But Meridian didn’t answer. He turned his back on Madoc and gave a grim smile and a brief nod to the companions. Then, without another word, he ran from the room and disappeared.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Sword of Aeneas
Madoc simply stood there, looking at John, Jack, and Chaz with a stricken expression.
“I know you,” he said in wonderment. “We have met before.”
“Yes,” John said, feeling a strong twinge of compassion that he had to fight to keep down. “And for what it’s worth … we’re … I—I’m sorry, Madoc.”
Jack’s mouth dropped open, and Chaz just looked at the others as if they were all insane. But Madoc stared back at John with that same plaintive expression. He really didn’t understand what had happened.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because of who you will become,” Jack said bluntly. “You needed to be Bound.”
“That’s not what I was asking,” Madoc replied, looking over his shoulder. “Why did Meridian do that? Why did he use Old Magic on me?”
“To protect the Grail,” Jack said, “and the rest of the world.”
Madoc’s demeanor was so confusing to them that Jack, and even Chaz, were beginning to soften.
“Protect the Grail?” Madoc said, clearly perplexed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Before they could press the matter further, a group of librarians, armed with swords and daggers, swarmed down one of the stairways. There were obviously other entrances than the one the companions had come through.
The foremost of them scanned the room, barely noticing the companions, then fixed his glare on Madoc. “The Grail is taken!” he shouted. “Hold them! Hold them all!”
With no warning, a flame exploded in the center of the room, dividing it neatly between the companions and Madoc on one side, and the librarians on the other.
Madoc took one step, then spun about as if he were on a tether. The Binding was good, and he’d be compelled to do as he was commanded. He bent and scooped up the spear, then ran from the room. As he went, his eyes locked with John’s, and the Caretaker was stunned to see there was no anger in his expression—only hurt and sorrow.
The fire had caught several floor coverings alight and was threatening the pillars as well.
“This way!” Jack shouted to the others. He led them up another stairway and out of the Grail chamber. The passageway curved around and brought them back to the entrance, where Archimedes was already sounding an alarm.
Jack didn’t even pause as he exited, but rounded the corner at full speed and headed back to the main chambers of the library.
“That was lucky for us,” John panted as they ran. “Talk about an opportune moment for spontaneous combustion!”
“It weren’t luck,” Chaz said, opening his jacket to reveal a small cache of cylinders. “I brought my flash-bangs with me in case they were needed, and it seems they were!”
John stopped, aghast, as did Jack still ahead of them.
“You did that on purpose?” Jack said, sputtering in anger and confusion. “Why, Chaz?”
“A distraction,” Chaz said, completely baffled as to why they weren’t delighted that he’d sidetracked their pursuers. “I thought you’d be happy!”
“Happy!” exclaimed Jack. “You fool—you’ve just set fire to the Library of Alexandria!”
Chaz scowled, still uncertain why escaping with their lives was a bad thing. John swore silently, and they all started to run again.
“Never mind,” John said to Chaz. “We did what we needed to. That’s what matters most.”
“You know,” Jack remarked, considering, “Charles is going to be mortified.”
Chaz reared back. “Charles? Why would he be mortified? This is my fault.”
“I know,” Jack replied. “But all he’s going to care about is that he seems to keep setting fire to places, whichever timeline he’s in.”
As they turned a corner in the main corridor, the companions passed Ptolemy, who was dashing in the other direction. He paused slightly, looking at them through narrowed eyes, as if he suspected that they’d been the instigators of the inferno, but then he turned away and kept running. John, to his great relief, had noted that the geographer had been carrying both Geographicas—his own as well as Meridian’s.
Another one of the librarians, who had been first in the Grail chamber, stopped the king.
“It’s too late!” he exclaimed, mouth agape with fear and astonishment. “The Sangreal is lost!”
“What are you talking about, Pelles?” Ptolemy answered. “Lost how?”
“A great winged beast!” Pelles cried. “It took the Sangreal into the air and away from the library!”
“No time for stories,” Ptolemy said, “just because you’ve failed in your duties! Send word to the son of Arimathea, and take what you can to Glastonbury.
“The library,” the geographer went on, “is finished.”
Reaching one of the main repositories, the two Caretakers and the hapless former thief grabbed some large wicker baskets in both hands and began to shovel scrolls of parchment into them.
“Hurry!” Jack implored the others. “We have to save as many as we can!”
“It’s going up too quickly,” John said, scanning the rafters of the room, which were already pouring with smoke. “We can’t do enough. The Histories said that the most essential works were saved. We’ll just have to trust that they will be.”
Reluctantly the others agreed. They dropped the baskets and headed for the portal.
All the librarians and various scholars were running in every direction, mostly away from the flames. As the companions passed the doorway to the Grail chamber, they noticed that Archimedes was no longer at his post.
“Smart old owl,” Chaz remarked drolly as they turned the corner and headed for the projection.
Chaz passed through first, with Jack close on his heels. John paused at the wall and turned to look at the Grail on the door, now cracked.
Meridian was gone, to who knew where. Madoc was Bound, and banished. It had not even occurred to John that banishment could be done. If he was truly exiled to the ends of the Earth, then perhaps that was enough. Perhaps.
He tried not to think about the fact that at the moment Meridian had spoken the Binding, he had considered just killing Madoc. And he tried not to think about how relieved he’d felt when, with the banishment, he realized he might not have to.
And all it had taken was convincing the brother they trusted that he had to betray the one they didn’t.
He hoped they had done enough.
John closed his eyes to the flames as they enveloped the image of the Grail, and he turned and stepped through the portal.
After receiving much more attention than he was comfortable getting, Hugo decided to camouflage himself as best as he could by donning Hank Morgan’s helmet and gauntlets. After five minutes of wearing the incredibly heavy, stiflingly hot, and impossibly ill-fitting pieces of armor, he took them off and was immediately accosted by a small band of lithe, well-armed men. Or at least, he assumed they were men—they cursed like men and were dressed like others he’d seen on the field. But when he looked closely, he noticed that their ears were pointed, and they had only four fingers. And while they knocked him about, more for sport than anything else, he thought he heard them refer to each other as “elves.”
He quickly replaced the helmet and gauntlets, and the elves, laughing, moved on. Hugo sighed heavily and looked around for Hank, who had at least seemed to be genial, if not a friend. Even Pellinor would be a welcome sight.
Still, Hugo had time to think. Hank had mentioned having been sent here by a Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica … Samuel Clemens. It took a moment for Hugo to remember why that name was familiar, and then he recalled it. The American writer. The one who wrote of riverboats, and slavery, and Adam and Eve … That fellow had been a Caretaker, as John and Jack claimed to be?
But was
n’t Clemens also dead?
“Sam says hello,” Hank said as he dropped down to sit next to Hugo. “Aren’t those hot?” he asked, indicating the helmet and gauntlets.
“Terribly so, yes,” Hugo replied, removing the armor. “But it seems unless I look a bit more the part of the knight-at-arms, I’m a target for mischief and harassment.”
“The elves, I’ll bet,” Hank guessed, looking over the helmet. “There’s a compact not to engage in any fighting until the actual start of the tournament, but that only applies to the champions here to compete—mostly knights and would-be kings. The elves are notorious for skirting the rules. They think they’re better than everyone else, mostly because they live impossibly long lives. I think they’re a bunch of pansies, myself.”
“But you said you weren’t here to compete,” said Hugo. “So why did you come dressed as a knight?”
“Simple,” Hank answered as he put on the helmet. “So I wouldn’t be kicked around by a bunch of pansy elves.”
* * *
Hank led Hugo around the outskirts of the field to a small campsite, where they could talk undisturbed. Like all the other arrivals to the tournament, Hank had erected a banner in front. It was a long, tapering pennant with a blue and red circular design in the center and the words GO CUBS! on both sides.
“Interesting,” said Hugo. “What does it mean?”
“It was a gift from Sam,” Hank explained as they entered the tent. “He said it used to represent Triumph over Adversity, but now better represents Impossible Quests and Lost Causes.”
“I think I preferred not knowing that,” said Hugo.
Hank grinned. “You’re a Sox fan too, hey?”
In the relative privacy of Hank’s camp, they were able to talk more freely, so Hugo related everything that had happened since the walk at Magdalen, and also about the dinner, and the mysterious Grail book. And he asked a torrent of questions along the way.
“I don’t know that much about it myself,” Hank said in response to Hugo’s inquiry about the Imaginarium Geographica. “I know a little, thanks to Sam. But there’s a fellow here who might be helpful. All the maps in here are his, as a matter of fact.” He swept his arm across the interior of the tent.
Hugo had at first assumed that the stacks were fabric of some kind, or bundles of supplies for the tournament. But looking at them more closely, he could see that they were dozens of carefully drawn maps.
“I daresay he might be able to help, at that,” said Hugo. “Did he make these all himself?”
“I haven’t asked,” Hank replied. “Didn’t feel it was my business. But they are the first thing unpacked at every stop, and he handles them as if they’re gold. After what you’ve explained to me, I half wonder if they aren’t part of the reason I was sent here to watch him.”
“Is he a knight or a king?” asked Hugo.
“Both and neither,” Hank said, “but you know of him by reputation alone, if nothing else.”
“That is either a charitable description of me, Sir Henry,” a stolid, commanding voice said, “or a condemnation. And today I cannot say which I deserve more.” A gloved hand parted the opening of the tent, flooding it with light, and a man, shorter than Hank but stouter than Hugo, stepped inside.
“Hugo Dyson,” Hank said, rising and bowing deferentially to the new arrival, “I’d like you to meet Merlin, Lord of Albion.”
Merlin was dressed formally but practically. His breeches and tunic were elegantly made, but of leather, studded throughout with iron. Not clothes for court, but for combat. He wore a headband, and his hair draped to his shoulders, flowing over the top of a cape that was fastened at his shoulders.
It occurred to Hugo that Merlin’s eyes showed a flash of recognition when he entered, but on reflection, that was probably more of a reaction to Hugo’s strange clothes.
“So,” Merlin said. “You know who I am?”
“I know what I’ve read of you, ah, sir,” Hugo stammered. “You’re a very great man.”
Merlin didn’t react to the compliment, except to frown and raise an eyebrow.
“What I mean is that you are a legend,” Hugo said quickly. “Everyone knows you.”
“Really,” Merlin replied, still unsure what Hugo was complimenting him for. “Would you say I’m a myth, then?”
It was Hugo’s turn to look confused. “I might have yesterday,” he said, “but I hadn’t met you then.”
Merlin burst into laughter. “Well met, then, Hugo Dyson,” he said, handing a parcel to Hank. “You should find the rest of the day’s events very enlightening.”
With that, he turned and left the tent.
“Drat,” said Hugo. “I should have asked for his autograph.” He looked at the tent opening, then back at Hank. “Does he know about … ?” He pointed delicately.
“About me?” Hank exclaimed. “Where and when I’m really from? I doubt it. I made up a story when I first got here, which I’m pretty certain he saw right through. But I’ve been helpful to him, and loyal. So he doesn’t press the matter.”
“And you’re here at the behest of Sam Clemens?”
“His and that of his former apprentice, a Frenchman called Verne. Do you know him?”
Hugo shook his head. “Not personally.”
“Well,” Hank continued, “he’s the one who worked out a lot of the underlying principles behind time travel and zero points.”
“Uh, zero points?” asked Hugo.
“The points in history that allow travel, or at least communication, in the case of the lesser points. There was a good one about fourteen years before your prime time that I was able to use to send a message to Verne. I don’t know what it was that happened then, but it must have seemed like the end of the world.”
“One or the other,” Hugo said, “from what I’ve been told. So,” he continued earnestly, “this message you sent. Will it allow Verne to fix whatever it is that happened to me at Addison’s Walk?”
Hank shrugged. “I don’t know. When you showed up, I thought I’d better let someone know. Mistakes like that usually aren’t mistakes at all.”
“You think someone deliberately arranged for me to come here?” asked Hugo.
“I do, and what’s more,” Hank said, checking the silver watch, “so does Sam. You’re to stay here, at least for now.”
Hugo was aghast. “But why? Isn’t there some sort of … I don’t know, time machine they can use to whisk me back to Magdalen?”
Hank gave a wry chuckle and scratched his neck. “It doesn’t quite work that way. I’m still a novice, a foot soldier, if you will. But even I know you aren’t supposed to mess around with time by traipsing to and fro.”
“But you’re here,” Hugo protested. “Isn’t that meddling?”
“No,” said Hank. “I’m here in part because one of the Caretakers’ Histories said I was. So I was meant to be here. You weren’t.”
“But don’t you see,” Hugo declared, having suddenly realized something. “I was. I was meant to be here. Or else how do we explain the Grail book that I supposedly wrote in?”
Hank stared back at him, puzzled. “That is a good question,” he said, removing the silver watch again. “I’d better—”
Before he could finish speaking, the watch emitted a high-pitched squeal and began to spark, then smoke. Hank shook it, then held it to his ear. It had stopped ticking.
“That looks bad,” said Hugo.
Hank bit his lip, thinking, then replaced the watch in the secret pocket. “Come on,” he said, standing. “Let’s see where this goes. It’s high noon—the tournament is about to begin, and Merlin will be looking for me.”
Hank loaned Hugo a cloak and spare helmet, which they hoped would lend just enough camouflage to the professor’s appearance that he could move about more freely. It worked for the most part—although the elves kept pointing at him to get his attention, then making rude gestures.
“I’m starting to warm to the opportunity I’ve been g
iven to have this adventure,” Hugo said dryly, “but if I never see another cursed elf, it’ll be too soon.”
The tournament was centered not at the great stone table, as Hugo assumed it would be, but around a field to the west of it. There a great tent had been erected facing a low hill, on which they could see a few crumbling walls that marked rough boundaries around a shallow depression.
The participants had assembled around the front of the tent, waiting for the announcement and a proclamation of the rules.
“Taliesin’s tent,” Hank murmured as they approached. “Hang back a bit, so we can watch. We don’t want to get too wrapped up in events. No telling what could happen if we get involved in something by accident.”
Hugo was more than willing to keep a comfortable distance. He’d realized with an alarming clarity that these knights assembled here were not the same as those he’d read about in the great medieval romances. These were warriors; battle-hardened and less likely to be chivalrous than they were to be actors in a play. What’s more, he wasn’t certain that all of those at the gathering were even human.
There was movement at the rear of Taliesin’s tent, and Hugo saw Merlin exit from a flap in the tent, and then walk around to the back of the hill. A few moments later he reappeared at the crest of the hill and strode down into the assemblage.
“What a show-off,” Hank whispered, scribbling in his notebook. “He was up there just so he could arrive last and appear to have come down to everyone else’s level.”
Merlin passed easily through the crowd, which parted to let him through. Apparently his reputation had preceded him. He took a position not far from the front of the tent and crossed his arms, waiting.
He didn’t have to wait long. The front of the tent opened and Taliesin appeared. He was tall, bearded, and graying at the temples. He wore a simple tunic, leather breeches, and tall leather boots. There were feathers in his hair, which was swept back and grew long, almost to his waist in back.
Taliesin carried a black staff carved with runes, which seemed to glow faintly, even in the daylight. He walked to the base of the hill, then turned to address the gathering.
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