by Zoë Archer
As everyone climbed the steep stairs, Gemma asked, “Do you get many guests?”
“Gramercy, no!” The innkeeper chuckled. “You fine folks are the first guests we’ve had in four months.”
“Isn’t that hard for business?”
“’Tis,” came the cheerful answer as he stopped on a landing, “but this inn’s been in my family for four generations. It stayed open after the mail route changed, taking most of the travelers—and townsfolk—with it. And then when the trains skipped this corner of the shire, well” —he smiled, fatalistic— “that about killed us, it did. I reckon the inn won’t be able to stay open after me and Sarah pass on.”
Gemma gently touched the old man’s hand. “I’m very sorry.”
“Ah, obliged to you, miss.” He reddened to be the recipient of a pretty young woman’s sympathy. “But ‘tis the way of things. We all must leave this world at some point, even inns. And, now,” he continued, taking the stairs again, “just a little farther, and here we are.”
A single, narrow corridor ran the length of the story, floorboards warped by the passage of years, a framed drawing of London Bridge the only adornment on the walls. Four doors faced each other across the passageway, two on the left, two on the right.
“The ladies will take the free room on the left,” the innkeeper announced. “And you gentlemen will have the one on the right.”
Astrid, after sending Lesperance a glance of parting, took her bag and went into one room. Lesperance looked unhappy to be without her for even a moment, but he found his way into the other room.
“I’ll leave you to get your supper ready.” The innkeeper bobbed, but Catullus stopped the old man before he headed down to the kitchen and gave him a florin.
“Thank ‘ee, sir,” the innkeeper chirped, brightening, then hurried away.
For a minute, Catullus and Gemma stood alone in the corridor. The narrow space forced them to stand close to one another, and all around them came the sounds of life—Astrid in her room, Lesperance in the other, the innkeeper downstairs happily chattering to someone, pots banging in the kitchen—everything quite ordinary, quite domestic, like any other inn Catullus had visited. Yet here, standing with his body very close to Gemma so that he saw the flutter of her pulse just beneath her jaw as she looked up at him, nothing was ordinary or domestic, but charged and fraught with possibility.
“Collecting material for your article?” he asked softly. He cast a quick look to the staircase, down which the innkeeper had walked.
“No.” She faintly frowned at the idea she might exploit the innkeeper’s tale for her own benefit. “I just like to hear people’s stories.”
He didn’t doubt that. Gemma Murphy was, he continued to learn, exceptionally inquisitive. Not only for her work as a journalist, but for herself, because she loved knowing and learning and exploring for their own sakes. She imbued even the proprietor of a dying, tiny country inn with gravity and worth, where others—more thoughtless—might dismiss such a man.
This woman is very dangerous. Not in the common way dangerous, ready with a knife or betrayal, but danger of another sort. A well-guarded heart might not be as fortified as previously thought. And a body that had gone far too long without pleasure and release could not resist her, with her lush, seductive curves, her freckled, warm skin, her nimble hands.
But he would. He knew self-discipline, and good manners, and a lifetime of loneliness that could not be eradicated within the span of a few days. So, despite everything within him demanding that he close the small space between him and Gemma, and press her against the wall as he kissed her thoroughly, he said, instead, “See you at supper, then.”
Catullus thought he saw a look of disappointment cross Gemma’s face, but it vanished before he could make certain. “Yes, at supper.”
Then she turned and went into her room, and Catullus stood by himself for many moments afterward.
Chapter 5
Sleeping Arrangements
Once inside the room she was to share with Astrid, Gemma looked up, expecting to find hams hanging from the rafters or perhaps goats gnawing on the coverlet. But the room was only that—simply furnished with a washstand, a chair, a chest of drawers and, of course, a bed. As the innkeeper had promised, the bed looked wide enough to easily accommodate two.
Astrid paced the room, taking its measure. She checked the one small casement window, making sure it opened, then glancing down to the road a story below. Checking for escape routes, Gemma realized. Astrid moved with precision and purpose, a battle-hardened veteran who also happened to be a woman. Gemma could only speculate what variety of adventures and hardship the Englishwoman had endured.
While Astrid surveyed the pitched-ceiling room, she continued to glance at Gemma with caution, as though Gemma were a variety of spider that leapt on and bit its unsuspecting prey. The source of Astrid’s circumspection could be any number of possibilities. What might it take to win her trust?
In any event, it seemed unlikely that Gemma and Astrid would spend the night exchanging whispered confidences and giggling beneath the blanket.
Gemma rifled through her little satchel, desperate to find a brush for her disobedient tangle of hair. She wasn’t especially vain, but knowing that she would be sharing supper with Catullus in a few minutes made her more attentive to her appearance. Maybe it was for the best that the room’s only mirror was both tiny and fogged with age. Leaping off moving trains tended to wreak havoc on one’s hair and clothes, and Gemma was sure she looked as though she’d not only jumped off a train, but landed in a sty and then rubbed handfuls of forest in her hair. Looking at herself in a mirror would only confirm her suspicions.
Astrid’s gasp sounded behind her.
Gemma ran to her side, supporting Astrid as she staggered. The Englishwoman wore an expression of both pain and acute concentration.
“Are you all right?” Gemma tried to usher Astrid to the bed, but found herself waved off.
Astrid regained her footing, and shook her head to clear her mind. She looked at Gemma, her eyes sharp and determined, and just a little frightened, which scared Gemma. Astrid Bramfield feared nothing, or so Gemma believed. Then the Englishwoman’s next words truly did alarm Gemma.
“It’s beginning.”
In the taproom, a supper of stew, bread, and cheese was laid out for the four of them, but none quite had the appetite, given Astrid’s revelation.
“You’re sure?” asked Catullus.
Astrid stared into her tankard of ale, her jaw tense. “Quite sure. The Primal Source is manifesting the Heirs’ dreams. Very soon they will be embodied.”
“When?” pressed Lesperance. He held Astrid’s free hand between his own, as though unable to be near her without touching.
“A matter of days, if not sooner.”
“How do you know this?” Gemma asked.
Astrid’s expression darkened even further. “The Primal Source and I are … linked. I can feel its energy, especially the closer I come to it. And I felt its energy gathering. Coalescing. Even without the Heirs’ direct manipulation, the Primal Source is materializing their desires. Now. And it has to be halted.”
Catullus frowned at the worn wooden tabletop, his fingers drumming against the surface. “Damn,” he growled. “There isn’t time to get to Southampton. We have to stop it on our own.” His look turned unreadable when he gazed up at Gemma, sitting beside him. “Which means, you will be coming with us.”
Directly into the path of danger, he did not say. But they both knew it.
The prospect gave her some alarm, yet she couldn’t quite stifle a thrum of excitement. But she couldn’t decipher whether her excitement was because she would witness the upcoming battle or because she was to remain with Catullus. The thought of staying behind in Southampton while he went off to risk his life had been gnawing at her, creating a pit within her, empty and restless.
“I want to come with you,” she said.
“Because you’re a reporter,” Astrid
clipped.
Gemma turned from Catullus to meet the Englishwoman’s unyielding gaze with her own. Words formed and tumbled from her, each one gleaming with a truth Gemma fully understood only at that moment. “Because I want to help.”
Astrid’s gaze tried to dismiss her. “What can you do? You’re not a Blade. You aren’t trained to fight. All you have is some parlor magic.”
“Which saved you on the train today,” Gemma noted.
Both Catullus and Lesperance watched this verbal sparring match with open interest.
“We could have kicked the door open.”
“Then the Heirs could have gotten into the mail coach, and you would have been cornered.”
The Englishwoman crossed her arms over her chest, unconvinced. “I still think you will be a liability.”
“I’ll prove that I’m not. I’ll fight, right beside you.”
“And write about everything after.”
“Maybe.” But she countered Astrid’s immediate scorn. “But whether I write about this battle or not is immaterial if the war is lost. As I see it “—she leaned forward, bracing her arms on the table—” you Blades are outgunned and outnumbered. You can’t afford to turn anyone away, not with so much at stake.”
She addressed everyone at the table, her voice vibrating with barely banked fury. “The more I think about what the Heirs are trying to accomplish, the angrier I get. Who asked them to patrol and superintend the world? Why should they impose their values on everyone? And to steal magic—to steal anything—in order to achieve this … I can’t pretend I’m a disinterested observer. I can’t sit idly by and do nothing. I have to help … however I can.”
For a moment, the only sound came from the fire in the hearth nearby. No one at the table spoke; no one moved. Gemma did not look at Astrid or Lesperance. Their opinion of her held no weight.
Richard never truly respected her—she’d realized that too late, after she failed to conform to his idea of who he thought she ought to be. That betrayal had hurt her, badly. Oh, she was used to the snide comments and dismissals in the newsroom. But Richard had been her lover, her confidant. She’d thought him unlike other men. His disappointment and dismissal cut her because she’d thought him different. She learned to prize her own opinion of herself.
She now discovered something, something faintly frightening: she wanted Catullus’s respect. Because he was a man worthy of esteem.
Catullus did not smile at her, nor beam his approbation. But his night-dark eyes flashed behind his spectacles as he tipped his head in a regal nod. Confident in himself, and her.
Within her, this approval, more than anything, burned brightly. She felt momentarily giddy, as if she’d been spinning around the room and came to a sudden stop.
Yet she grounded herself with his eyes, velvety and bright eyes that saw and understood not just scientific theory, but the very real practicalities of what it took to survive.
“Nicely argued, counselor,” Lesperance said, breaking the silence.
Even Astrid had to agree. “I hope you fight as well as you talk.”
Gemma asked calmly, “So, now that that’s settled, where are we going?”
“Wherever the Primal Source’s energy is gathering.” Catullus was all business now, which Gemma appreciated. This wasn’t about her, after all, but the ensuing battle. He turned to Astrid. “Can you feel where it is collecting?”
Astrid snarled, frustrated with herself. “Somewhere south of here, but I’m not certain where.”
Everyone moodily poked at their food. Gemma sifted and sorted through what she had learned about the Primal Source, knowing that a solution lay somewhere within grasp. “You said that the Primal Source is based on hopes and desires.”
Astrid nodded after taking a drink of ale. “Its power, like all magic, comes from wishes, dreams, and imagination—that which makes humanity different from other animals.”
“And we know that the Heirs’ dreams are for a global English empire,” said Lesperance.
“Because they believe England to be the apotheosis of human culture, the pinnacle of all that is good and right.” Catullus’s words, to his credit, held only a slight edge. “They wish England to be the world’s champion.”
“Champion.” Gemma mulled this over. “That word has a very old-fashioned feel to it, as if it belongs in some child’s book of fairy stories.”
Slowly, Catullus drew himself up, his spine straightening even more than his usual faultless posture. His gaze sharpened further to knifelike perception. Gemma was surprised that the inn wasn’t simply cleaved in two from the blade of his eyes.
“Not fairy stories,” he said. “Chivalric romance.”
“Chivalry, as in knights?” asked Gemma.
He turned to her, but his thoughts reached far beyond where she sat. “Exactly. Knights of the Round Table.”
Understanding jolted them all at once, like a current of electricity through water. “Could it truly be?” Astrid whispered.
“Yes—yes it is.” Catullus could no longer sit, energy and thought propelling him to his feet. The taproom’s few other occupants watched him pace, confused and disgruntled that there should be so much commotion to break their evening’s fireside drowse. The aged men helped each other to standing and then tottered out, muttering about strangers coming into town and making such a bustle.
No one paid the old men much attention. They would be back tomorrow, likely having forgotten this night’s tumult. For her part, Gemma was riveted by the sight of Catullus fully consumed by inspiration, his body in motion as if to keep pace with the speed of his mind.
“Consider it,” he said, hands clasped behind his back as he strode back and forth. “The glories of Camelot, when England emerged from darkness to serve as a model for governance and behavior for the world. Knights on quests, perpetuating and propagating the chivalric code—protecting the weak, spreading the faith and honor of their liege wherever they journeyed. A perfect kingdom ruled by one perfect leader, the best and most exemplary Briton, the ideal king.”
As one, Gemma, Lesperance, and Astrid rose from the table, each drawn upward by the same thought. “The king,” Astrid breathed.
Catullus stopped his pacing to stand before the fire, and it formed a fiery corona around his tall, powerful body, turning him into a creature of shadow and light. “King Arthur.”
“Was King Arthur real?” Gemma knew something of the legendary king, but the stories on which she’d been raised were Irish legends and Italian folktales. Kings were exactly what her family had fought against, in generations past. Who wanted a king when America offered at least the theory of equality?
“There’s speculation,” said Catullus. “Some think Arthur was a warlord of the Dark Ages who brought peace between tribes after Rome left England. Others think he was a Christian warrior king who stopped a Saxon invasion. None of this has ever been proven. But it isn’t relevant,” he continued, animated. “It’s not the real Arthur that matters.”
“Who, then?” Lesperance demanded.
“Arthur, as England wishes him to be. The Arthur of legend, of myth and imagination.” Catullus spread his palms, encompassing the realm of collective dreams. “He is the best Briton, the finest example of what England once was, and what it might one day be—a beacon of light to the rest of the world.”
“It makes sense,” Gemma mused, “that the Heirs’ shared desires could be embodied in such a figure. To them, Arthur must be the personification of everything they want.”
“I can well imagine the Heirs believe themselves to be knights,” growled Astrid, “setting off on quests for Sources, bringing the light of civilization to a savage world. And the Blades are the forces of chaos, undermining this noble ambition.”
Gemma shuddered at the depths of the delusion. Yet it seemed far too possible.
Catullus resumed his pacing, unable to keep still. “The legend of Arthur posits that he would rise again when England had need of him.”
“Returning from where?” asked Gemma.
“An enchanted sleep on the magical island of Avalon,” Astrid answered.
Lesperance slapped his palms on the table in front of him decisively. “Then Avalon is where we should go, if that’s where he’ll appear.”
Catullus’s mouth formed a wry smile. “There’s no such place.”
“But you said that it isn’t the reality that matters,” Gemma noted, “so much as the legend.”
“True, yet magic is tied to the physical world, the world of humanity. We can’t simply wish ourselves to imaginary Avalon. If the Primal Source summons him for the Heirs, it will be here, in England. It’s the where of it that confounds me.” He pressed his lips tightly together, angry with himself for lacking any knowledge. He pushed himself, Gemma realized, much harder than anyone else, allowing no room for uncertainty or doubt.
She might not have the answers, but she could help guide the ship toward its destination. Being a journalist meant exploring every realm of possibility to get as close to the truth as possible. As well as using a fair amount of luck.
So she ventured, “There must be a real, physical place in England that is associated with Avalon.”
Catullus stopped his pacing to glower out a window. His fists pressed into the stone wall surrounding the window as he leaned closer to the glass, searching for answers in the opaque night. It was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter from the force of his churning mind. He held his wide shoulders stiffly, as if they bore a heavy weight under which he would not bow.
Avoiding Astrid and Lesperance’s curious glances, Gemma edged around the table and came to stand beside Catullus. Gently, she lay her hand upon his forearm, felt the tense, firm muscles there beneath the exquisite fabric of his coat. Her touch served as reminder that he was not alone in this search.
He glanced over at her hand upon him, his expression gentling. Beneath this, she saw in his eyes a glimmer of something, something hungry and yearning.
No one ever touches him, she realized. He’s sealed off—by design or circumstance, or both. To everyone, he was a perpetual stranger.
