes all."  She turned to Gabriella and softened her expression.  "You cannot give up hope, Princess.  Your husband will return along with the Army and Sir Ulric.  For all we know, they are nearly here, even this very night.  How foolish will you feel when he greets you again, you who were convinced that his soul had already departed?"

The older woman made to touch Gabriella's shoulder, but Gabriella turned away.  She crossed the room to the window.  Deep blue night pressed against the glass.

"I fear you are wrong, Sigrid, and that you yourself know it.  His candle was burnt out.  Just like my mother's."

"They are
symbols
, Gabriella," Sigrid insisted, still standing near the nursery door.  "We light them upon our graduation into adulthood.  We extinguish them when those that we love die.  They are not any more magical than we are, despite what Professor Toph might say."

Gabriella stared through her own reflection on the window glass.  Her eyes were swollen and tinged with red.  She shifted her gaze to the reflection of Sigrid behind her.

"On the night my mother died," she said softly, "my father sent you to extinguish her candle.  He told me so himself.  You have spoken of it as well."

Sigrid nodded.  "Yes.  It was my duty, not only to the dead Queen, but to the Kingdom.  It was the first announcement of her murder to the people."

Gabriella turned and met Sigrid's eyes.  Sigrid looked back at her, her expression tense and waiting, almost wary.

"Tell me, Sigrid," Gabriella asked quietly, studying her nurse's face, "
did
you extinguish the candle?  Or was it already cold when you arrived there that night?"

There was a long pause.  Sigrid's expression did not change.  Finally, she drew a breath and answered slowly, "I extinguished it.  I pinched the flame with my own two fingers.  I still remember the heat of it.  I wept, Princess, as the smoke arose from your mother's candle for the last and faded away."

Gabriella continued to stare at Sigrid's face, seeking any sign of falsehood.  After a moment, she turned back to the window.  She drew a deep breath, and it hitched in her chest.

"Dear one," Sigrid said, approaching her now and taking her by the shoulders.  Gabriella submitted this time and allowed her old nurse to gather her into a matronly embrace.  "Don't fret.  Don't fear.  Pray.  If God wills it, our loved ones will return to us.  We shall soon see.  Darrick will relight his own candle.  After all, only he can, yes?  He will indeed return to us.  If the Lord wills it…"

Gabriella allowed Sigrid to embrace her, but there was no comfort in it, and she did not close her eyes.  She stared towards the indigo glass of the window, her eyes red but dry now. 
If the Lord wills it: that's what I am afraid of,
she thought but did not say. 
That's exactly what I am afraid of…

Thomas and Yazim camped that night in the shadow of the dead castle.  Its broken turrets and spires made a black hulk against the sky, blocking out the moon.  The wind gusted capriciously, buffeting their fire and throwing its light beyond the clearing, up onto the brambly wilds of an ancient rose garden.  The thorny vines embraced a nearby bridge, nearly burying it, whilst lush blooms filled the air with an almost sickly sweet perfume.

"Do you believe in haunts?" Thomas asked, peering up at the dark ruin.

Yazim shrugged.  "Perhaps."

They sat in silence, letting the night unwind, listening to the rush of the wind in the rosy wilds.  Finally, Thomas spoke again.

"Was the lady-in-waiting right?  Did the Princess's husband return?"

Yazim looked aside at his companion.  "What do you think?"

"I do not wish to say."

Yazim nodded slowly.  "The young Field Marshal, along with the High Constable Sir Ulric, did reach the encampments of the enemy.  They took their time setting up divisions and drawing their plan of attack.  Such things were hardly subtle, and they consumed many weeks.  The Army spread across the valley in tents, arranged their siege machines and trebuchets in such a way as to inspire fear and awe.  Spies were sent to study the strongholds of the enemy.  There was much careful deliberation and planning.  Eventually, the Princess's husband, Darrick, grew impatient with Ulric's approach.  He sensed something wrong, just as the Princess had warned him."