Ruins of Camelot (32 page)

"Makes one wonder," Thomas pressed evenly, meeting the proprietor's eyes, "why one would go to the trouble to operate an inn in such a place."

"Simple human kindness, I expect," Yazim announced, rolling the quill and ink pot up into the parchment and stashing both into his pack.  "A quality we see far too little of in the city proper, I am afraid.  Thank you, good sir.  You may expect a friendly visit from the tax constabulatory of this region within the year.  For our part, however, we bid you good day."

With that, Yazim stood, and Thomas moved to join him.  The proprietor blinked up at Yazim and then down at the small stacks of coins on the table.  A question seemed to form on his face, but it vanished quickly.  He began to scoop the coins into the hollow of one huge, callused palm.

"Always a pleasure to host the agents of the King," he said loudly, as if to cover the clink of his coins.  "As I say, me and the missus, we just want to do our part.  Glad to be of service.  Fare thee well then, gentlemen.  Safe travels."

Ten minutes later, the two were astride their horses again, cantering away from the stone inn along a barely visible road.

"I've enjoyed better accommodations in barbarian prison camps," Thomas declared, glancing back.

"As a descendent of those 'barbarians' myself," Yazim commented smoothly, "I suggest that that might say more about the differences between our cultures' concepts of hospitality than it does about that specific inn."

Thomas frowned and shook his head.  "I shall dismiss the fact that you did not collect any surtax from the proprietor.  But you must know he stables more than two horses.  There were four stalls, and all of them fresh.  Why did you let him account for only the two?"

Yazim smiled a little crookedly and urged his horse onwards.  "A taxpayer who believes he is outsmarting his government can be a surprisingly loyal citizen.  Revolutions do not grow well amongst such people, for they fear that a new ruler may be less easy to fool.  That kind of security is worth a few lost coppers a year."

"Did you learn this from the Archduke himself?  Somehow, I failed to perceive that directive when we were assigned our duty," Thomas mused, looking aside at his friend.

Yazim shrugged.  "We 'barbarians' are adept at reading between the lines."

Thomas nodded.  They rode for a few minutes in silence.  The roadway turned, passed into a thicket of new trees.  The shadows felt cool after the hard light of the afternoon sun.

Finally, Thomas said, "Speaking of reading between the lines, I have been thinking upon your tale."

"Indeed."

"Indeed.  And I am forced to wonder how much of it really is true and how much of it is, well, pure fancy.  No disrespect intended, for it is quite a good tale and I am rather enthralled by it, and yet…"

Yazim pursed his lips sympathetically.  "It does seem rather fantastic, yes.  In truth, I had not thought upon the tale in many years, not since I was a child.  Youth is far quicker
than adulthood
to absorb such things as wizards and werewolves, volcano spiri
ts and dragons
."

Thomas seemed mildly disappointed.  "Does this mean that you do not believe the story yourself?"

Yazim drew a long breath.  The clop of the horses' hooves was loud in the afternoon stillness.  "I do not disbelieve it," he answered, "but I do not believe it the same way I once did.  Not yet at least."

Thomas glanced at his friend.  "What does that mean?"

"It means that it has been a long time since magic tainted the world.  Its power is mostly gone from the land.  But hints of it remain, giving evidence of a time much different than that which we know."

"You have witnessed this evidence?"

Yazim considered.  "I have sensed it," he replied thoughtfully.  "We are, after all, on the verge of that land once known, in the time of Camelot, as the Tempest Barrens.  Now it is merely an uncharted wilderness, dotted with small forests and populated mostly by nomads.  The magic is gone from the land, but the land has not forgotten it.  Do you not sense it?"

Thomas shook his head.  "I sense you attempting to spook me as the evening descends but nothing more.  And I daresay it will not work.  With the derelict castle far behind us, your tale has become increasingly that: a tale.  But do not let that stop your telling of it.  It interests me greatly, even if it is pure fantasy."

"That way station," Yazim said, almost to himself, "it is old.  Far older than even the proprietor knows.  The stone of its walls speaks of centuries, not decades.  It may be that what we saw, the inn in which we stayed this night past, is rebuilt from the very place that the Princess, Gabriella Xavier herself, passed as a ruin, the cursed way station that marked her crossing into the Tempest Barrens."  Yazim's gaze sharpened, and he looked askance at his companion.  "The curse may be long passed from the land, but there is something bent about that place nonetheless.  Tell me that you did not feel it."

Thomas frowned.  He glanced at the darker man and then looked away again.  "I slept within its walls.  I still breathe today with it behind us."

"And yet you are relieved," Yazim commented, narrowing his eyes slightly.  "This is why you did not press for any surtax.  You, like me, were glad to be shut of the place.  You sensed its wrongness, same as me.  You need not admit it.  I see it on your very face."

"You see only weariness and irritation," Thomas sighed, still not meeting his friend's gaze.  "But I admit to being glad that the place is behind us, if only because sleeping under the stars is more comfortable than those damned ratty mattresses."

Yazim accepted this with a slow nod.  They rode on.

"The Cragrack Cliffs are still there," he mused aloud.  "Even now, they present a daunting pass for man or army.  To this day, there are rumours of endless tunnels and caverns, lost cities hidden beneath the scrubby wilderness."

"But Camelot is dead," Thomas declared.  "Even if your tale is true, the Princess could not have succeeded in her quest."

Yazim shrugged.  "There are many measures of success," he suggested enigmatically.  Thomas scoffed but merely shook his head.

"Where are we off to now?" he asked after a minute.  "North, into the Barrens itself?"

"No.  There is nothing there of interest to the Kingdom of Aachen.  We head East now."

"East?" Thomas repeated, glancing aside.  "Our mission was to travel north, then follow the feudal highway back south and east, visiting the townships along the way.  The East is well accounted for."

"The eastern border, yes," Yazim agreed.  "But not the middle lands.  There may be something there."

Thomas frowned quizzically.  "What are you not telling me, Yazim?  You are hiding something."

"Something may indeed be hiding," Yazim smiled in agreement, "but our aim is to reveal it.  Fear not.  If I am wrong, we will merely extend our journey by a week.  If I am right, the Archduke will reward our thoroughness."

"You believe there is a village in the hills?" Thomas prodded, tilting his head.  "Is this part of your strange history?"

Yazim merely nudged his horse onwards with a click of his tongue.

Thomas sighed.  "Intriguing, I admit.  But it hardly seems worth the journey just to discover some forgotten hamlet in the forested foothills.  The taxes will likely be a pittance."

"We do not search merely for taxes, Thomas," Yazim said loftily.

"Amuse me then," Thomas replied, shaking his head.  "For what do we search?"

Yazim smiled faintly as the two of them passed beneath the trees.  "We search for something far more valuable than coin," he answered quietly.  "We search for information.  We search… for evidence."

Thomas's frown deepened, but he did not protest the change in plans.

The sun began to descend into evening, stretching the trees' shadows across the road.  The two travelers made good progress, enjoying the companionable silence.  Finally, Thomas spoke up again.

"Tell me, at the very least, that the beast Merodach was destroyed in the end."

Yazim smiled grimly.  "Does it matter?  As you say, it may be that there never was such person.  It is a mere fairy story."

"I did not say that.  I expressed a logical skepticism.  Tell me the ending and do not tease me."

Yazim's smile faded.  "I cannot, I am afraid.  There is a bit more of the story to tell, but the final ending is not a part of it."

"Curse you," Thomas fumed impatiently.  "How can you say this?  Why will you not tell me the ending?"

Yazim sighed deeply.  "Because," he admitted reluctantly, "no one alive knows it.  The ballad of the Princess Gabriella ends with a mystery.  Many have guessed outcomes, but none can recount the truth with certainty."

"Curse you a thousand times," Thomas cried, but he didn't really mean it.  "Very well then.  Tell me the rest of what you know.  I will make up my own damn ending if need be."

Yazim seemed to agree to this.  He collected his thoughts as the sun continued to descend towards the horizon.  Finally, he drew a breath and said, "The Princess's journey was nearing its completion, and yet the hardest part was yet to come.  The most difficult obstacle of all lay before her."

"What shall it be now?" Thomas demanded wearily.  "Ghosts?  Demons?  Giant two-headed billy goats?  What fantastic enemy was yet to befall her?"

Yazim laughed drily.  "The worst one of all," he replied.  "The enemy of all who travel the empty wilderness.  Gabriella's final challenge… was starvation."

Gabriella melted snow for water, but the lack of food began to wear on her by the time darkness fell on her second day above ground.  She made camp in the hollow of a steep hill, planted the goblinfire torch into the earth, and considered eating some of the frozen yellow grass.  She knew it would bear no sustenance for her, even if she could manage to keep it down.  Perhaps tomorrow she would find another gift pile of berries left by her secret midnight visitors.  She did not hope greatly in this however.  Since leaving the dragon's cave, she had seen virtually no sign of life save for the very occasional track of a wild hare.

The thought of hare made her mouth water frustratingly.  She had no bow, and the trapping techniques she had practised at the academy were woefully forgotten. 
Why would a Princess need to learn to catch food?
she had thought to herself at the time.  Now, slowly starving in the darkening cold, she remembered this and laughed with bitter irony.

Featherbolt circled the evening sky far above, seeking his own dinner.  She watched.  Eventually, he tucked his wings and dove towards the ground, transforming himself into a hurtling feathered arrow, proving his name.  A few minutes later, he appeared in the shadow of the hollow, the half-devoured remains of a mouse in his talons.  He dropped this near the torch, as if offering it to Gabriella.