Camelot Burning (3 page)

The old sorcerer says nothing else, but regards the clouds gathering above all that is Camelot—city, castle, countryside beyond.

Simply a change of weather over the farmlands, surely.

Four

Court-appointed jugglers toss flame-throwing firelances—eight at a time—into orbit in Camelot's June gardens. Children reach into one juggler's braiding arsenal, knowing the clown-faced entertainer with spinning wheels on his stout hat is also an accomplished mechanic. The entertainer does not disappoint and flicks the hammer of each firelance when it returns to his hand. Instantly, the juggling instruments click inward, transforming into spinning copper figurines meant to be exaggerated representations of the knights seeking the legendary Holy Grail, much to the children's innocent delight.

It's all so dramatic seen through a veil of textured black fabric over my eyes. Two nights past, Guinevere suggested I wear something daring to her wedding, something never seen before in Camelot. She'd kissed my cheek and set
lace
, of all things, to the black brim of a rounded ladies' hat, letting the veil eclipse my face. Perhaps the poignancy came from knowing such a rare decoration was from Lyonesse mere months after the alleged twenty-year-old curse of Morgan le Fay finally passed, sending the kingdom to join Atlantis at the bottom of the sea.

“Girls in Lyonesse didn't wear trinkets in their hair,” Guinevere had said. “Lace was the fabric of lovers. The keepsake a lady's champion would give her. We used to say, ‘Wear black at night, wear lace in the day. Wear both one night, and you will find your way.' ”

It's grand enough to surpass my usual desire not to stand out in a crowd. With that lace covering my eyes, I weave through jugglers, entertainers, and gemstone-peddlers in the gardens toward the grand hall. I'm antsy leaving Guinevere's chambers ahead of her, even if she did ask for a moment alone for prayer, but the gardens are calming.

I know every path that tours them blindfolded. Every tree, favoring the elm planted before I was born that now stands a masterpiece. One day, as a girl, I hid in its branches while my father searched the entire castle for me, thinking I'd finally run away from my declared
prison of Camelot
. Now, as I slip between lady-in-waiting and apprentice to a snuff-addicted former sorcerer, I come here, where I've hidden tools and scraps Merlin wouldn't miss for a side-project of my own: a one-handed crossbow attached to the wrist with a leather cuff.

From years of watching Owen master archery, I've seen the drawbacks of Camelot's clunky crossbows. A miniature-sized one would be of better use in hand-to-hand combat. I've buried it and some arrows under the elm's heavy root, where it lifts and the occasional mouse makes its home. I've kept
Merlin in the dark about this because I want to make something that is truly mine. Besides, the old fool would likely tinker with it whenever I wasn't there.

A minstrel with a wind-up harp has gathered the attention of those by the grand hall, strumming the same Celtic ballad I recognize from my mother's music box. But a tipsy knight gesturing the gates with his pint glass is louder than the minstrel's song.

“The prodigal son returns! It's Lancelot!”

I reach the edge of the gardens and look across the courtyard at heavy doors rumbling open and steel gears spinning. Chains draw each port inside and back. As the doors slam open, a handful of knights by the grand hall raise copper pints and cheer. Their eyes are blood-red, their lids smudged in kohl.

A stallion trots inside draped in red and gold and carrying a man I recognize: his dark, curly hair longer now, his skin bronzed. A twisted dragon tattoo climbs Sir Lancelot's neck, and a long metal piercing goes clear through two spots on the upper cartilage of one ear, required branding of all Knights of the Round Table. Sir Lancelot's brows cock arrogantly above kohl-lined eyes, but the pompous look quickly fades to a smile.

“We rode through the night to arrive in time!” he calls, flashing white teeth and leaping from his horse for his brothers-in-arms.

“We expected you months ago,” his former squire Sir Galahad says. “God, in three years, you might have made time for a bath.” Galahad shoves Lancelot back a few steps.

“I had to see which refined lady Arthur tricked into marrying him.” Lancelot swings a friendly arm around Galahad's neck.

And show off the squire to fill Galahad's shoes,
I think, shielding my eyes as the boy in question rides in after Lancelot, stopping a good distance away. His shoulders are slouched, disguising what would be a tall frame. A gloved hand rakes messy, dark hair flat as he takes in Camelot and its extravagant celebrations. A smile I admit I find dazzling crosses his face at the wealth of colors and mechanical trinkets soaring through the air. I feel my feet inch closer to get a better look, but peddlers and nobility crowd in front of until I can no longer see him.

“Out of the way, please, my lady!”

I must duck quickly to avoid the juggler's fiery arsenal of transforming firelances as he and his audience of children stroll past.

I leave the gardens, crossing the courtyard for the grand hall's entrance, where inside, the ceremony will take place. Now there's no sign of the boy who arrived with Lancelot, and I'm forced to pass through Camelot's finest, who hastily ensure Arthur's champion kisses a pint glass or three in the meantime. I should hope their new blended sword-firelances they call
fusionahs
are empty of silver bearings. Lancelot shows off one he claimed while away—it boasts an iron hilt whose grip is black leather with a long metal barrel twisting against a shining blade. The novelty of the mechanical arts hasn't worn off yet, it seems. Galahad seizes the
fusionah
in good fun, mocking the delicate engravings on the barrel too demure for a roguish knight, but Lancelot is quick to return it to his holster.

The stink of them hits me before I reach the doors. They watch me pass and whistle as I keep my head down. Lancelot among them is the loudest instigator with eyes already red from ale.

“I've missed the fair ladies of the kingdom. Your greeting flatters me, love, but alas, my loyalty is to Arthur.”

The lot of them laugh, and those who've been on the quest with Lancelot tell tales about him that would set a blush to the most daring harlot's cheek.

I shoot him a nasty look. Up close, he's nothing more than an obnoxious drunk with messy facial hair.

The grand hall is composed of lords and ladies greeting each other with air kisses and compliments just as sincere, all too boisterous for my liking. I weave through them, noting how Guinevere's Lyonesse style has caught on: ladies wear bold colors, copper and brass ornaments, low-cut gowns, luxurious nighttime corsets. Glittery jeweled brooches shine in polished hair. Men adjust their rounded black hats and twitch their waxed moustaches.

Trumpets sound, and Guinevere is first to make her way to the altar. The queen-to-be has magnificently covered her prized curves with an angelic veil under which violets and doves' feathers lie attached to her hair. A Lyonesse tradition. For luck.

I search for my mother in the crowd of nobility. With her lovely blonde hair and Owen's intense brown eyes, Lady Carolyn cannot help but stand out in Camelot. She's near the front, and I slip past a handful of dandies to her side, hoping my arrival goes unnoticed.

No such luck. My mother does a double-take when she spots the never-before-seen lavender gown Guinevere loaned me, corseted with thin white mesh and asymmetrical in how it falls. Too strange to be from Camelot; too low-cut to have been made by one of her seamstresses. Her fingers note the black hat and daring lace. I wait to see if the pagan costume I'm wearing warrants a scolding from Camelot's master seamstress.

“Guinevere asked me to—”

“You look lovely. The hat's a bit much.” She flicks a fingernail against the brim, and the veil pops up. “Suitors might try to distract you from the toast in that.” One hand reaches for mine, lacing our fingers together. “You have my hands, Vivienne. Right down to the fingertips.”

I breathe in sharply as we both stare at the forgotten soot under my nails. Her eyes rise to mine, giving me a look.

“And perhaps next time you could make a stronger effort to return from Guinevere's chambers
before
midnight.”

I nod, scrubbing my fingers on the underside of my dress. The garment's skirt is terribly loud—

“Ahem!”

The forced cough draws my attention to the squires across the hall, where my brother Owen rudely seeks my attention. He waits for the king's bride to pass before glaring for my loud shuffling. I promptly return the glare, and Owen shakes his head, showing a flash of silver in the upper rim of his ear, mostly hidden by his curly blond hair. A little early for such a decoration, but Owen is ambitious, and it's only a matter of time before he'll have the ink to match.

When the trumpets sound, we stand straighter for King Arthur. At the hall's entrance, the king glances about at nobility with green eyes younger than his thirty-five years, as though still the boy who took rule of the kingdom twenty years past. He sets his gaze upon Guinevere, his walk indicative of his confidence but lacking the authority a castle-bred king might have boasted.

Like the gentleman I've always known him to be, he nods politely at those who meet his eyes, even as the hammered gold of his crown and his morning jacket lined in red silk must surely weigh him down. A boyish smile crosses his face at the sight of Lancelot, and if Arthur's curmudgeonly advisors at the front weren't so concerned with propriety, the king might have dashed into the crowd to embrace his champion. He settles for a salute to his knights, who lift their arms in return. Lancelot, now with a rather melancholic disposition, is the last to do so. The scoundrel surprises me. I would have imagined he'd be elated to see Arthur so happy.

Lancelot lowers his arm as Arthur passes, and the knight is inebriated enough for his elbow to clumsily hit a flagpole. It nearly topples over, only caught at the last second from smashing into a stained-glass window by the boy standing there.

It's his squire, whom I can see much closer now. A boy not quite twenty, rather tall indeed with a lean build that rivals the knight he serves. His hair is much darker than I thought: nearly black and would probably hit his chin if it weren't so wild, scattered about his forehead. Some of it falls over his big eyes, and he pushes it back, but it refuses to stay put.

He looks at me and when he does, it's not by accident. I look closer. Violet eyes, like the flowers in my lady's hair. Unnatural, unusual, heavy in a fashion that must always look like he's just awoken. And looking right at me.

When I realize how long I've been staring, I snap back to the Latin ceremony and the droning priest whose monocle tumbles onto his Bible.

From the corner of my eye, I watch the squire shuffling in place as though the prospect of standing still for this long is impossible. With as much casual nature as I can muster, I glance back. His eyes pierce mine, and one corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. My cheeks go warm, and I dart my gaze to the stage.

Arthur and Guinevere hold hands, and the bishop wraps their wrists together with a ribbon to signify the union. Though the mechanical arts are new to Camelot—and with it, the embrace of science in addition to Christianity—some traditions must be kept. The usual chatter of nobility goes silent. The significance of this moment doesn't escape me either.

A knight slips through a side door—Owen's childhood friend, Percy. His beeline for Lancelot is quick, and he whispers in the knight's ear as Arthur repeats the bishop's words to his bride. A look of worry comes over Lancelot's face. Signaling to those around him and tapping his squire on the shoulder, Lancelot follows Percy out the door, a bevy of urgent whispers accompanying them. As much as I block out the bishop's empty declarations of faith, I can't make out a word they're saying aside from several mentions of the Round Table.

The violet-eyed boy is last to leave. He doesn't look at me again as he disappears outside. And while I'm curious about why they're leaving, I also find myself wondering why that'd disappoint me.

After the ceremony, the new queen must return to her chambers to change into a proper Lyonesse gown now that the Christian ceremony is complete. But I know it's partly because the ridiculous veil atop her head is cooking her in the hot June sun.

I'm supposed to accompany her, but she smiles and tells me not to worry, that I'd be of no use to her with the many hooks and buttons so different from the gowns of Camelot. Her orderlies can handle it without me, and so I wander the courtyard with my eyes on the sky, hoping by some miracle Merlin is wrong, and Azur has decided to visit for Arthur's wedding. But maybe the old fool was right.

“Knights to the northern gates!”

The sudden shout startles me. Knights rush past me for the drawbridge. Urgency sobers up a man quickly, and their wits have returned. I wonder what's happening.

Two squires jog past me from the walls. When I recognize my brother, I grab his arm. “What's going on?”

Owen stops, but instead of answering, he flicks my hat. His eyes are smudged from sweat and likely his fingertips' unsuccessful attempts at relieving the kohl's itchiness. “Where'd you get this? Embracing Lady Guinevere's exotic roots?”

The other squire stops as well. It's the boy, the one with violet eyes, still kohl-lined and just as messy as my brother's, with dark hair tangling in his lashes. He blinks and cocks a smile to the side.

Owen glances at him. “Marcus, this is my sister, Vivienne, the queen's lady-in-waiting.” His voice is cloaked with newly drunk ale.

Marcus inclines his head to me. I mock a curtsy and turn back to my brother. “What's happening? All the commotion—”

“Someone's drunk the last of the green fairy, Viv,” Owen jokes. He knows how much I love the licoricey spirit. “Nothing for you to worry your little head about, I'm sure.
We
don't even know. Back to the other children with you.”