by C. A. Gray
Behind Merlyn, the curtain parted to admit a girl he had seen every night in his dreams for the last five years. She, too, looked the worse for wear, but although her chestnut curls were streaked with gray and her face bore the consequences of many nights of silent tears, her eyes were still as girlish and bright as they had been when they were both twelve years old, best friends and servants together in the house of Sir Ector, Arthur’s adopted father.
“Cecily!” Arthur cried, and stood up at once, a spark of life returning for the first time in longer than he could remember.
Merlyn stood too. “I take my leave of you now. Goodbye, my dear son,” he said, choking on the words. Arthur had eyes only for Cecily, though, and Merlyn ducked out of the tent into the night.
The scene changed suddenly, as if hours had passed. When the first orange rays of sunrise streaked through the eastern edge of the king’s tent, Cecily was gone. Arthur had known she must go, no matter how vehemently she had sworn in the night that she would never again leave his side. Merlyn would not allow her to stay. He would have known that she could not stand idly by and watch her husband face her son on the battlefield. She would have died trying to prevent it. He closed his eyes and imagined Cecily biting, kicking and scratching Merlyn as he forcibly carried her off, and he blessed his old friend for protecting her from this last and most awful fate.
Far in the distance, brightly colored pennons and pennoncells decked the perimeter of Salisbury Plain. The entire kingdom had turned out, it seemed, to herald the collapse of the great city of Camelot.
Mordred, of course, would not enter the field until the last of the fourteen regiments of his army. Arthur’s army consisted of only five regiments, and he would ride with the last. He had always considered this to be cowardly, and felt that the king should be the first into battle, but the Knights of the Round Table had insisted it was their duty to preserve the life of the king at all costs. “We are expendable,” they cried. “You are worth ten thousand of us!”
But today, Arthur knew, it would not matter.
He heard Merlyn’s voice echoing in his ears: “‘Nearest kin shall be locked in mortal combat. Both shall fall.’” Instinctively his hand fluttered to the hilt of Excalibur at his side: two burnished dragons in gold, the Pendragon crest in three dimensions, with the handle fitted perfectly to the shape of his hand.
This sword was with me the day I became the King of Britain, he thought, and it will be with me now, at the end.
The sun reflected off shields and swords, and armor flashed on the battlefield in a cacophony so overwhelming Arthur could scarcely tell whether they were winning or losing, though in his heart he knew the answer. He knew bodies littered the field; in his imagination, he could see eyes he had known in laughter staring blankly at the morning sky. A trickle of blood flowed down the hill where the fifth regiment waited and stained his boots with crimson that quickly dried to the color of rust.
He looked around at the knights in his regiment: a hundred and twenty seven of them, he counted. The hundred and twenty eighth, Sir Lancelot DuLac, was conspicuously absent. Had he been there, even outnumbered as they were, they might have stood a chance.
But now, it was time to die.
“Men,” he said, managing to find his voice, “it has been an honor to serve and to fight beside you. I am proud to have had the privilege to be your king.”
A knight named Girflet looked at him aghast. “Do not bid us farewell so prematurely!” he cried. “Long live the King!”
The rest of them, all hundred and twenty seven, echoed as one, “Long live the King!”
They mounted their horses and charged forward into the battle, crushing underfoot those of the previous four regiments who had fallen. King Arthur led the charge, but when he finally saw their opponents clearly, he pulled back on the reigns so hard that his horse reared up on its hind legs with a whinny of protest. The others did the same behind him, when they rounded the hill and saw what he had seen.
They were not men, these creatures that stood leering on the opposite side of the field. Screams of terror and shock filled the air. It was not hard to see why.
Some of the creatures were like men but twenty feet tall, clad in armor as thick as Arthur’s thighs.
There were creatures with skin like yellow paper and hair that hung in curtains, greenish-yellow venom dripping from their fangs. Some of them sat astride scaled, winged creatures that breathed fire, with talons the length of a man’s arm.
Some looked at first to be bare-chested men astride horses, but on second glance turned out to be the same creature, with the torso of a man and the lower body of a beast.
There were extremely lithe, red-eyed creatures that moved like cats, loading up their bows with four arrows at a time.
Winged animals like oversized bats made the army appear to seethe with life, as if it were one single, nightmarish organism.
At their center, astride one of the fire-breathing beasts covered with black scales, was Mordred. He was dressed in ordinary armor, but he removed his helmet so that the last thing his father would see as he died would be his taunting smile and ruthless black eyes.
“What are those things?” cried Girflet.
“The penumbra,” came Arthur’s strained reply.
Merlyn was right. Of course, Merlyn is always right.
He wondered if one of those creatures, perhaps the black dragon, was Guinevere.
“We will rid the earth of them!” shouted one of the knights behind, and the others echoed with a war cry. Then they surged forward en masse, and the penumbra met them on the field, some with clashes of metal, and others with teeth and talons and fangs. The cries of Arthur’s men as they fell were some of the most unearthly he had ever heard, but he could not spare a second to look. He forgot that he expected to die. He forgot that he was fighting against an army of other worldly creatures assembled by his own son. He forgot everything except the instinct of survival, kill or be killed, until the moment that his horse was struck, slashed through the heart, and he stumbled to his feet only to find himself face to face with Mordred, who was not Mordred.
“I know who you are,” said Arthur. With Excalibur in his hand, he pulled off his helmet, so that they could look in one another’s eyes.
Mordred’s contemptuous mouth curled into a mocking smile. “I doubt that.”
“You are not my son,” said Arthur. “You are wearing the body that once belonged to him, but he is already gone, and that is why I will not hesitate to kill you. But before I do, I want to know your name. Your real name.”
The face that was Mordred’s looked pleased with the request. “Gladly,” he said. “As a man, I was Sargon of Mesopotamia. I am now the Shadow Lord of the Penumbra. I have defeated you, Arthur Pendragon. Look into the eyes of your only child and heir – and die!”
With that, Sargon swung his sword once in the air for show – and that was his fatal mistake. In that split second, Arthur thrust Excalibur between the plates of his armor directly into his chest, even as Sargon’s blade lodged in Arthur’s abdomen.
Arthur fell to his knees, bending over the body of his son, who had collapsed flat on his back, gasping, and staring up at him. “You did not defeat me,” Arthur croaked, “because the sword I hold is Excalibur.”
Sargon wheezed as the blood trickled from his mouth. His obsidian eyes flashed with understanding and loathing as he recognized the hilt, the two entwined dragons with the glittering emerald eyes. “One day,” he choked, “I will find and destroy that sword. Then I will return, and there will be no one left to stop me!”
In spite of the hideous pain that racked his body, undulating in waves somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, Arthur began to laugh. Suddenly he understood, with absolute certainty, why Merlyn had returned with Cecily the night before, and why he had whisked her away in the morning while she was still asleep.
She was carrying the Child of the Prophecy.
“You are too late!” he said.
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Arthur only had enough breath left to whisper these last words, and he collapsed completely beside the body of his son. He turned his head so that he could see the darkness leave Mordred’s eyes. At last they were pale again, almost translucent the way they had been when he was a little boy, staring peacefully up at the late morning sky.
Then the world went dark.
Chapter 18
Peter blinked. A face hovered over him but it was not in focus. The lights in the room blurred, and he tried to make sense of where he was.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright and looked at Cole, who also sat up and stared at him in shock and wide-eyed wonder.
“We just died,” Peter said, to no one in particular.
“As King Arthur!” Cole finished in awe.
“You what?” Lily demanded. Hers was the face that Peter had seen hovering over him in concern. “Tell me everything!”
So they did. Peter and Cole took turns recounting their experiences inside Arthur’s mind. They not only saw what he saw, but also felt what he felt and thought what he thought.
“I knew I was still me and not him, but in a vague, shadowy sort of way,” said Cole. “I knew you were there with me too, Pete, but I wasn’t aware of it at the same time.”
“What did you find out about the prophecy?” Lily demanded impatiently.
“Merlyn told it to us,” said Peter, and he was about to recite it when Cole cut in.
“Yes, and he looks freakishly like Isdemus!”
“I noticed that,” Peter agreed. Then he recited the prophecy to Lily.
When he finished, she sat back thoughtfully. “‘For seven ages and eight, it shall pass out of all knowledge,’” she murmured. “‘The child shall come from the line of the King, born in the seventh seven less eleven, under the sign of the Taijitu.’ What do you think that last part means?”
“Well, I don’t know what it refers to, but the seven ages and eight explains why the Watchers knew which generation the Child of the Prophecy would come from,” said Peter.
“How long has it been since Arthur died?” Lily asked.
“Isdemus said about 1500 years,” said Peter, “give or take. The word ‘age’ isn’t all that specific.”
“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” said Lily. “Age can mean anything you want it to mean.”
“The simplest answer is usually the right one, though,” Peter said slowly. “That’s Occam’s Razor.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lily demanded in exasperation.
“Well, we should start with the most obvious interpretation of the word age, which would be a nice round number. I’m assuming that’s what the Watchers did.”
“What number, though?” said Cole.
“It’d be a multiple of ten,” said Peter. “A decade isn’t long enough to be considered an age when we’re talking about history, so a century, I’d think, right? Seven ages and eight would then mean… 1500 years.” He swallowed.
“That would be this generation!” said Lily.
“Or within a few generations of this century,” Peter added, somewhat hopefully. “It could be our generation, or our parents’, or our kids’.”
“So the next question is, who was the last known person in the line of the firstborn?” said Lily.
“Don’t we already know it’s Pete, though?” Cole asked.
“It can’t be me,” Peter insisted firmly. “If it was me, then there would be no question that I’m the One. Obviously there is a question, or the whole issue of Kane wouldn’t exist. Not to mention whoever this third person is.”
“Didn’t Eustace even say there could be others?” Cole reminded them.
“So you think somehow the Watchers lost track of the line?” Lily asked.
“That has to be the case, doesn’t it?” Peter murmured rhetorically. He was on his feet, scanning the titles of the books at eye level. He felt his mind spinning, urging him to move faster, to think faster. “Kane said the fairy tales were over there, and historical accounts were this entire section,” he recounted out loud. “So where would I find an account of the history of the Watchers themselves?”
Behind him, the others split up and began to search the shelves nearest them as well. A few minutes later, Cole’s voice called, “Here!” He had disappeared around a bend in the narrow library, but Lily and Peter ran the few paces towards the sound of his voice.
Cole perched on a ladder with one foot, holding on to the rungs with one arm while he reached precariously with the other to dislodge a book that looked almost as heavy as he was.
“Careful!” Lily cried anxiously, just as Peter shouted, “Cole, get down! I’ll get it!” Given Cole’s abysmal depth perception, he thought, this could not end well.
“No, no, I’ve almost got it –”
Crash. The book toppled to the ground, and although the fall was only about six feet, several of the age-worn pages dislodged and fluttered around it.
“Sorry!” Cole wailed, “I’m so sorry…”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not exactly concerned about the Watchers’ property at the moment,” said Peter. “Anyway, better it than you.”
“It’s a family tree!” Lily exclaimed. “Cole, you’re amazing!”
He grinned bashfully as he stepped off the ladder and brushed off the layer of dust dislodged by the book.
“Problem is, how to put it back in chronological order,” Peter murmured and frowned at the now-loose pages.
“Look, Peter,” said Lily, ignoring the pages in Peter’s fist and pointing at the ones still bound at the back of the book. “Unless those fit here, the last known member of the line was named Albert Smith. Who has a surname like Smith?”
“A quarter of the planet, actually,” said Cole, joining on Peter’s other side.
“Exactly,” said Lily. “I wonder if it was made up to keep him hidden, like John Doe or something.”
“Look!” Peter said suddenly. “The dates when he was born… that was sixty-five years ago. What about the ones you’ve got, Lily?”
She looked through them quickly and shook her head. “These are all centuries old.”
“Then the last known member of the line, or at least the last one they recorded here, is not even the father, but the grandfather to the person we’re looking for!” Peter exclaimed in frustration, and stood up to pace the room. They were no closer to rescuing his dad now than when they started.
“You don’t recognize the name, then. That’s something, right?” said Lily. “That means that Albert Smith can’t be your grandfather?”
“I have no idea,” Peter shook his head. “My dad never mentioned his parents or my mum’s at all, and I never asked. It was hard enough getting him to tell me anything about my mum.”
“Well, is there a way to find out if he’s Kane’s grandfather?” said Cole hopefully.
“No.” Peter sighed, and suddenly felt hopeless. “Isdemus said he found Kane in an orphanage.”
“Wait a minute, what’s this?” said Lily, picking up another sheet that she had filed away with those that were centuries old. “These dates are modern too! Why... they’re the same dates...” She frowned, and looked up at them. “I don’t understand. This is a completely different tree.”
Peter peered over her shoulder and frowned. “I wonder if they lost track of the firstborn at some point and started following two lines?”
“Or three?” said Cole. “To account for the third possible candidate?”
“Who’s the last one on that line?” said Peter.
“Catherine Thompson,” said Lily, and frowned. “Huh, that’s odd.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” said Peter. “Does that name mean something to you?”
“Yeah, it’s my grandmother’s name.”
Cole and Peter both looked at her sharply, and Cole’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”
Lily waved her hand flippantly. “It’s a common surname, though, I’m sure it’s nothing.”
&nb
sp; “So that means this Child of the Prophecy isn’t necessarily a boy, though,” said Cole. “They’re not just following the oldest son; they’re following the oldest child!”
“Is she still alive?” said Peter. “What’s the date?”
“Looks like this was twenty years ago, but it says here she’s dead. She must be the grandmother of this other person we’re looking for, too. There’s a line here that shows she had a child, but it doesn’t have the name.”
“‘This other person?’” Peter quoted, and balked at her. “Lily! You were in that car too, you know. For all we know, it could be you!”
“It’s not me,” she said flatly.
“Why not?” Peter demanded.
“Because it’s you!” she retorted. Then she stood up and put hands on her hips as if she were lecturing a small child. “You’re the one who can collapse the wave function or whatever it is you said you did. I can’t do that –”
“But I told you that might’ve just been my life flashing before my eyes, and you were muttering something in that car too! Lily, hear me out, this makes sense! Which one of us has been a Seer all her life? Of the two of us, it’s way more likely to be you! Besides, you’re the one who wants to stay here anyway, and you said you know how to fight –”
“Peter –”
“– so why don’t you just go ahead and save the world, and I can get my dad back and get on with my life –”
“I DON’T WANT TO BE THE CHILD OF THE PROPHECY, ALL RIGHT?” Lily shouted.
He blinked at her for a moment before he retorted, “WELL NOW YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL!”
“GUYS!” Cole shouted, pushing them away from each other with a look of terror on his face. Both of them were red in the face and breathing hard. “There’s still another clue!” he said hopefully, and quoted from memory, “‘Born in the seventh seven less eleven, under the sign of the Taijitu.’ Maybe that will tell us which one of you it is…”
