Camelot Burning (10 page)

Thirteen

“Hurry, Vivienne!”

Merlin leaps down the stairs, and I'm ten steps behind the entire descent, moving as quickly as Guinevere's silver-heeled boots will allow without slipping.

When we reach the cellar, I rest my hands on my knees, swallowing mouthfuls of air: musky, absinthe-stained, and with another stench that gives me a colorful idea of what lies under my boots.

Amid some shuffling, the sorcerer speaks. “Here it is.”

There's a ticking sound I recognize: the switching on of a gas lantern. It illuminates the small bunker for us.

I look up. “Oh goodness … ”

I've never thought to glance up at the ceiling before. All these years, I've missed the chance to admire its beautiful, gentle markings like the Egyptian hieroglyphs sketched in Merlin's old, worn scrolls.

The etchings tell a story in drawings reminiscent of the east, of bold sunlight and bright moonlight, of wide-necked snakes and shamans who look as though they've dipped into a knight's supply of cravats. Silver-bolted ears, tattooed necks. An alphabet unlike the Latin one, snaking up in dots and dashes. And in the center, a castle with happy subjects. A king and queen in a protective circle. Above, a separate kingdom, one of gold, looking down from the sky.

Merlin's voice is contemplative, even in such few words. “This way.”

Behind the ladder to the blacksmith's shop is a stone wall, but when Merlin presses against the surface, it turns on an axis, revealing a set of descending stairs.

He grasps the wall before taking the first step, breathing in sharply.

“Merlin?”

He glances over his shoulder. “It's nothing.”

Merlin descends, and I follow. A clack follows each step. I remember my silver-heeled boots, but no, it's coming from ahead. “What's that noise?”

Again, he looks over his shoulder. “It's nothing.”

We continue on.

Hundreds of steps later, we hit a stone floor. I rub my cold arms and look around. The space is astronomical; the ceiling seems to go on forever, like a canyon in reverse seeking
the surface. The landing leads us to a long hall where in the middle is a pyre built into the floor. At the end of the
stone stretch, Merlin curls over his cane. When he sees me, he straightens, wiping away the strain. He stands next to a pair of doors, nearly as tall as his tower.

“While the catacombs have their own ways of keeping out unwelcome visitors, it's imperative you don't tell a soul what you see down here, Vivienne. I said there were secrets in Camelot. Some in plain sight, like the incantations engraved on the ceiling up there or the tattoos on my skin. Others are hidden here.”

Merlin sets the lantern by his feet. The flame flickers and extinguishes. The world around us turns black.

But a bit of moonlight soon finds its way inside. Merlin comes into the light with an arm outstretched, as though he beckoned the moon to paint the door with luminescence, revealing sharp markings trailing down the frames. He touches the etchings and mumbles softly. The long sleeve of his left arm pulls back, letting him inspect a line on his forearm inked in another strange alphabet. Cane in hand, he points its emerald stone at the door and speaks in a whisper, letting strange words roll off his tongue.

“Ahkhaneehia ouvadrio.”

There's not enough time for me to fully wonder if that was magic. The moonlight passes through the stone, sending emerald rays splashing everywhere. The door creaks open. Behind it, complete blackness.

Merlin picks up the dead lantern as though it could still guide him. The darkness swallows him whole.

“Merlin!” I shout.

Iridescent fingers of orange spring from either side of him, traveling into the room. The fire leaps around the walls, and I rush to the threshold to watch as Merlin descends into a lair illuminated by hundreds of gas lanterns.

“Heavens,” I whisper.

“Indeed,” Merlin replies.

The walls are lined with stone sarcophagi: each face is different, from a masked monk with a wicked smile, to a lion with a braided mane. An enormous black furnace, charred and covered in ash, sits on the other side where the journeying fire halts behind an iron gate. Pipes climb the ceiling to a labyrinth of copper and brass cylinders interlocking, the pistons inside churning up and down.

The clicks of Merlin's feet draw me to the circular floor where the sorcerer regards a machine that must have been welded together ages ago, covered in the telltale ivy green and bitter red of tarnish and rust. It's a dragon's skeleton, black as night with a cogwork heart empty of blood and a lung system of patchwork leather. From inside, an iron lining peeks out. The neck curves up in a long swoop to a face with black eyes.

I step on a mosaic floor of embedded gemstones. Under my boots, the jewels shimmer and hum.

“What is this place?” I breathe.

Merlin smirks, feet clicking on the other side of the skeleton as tall as three horses and as long as eight. Around the walls, contraptions only found in the blacksmith's shop come alive, forming assembly lines, taking blocks of steel and pounding them into bolts and cogs that fall into buckets by the furnace. Weights strike against additional steel on those lines, flattening it into sheets. Cranks have songlike rhythm. There's a collection of copper discs for viewers, like the one in my pocket, stamped by a red-hot iron with the Pendragon emblem. A steam-powered roller curls flattened copper into cylinders for those viewers. Next to it, a larger one forming barrels for
fusionahs
.
The new weaponry Azur brought to Camelot might become more prominent than swords one day.
Remarkable.

“This is the birthplace of Camelot. A geographical crossroads between the old age of magic and the new era of mechanical arts. The founders lie in the caskets around these walls. Here is also the origin of the greatest weapon Camelot will ever know.” He regards the iron dragon's skeleton.

I move away from the stone faces watching my every move. By the door, a crimson drape covers the frame of a looking glass. My head inclines toward such a rare object that found itself here.

Merlin is enchanted. “Everything in this place, from one request to open the door, to another that will forever silence the protective inferno: here's where the demigods made them. The words I uttered from the script in my skin were to request safe passage into these catacombs. Not a stolen spell as Morgan freely takes. As I once did, too.”

He sees my face, how I must look petrified, and glances at the mirror.

“No need to get into specifics, mind you. Be careful not to touch the walls, as there are still traps about for curious fingers. And that looking glass is not for you. That'll serve you on another day.”

I tear my eyes from Merlin for the piped ceiling. Behind the brass and copper is the same reflective mosaic, the floor boasting rubies embedded in marble. The pattern is jagged and unclear, but when I look again, it morphs into a fire-breathing dragon with sharp talons and dark eyes.

“When the name Pendragon spread throughout the land after Uther's death in the war against the Spanish rogues, we declared the reign of a new king. I knew this old, forgotten place would be the foundation. A world of protection against evil, but as we know, it doesn't mean Morgan wasn't able to set foot in Camelot.”

I frown. “Is she not wicked then?” The question is all wrong, but valid.

“When I knew Morgan, she wasn't a sorceress. Like I said, I told her about alchemy—I was excited to share that revelation with someone whose mind was also riveted by this sort of study—but from there she began to steal magic. I didn't need Azur to confirm that. I could feel it from afar.” Merlin's eyes gloss over.

“It was foolish of me. I knew she, a healer, would be fascinated, but I didn't think it'd tempt her into the vice I'd just broken free from.” He shifts his weight. From where I stand, I can't see what's caught his attention.

“Then Arthur and Morgan had a falling out,” Merlin continues, “and the world became more dangerous as Lyonesse realized their curse: an entire civilization would drown with their castle, just when they'd turned their backs on magic for the mechanical arts. The kingdoms in these parts responded by Christianizing the land, expelling magic, and embracing the practical sciences. I knew in my heart Arthur would be king. Morgan was miles away, hiding from the mark on her head, trying to maintain correspondence with me, pleading for resources. When we decided to build Camelot and choose a king, many lost more than their pride.”

I hadn't been born yet, but my father has told me about the examinations of consciousness only the bravest took to discover if they were worthy of Camelot's crown. Despite the sorcerer's warnings that the true heir of Excalibur would reign—and that would be Arthur—many were slaves to their pride, regarded the mystical sword in the anvil, and went to grasp it.

Excalibur is still kept far from the hands of the public, and with good reason. With a steel gauntlet soldered to the hilt, whoever grasps Excalibur must be the one of true worth.

Anyone else will have his arm sliced off from the seven whirring blades inside.

I imagine the terror Arthur must have felt when Merlin told him to trust his birthright, wield the sword, take what was destined to be his. Seize the opportunity to rule a perfect kingdom at such a desperate time in history without knowing for certain if he'd walk away a whole man.

“Considering what could have happened had Morgan tried to claim Excalibur, she really should thank me.” Merlin leans on his cane as his feet click against the embedded gems. With difficulty, he makes his way back around the skeleton, pausing every few feet to study the handiwork.

A long wooden table behind me boasts journals with intriguing titles such as
The History of Eastern Alchemy
and
Warding off Curses and the Properties of Opium
. And another lying open as though someone was presently reading it:
The Mystery of Machines and Their Ghosts
. Curious.

“But Morgan always wanted more.” Merlin draws his cloak around his body. “Now she's risked her soul to set a curse on the castle. All for a legend, one Camelot holds dear.” He lifts his sleeves, exposing the tattooed charms on his skin, and regards them with a disdainful look. “A curse to counter my own protective incantation in the most creative way possible. Rather impressive.”

Merlin picks up the volume on ghostlike machines, nodding and murmuring as he looks through the pages. “An excellent read. There's a fascinating part that outlines the moment of no return after a man about to fade into oblivion is freed from his body. His spirit becomes unconquerable if he can guide it into a machine.”

I cannot think about ghosts right now. “What curse, Merlin?”

His bright blue eyes cannot hide the wealth of knowledge in his mind. “Nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things, really. It's more on me than it is on Camelot.”

“On you?” I tense at the memory of Morgan's white eyes and soprano words.

“Meant for a demigod, but I suppose it could apply to sorcerers, too. It weakens, then destroys, incantations associated with the one cursed. Now the veil of protection I stole for Camelot all those years ago has slowly begun to lift. A fault of my own, I suppose. I didn't know a curse like this existed. When I researched it, I was mesmerized by the intricate details, the active use of magic … ” He inspects his palms as though blood lies on them. “Alas, this is why the farmlands could be destroyed. It happened rather quickly, so I knew my response needed to be just as swift.”

“Alchemy broke the spell, then.”

He glances elsewhere. “I haven't told you everything. I notified Azur when I felt the spell itching my skin. But to stop it now—” He shuts his eyes. “Hopefully there will be a cure, later. After.”

My eyes sneak back to the journal on the table.

“Until then, there's a way to slow the process.”

My throat is dry as I wonder what a former addict to magic has stumbled upon. “What process, Merlin?”

He narrows his eyes as though deciding whether I'll be able to handle what he'll confide in me. Then, with a breath, he lifts his cloak to reveal his feet.

And I step back in horror.

The remnants of the sorcerer's black boots lie torn beneath skeletal, bloody toes. The tops of his feet are nothing more than fresh meat: pink and sinewy, flexing as he cringes. Slowly, the skin atop peels upward and vanishes.

He's … disappearing.

“I didn't know what to expect until I felt the change. Dreadfully painful as inch by inch I fade. It's sinisterly slow, and I won't vanish completely until the spell's reached all of me. Azur discovered, though, that opium is not simply a delightful drug: when drunk as tea, it's rather sophisticated in its ability to temper curses, but it's no permanent solution. No, not opium.”

He sets a hand on my shoulder. “Vivienne, we must complete this weapon before Morgan returns, and we must work fast. It's our best chance in a hopeless battle, especially with Azur's wing design, since Morgan won't expect Camelot to have the technology to reach flight. Even still, chances are the weapon won't be ready until I'm too far gone. You might have to finish it alone. It doesn't just need
jaseemat
to defeat Morgan, dear girl. It essentially needs a soul.” He stares right through me as though hoping I'll understand the reason for his fright. “And you must prepare it for one.”

“I don't understand—”

“You'll need to trust in what I tell you to do. And just as importantly, know what I keep from you will be for your own good. These days, certain knowledge might be dangerous. This is not compiling cogs and gears into a mechanical falcon, my dear. There's much danger here, and Morgan cannot find you.” His gaze is unrelenting.