Ruins of Camelot

by G. Norman Lippert

  "There," Goodrik announced, pocketing his wand. "That should provide us some much welcome atmosphere. Tea?"

  "Why," Gabriella replied, impressed almost speechless, "yes. I think."

  "It is merely transfigured river water," Helena commented as she sat down. "Just as these chairs are bits of driftwood. Nonetheless, they will both comfort and warm us whilst we discuss. Do sit. There is nothing to be afraid of."

  "I am not afraid," Gabriella said, smiling as she drifted onto her chair. "I am just… I have never been in the presence of…"

  "You can say it, my dear," Goodrik interjected, leaning to hand her a cup and saucer. "We are witch and wizard. I am glad we need not explain ourselves."

  Gabriella took the tea and examined it. The cup and saucer were bone china, smooth and delicate as seashells. She raised the cup to her face, felt the steam on her cheeks, and smelled the fragrant richness. It was black tea, piping hot. "Who are you?" she asked, not yet daring to sip. "Why are you here?"

  "We are administrators at a certain society for our arts," Helena answered carefully. "There once were four of us, but now there are only three. That, in short, is why we are here in the Barrens."

  "We are seeking someone," Goodrik added, sensing Gabriella's curiosity. "A member of our society who has… gone missing. The fourth of our council has remained behind to manage our affairs. We were about to abandon our search when Featherbolt became interested in you and drew us here to find you."

  "I see," Gabriella nodded, frowning. "You are just as secretive as Professor Toph said you would be."

  Goodrik smiled a bit stiffly at this, but Helena laughed. "Our notoriety knows no ends, it seems. Even after these many years of secrecy."

  "Just because the magical folk have hidden their kingdoms away," Gabriella said, turning to Helena, "does not mean that we have been allowed to forget about you. Some of your people still move amongst us, peddling their enchantments. I have used some of their wares myself."

  Goodrik raised his eyebrows. "Have you? Perhaps this is what drew Featherbolt's attention."

  Gabriella shook her head. "I did not bring any magic with me on my journey. I have touched neither powder nor potion since the academy."

  "Then what," Helena asked evenly, "do you think it was that drew our falcon friend to assist you, and so ardently that we were forced to follow him here in pursuit of you?"

  Gabriella shrugged, settling her cup back onto its saucer. "I could not guess," she answered, and then stopped thoughtfully. "Unless it was this." She reached beneath the clasp of her cloak and produced the falcon sigil on its length of chain.

  The witch and wizard peered at it. Goodrik's face grew slowly tense. He looked meaningfully aside at Helena.

  "What, pray tell," the taller woman asked, not taking her eyes from the falcon sigil, "is your name, daughter?"

  Gabriella suddenly felt very wary. She considered lying, but no suitable falsehood came to her mind. "Gabriella Xavier," she answered guardedly.

  "Gabriella," Goodrik repeated, nodding enigmatically. "Well then, perhaps you might tell us what it is you are doing here, my dear, so very far from your home?"

  Again, for reasons she did not quite understand, she considered lying to the witch and wizard. Perhaps they were not as pleasant as they seemed. As before, however, she could think of nothing to say other than the truth. Gabriella was not much in the habit of deception.

  "I am on a mission to confront a murderer and a madman," she finally said in a low voice. "To protect my loved ones who are yet alive, and to avenge my loved ones who are no more."

  Helena nodded very slowly, considering. "And this murderer and madman," she clarified, "are they two distinct people or one and the same?"

  "Do not mock me," Gabriella replied, raising her voice slightly in the echoing cavern. "It is a man called Merodach that I am after. My mission is to seek him… and to kill him."

  Goodrik settled his teacup back onto the silver tray. "You must pardon us, Gabriella," he said carefully, "we do not keep up with the affairs of the kingdoms of men as closely as we used to. Please, if you would be so kind… tell us your story."

  And Gabriella did. As briefly as she could, she told them of the history of Merodach, of his brutal tactics and his murderous rampages. She told them about Darrick and Rhyss, and the slaughter of her father's army at the hand of Merodach's forces. Goodrik and Helena did not raise an eyebrow at the idea that Gabriella was the daughter of the King of Camelot, nor did they flinch at the atrocities of Merodach or the possibility that he might, if unchecked, destroy all those that she loved and assume control of the Kingdom. More than once, however, their eyes left hers and drifted towards the falcon sigil at her throat. This worried Gabriella far more than she allowed herself to let on.

  "Thus," she concluded, "I must attempt to stop him. For my baby and for Camelot."

  Helena tilted her head slightly. "But you warned your lady-in-waiting to escape with your son," she commented smoothly. "He will be safe in any event, yes?"

  "I did warn Sigrid," Gabriella sighed. "But she did not believe me. She attempted to alert the guards of my leaving. I was nearly caught. I fear that, in the end, she may have rejected my orders and accompanied the caravan to Herrengard."

  Goodrik seemed to consider this very seriously. Then he shook his head. "I do hope you are wrong about that," he said. "If you had her trust, then she would have obeyed you even if she did not believe your tale. You must assume that this is the case. Still, perhaps you are better served by returning to them and spiriting the child away yourself."

  Gabriella sighed again, deeply. "Perhaps," she agreed. "But it is too late now. I have warred with myself at nearly every step. I must go on now. It is the only hope."

  "If you will pardon me, Princess," Helena said, bowing her head slightly, "this seems rather a hopeless endeavour. This man, you say, wiped out the better of your kingdom's army, and you mean to take him alone?"

  Gabriella's face hardened. She refused to look at the witch or the wizard. "I do not care to hear your discouragements. I had my fill of such talk in my father's own council. Sometimes, it only takes one person to stand up. Sometimes… that is enough to turn the tide."

  "In stories perhaps," Helena said, shaking her head. "But Princess, surely, you must know that a beast of such hate will only—" She stopped as Goodrik raised a hand, commanding her gaze. His face was stern.

  "Gabriella," he said, and the gravity of his tone made her look at him. "I respect your courage. Truth be known, I am heartened by it. If there were a hundred of you—nay, a dozen of you—I would see you forth with my blessing and a hearty war cry. But Helena is right. On your own, one young woman against a rogue army, such courage is not valorous. It is foolhardy." It seemed to pain him to say it, but his eyes did not flinch from hers.

  Softly, Helena added, "There may be another way, Princess. If God wills your kingdom to be saved, then—"

  "Do not," Gabriella interrupted, her voice low and fierce, "speak to me of God."

  There was an awkward, ringing silence. The river babbled quietly nearby. The magical fire burnt brightly, sending up drifts of sparks, making almost no noise. Finally, Helena spoke again, softly.

  "Do you happen to know," she asked, seeming to change the topic, "where your sigil came from, Princess?"

  Reflexively, Gabriella reached up and wrapped her hand around the falcon sigil. As always, it was warm. She swallowed and said, "It was a wedding gift. From my father."

  Helena tightened her lips. "It is more than that, and I daresay you are well-aware of it."

  "Tell me what you know about it," Gabriella asked, almost whispering.

  There was a long pause. Goodrik looked at Helena, his face inscrutable.

  "It belonged to one of our council," he said carefully. "I sensed the memory of his touch on it the moment you showed it to us, even though it has been altered from its original shape and quite wisely broken. The glitter of that green stone is unmistakable."
/>   Gabriella felt as if the world was sinking away beneath her slowly, dizzyingly. "Who was he?" she implored.

  "Ironically," Helena answered, "he is the very one that we traveled to the Barrens in search of."

  Goodrik went on. "He was with us on a certain night over a decade ago when we visited a small, snowbound cottage. We had been summoned there to protect a certain little girl—you, I must assume—from a dangerously misguided creature. A werewolf in fact."

  "By—" Gabriella began, but her voice failed her. She sipped a gulp of her tea, swallowed audibly, and tried again. "By whom? Who could have known to send you? What happened that night?"

  Helena was already shaking her head. "A certain sorcerer, Merlinus Ambrosius, came to us with a premonition of your demise. He had learned of it by his arts, and divined by the same means that such a thing could not be allowed to happen. With his help, we searched for your lakefront cottage and discovered the werewolf there, lying in wait for your return, for you had apparently gone in search of sustenance. The monster had already subdued your grandmother, and being, in its human form, a man of a certain dramatic bent, had donned the old woman’s clothing in an attempt to fool you. One of our council managed to rescue your grandmother, dispatch the werewolf, and chase it into the nearby wood.”

  Gabriella’s mind was spinning. “Merlinus?” she repeated faintly. “But surely you do not mean... but he is long dead! Unless...” Her eyes widened. “Unless time means less to those such as he...?”

  “We cannot reveal more, my dear,” Helena smiled tightly. “Not just because they are secrets, which they are, but because each answer would only lead to more questions. The days of magical and non-magical coexistence are regrettably over. We cannot tell you any more without risking the secrecy of our world."

  "We have only revealed to you what we have," Goodrik added sombrely, leaning forwards in his chair, "because the sigil that you wear about your neck is infused with some very deep magic. Surely, this is indeed what drew the attention of Featherbolt, and I would wager that it was not the first time the emblem exerted such influence over the lesser beasts. Its magic is untethered and directionless, but it has apparently adhered itself to you and taken on a reflection of your being, your motives."

  Gabriella's eyes widened as she remembered the pile of berries left mysteriously for her by some midnight visitor. And before that, there had been the dream of the forest beasts all passing her, as if circling her in the darkness, watching over her. And even before that, the spider in the halls of the castle, which had alit directly on the sigil at her throat.

  "Yes," she said softly. "Toph always said that… I had an affinity for magic. Does this mean that I am a… a…?"

  "No, my daughter," Helena shook her head, smiling slightly. "You are not a witch. Although I daresay that there might be a touch of magic in your blood, buried deep. Perhaps, someday, your line might manifest it fully, but not yet. And not, I am afraid, in you. You are, in all your gloriously stubborn nobility, fully human."

  Gabriella deflated slightly, her hand still wrapped protectively around the falcon sigil.

  "And yet," Goodrik commented, "you do have magic at your disposal. You cannot control it, and its influence may be exceedingly capricious, but for now, it reflects you, just as the moon reflects the sun. Whilst you wear it—you and whoever bears the emblem's other half—its magic may choose to assist you. Or it may not. You must be careful and vigilant, Gabriella of Camelot: such magic can be a blessing, but it can also be a curse."

  Gabriella absorbed this sombrely. Finally, she let go of the sigil and tucked it back beneath her cloak.

  "I must be off," she announced, looking from Helena to Goodrik. "But perhaps you may assist me if you would be so willing."

  Helena merely pressed her lips together, apparently reluctant to assist the young woman on what she believed to be a doomed errand. Goodrik, however, studied Gabriella's face.

  "What might you require that we could provide?" he asked.

  Gabriella set her teacup on the ground next to her and gave the witch and wizard the full weight of her attention. "It is said that your people moved through these caverns as if they were highways. The legends say that one could pass right beneath the Cragrack Cliffs and come up on the other side. If this is true, show me the way."

  "How will you find him?" Helena asked suddenly, apparently ignoring Gabriella's request.

  Gabriella looked at her. "Merodach?" she replied. "I… I do not yet know."

  "So hell-bent on seeking him are you," the tall woman said, almost reproachfully, "and you have no plan even to find him?"

  "I have a plan," Gabriella answered defensively. "I am just managing one thing at a time. I will veer west to meet him as he skirts the Barrens. He and his army cannot have gotten far."

  "Helena," Goodrik began, but she turned towards him and glared at him.

  "If the young lady is intent," she said firmly, "then let her know exactly what she is getting herself into."

  Goodrik narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"

  "Let her visit Coalroot. He will tell her everything she needs to know."

  Goodrik shook his head. "That is unnecessary and dangerous—"

  "More dangerous than confronting a madman and his army?" Helena insisted archly. "The rule is simple. If she follows it, then she has nothing to fear."

  Impatiently, Gabriella asked, "Who is Coalroot? Why should I seek him?"

  "Not a he," Helena corrected, "an it. Coalroot is very, very old, and as such, it knows a great deal. Very little escapes its notice. If this Merodach is camped anywhere within reach of the Tempest Barrens, Coalroot will know exactly where. It will tell you everything that you need to know."

  "Helena," Goodrik said in a low voice, "this is a mistake. Let the girl go as she wishes. We can tell her how to find her way beneath the cliffs."

  Helena looked at him and sighed. "If this is indeed her destiny, Goodrik," she insisted sombrely, "then let her walk into it with her eyes wide open."

  Goodrik considered this for a long moment. Then he turned to Gabriella. "It is your choice, Princess. Shall you pass directly beneath the Cliffs at our direction, or shall you go to meet Coalroot and seek its counsel?"

  Gabriella looked back and forth between the witch and wizard. She could tell that something complicated was happening between them, but she could not quite understand what it was. Finally, she stood up and nodded resolutely.

  "Let me go to this Coalroot," she said stoutly. "If its counsel will lead me to the villain, then I must seek it."

  Goodrik nodded slowly, resignedly. "Then we will prepare you for your journey. You may embark as soon as you desire."

  Gabriella looked aside at Helena, but the woman was still seated, not seeming to pay attention. She had retrieved Gabriella's empty teacup from the floor and was peering into it, studying the dreg of tea leaves scattered on its bottom.

  "Yes," the woman answered slowly. "Go to Coalroot. Speak to it. But if you are pursuing this mission in the hopes of saving your child, you may wish to reconsider."

  Gabriella frowned worriedly. "Why do you say such a thing?"

  "Because," Helena said, looking up from the teacup and smiling tightly, "your son is not at Herrengard. Neither is the woman Sigrid. It would seem that they heeded your advice after all."

  It was on the tip of Gabriella's tongue to ask how the witch could know such a thing, but the answer was obvious. She had divined it simply by peering into the strew of leaves at the bottom of Gabriella's cup.

  Helplessly, gratefully, Gabriella smiled. She drew a great, shuddering sigh.

  How very nice it must be, she thought in the midst of her relief, to be a witch.

  Chapter 8

  It had been a short visit, and not entirely pleasant, and yet Gabriella felt far lonelier setting off on her own again after her encounter with the strange witch and wizard. Even over the short course of her journey, such mundane comforts as a chair, hot tea, and friendly voi
ces had become seemingly distant memories. Experiencing them in the unexpected dimness of the cavern had only succeeded in making her feel acutely homesick.

  This was only worsened by the knowledge that, for now at least, there was no home to return to. Her castle would now be virtually empty, as would be the streets and cottages around it. Perhaps they would soon fill again, and life would go on as always, but Gabriella did not expect this. In the deepest, unspoken part of her heart, she feared that things had changed irrevocably and forever.

  She walked on, her footsteps now making the only noise in the cavernous dark.

  Goodrik and Helena had given her a few things to assist her on her journey. The first one had been the fire that Goodrik had conjured. Goblinfire, he called it, attaching it to a club of driftwood to form a torch. The flame, he explained, would burn magically, consuming nothing so long as she did not wet it. Even magical fire, it seemed, could not withstand a dousing. The torch was exceedingly light in her hand as she walked on, casting its flickering brilliance in a pool around her. The only odd thing about the goblinfire, she noticed, was that its flames moved rather slower than normal fire, like something glimpsed in a dream. Its sparks drifted up and skirled away ahead of her. She followed them.

  "The sparks will lead you to Coalroot," Helena had explained. "After all, every fire seeks its own. Follow the sparks, and you will find what you are looking for."

  A flutter of wings buffeted Gabriella as she walked. Featherbolt soared ahead of her, arcing from side to side in the still air. He had chosen to come with her, apparently of his own free will. The goblinfire and Featherbolt, however, were not the only things that Gabriella had gained from her meeting with the magical folk.

  "Take this," Goodrik had said as she'd turned to leave. When she had looked back, he had been holding a thin shaft of wood. It was a wand, though not his own.