Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2)

by Adam Copeland

  Katherina bid them goodnight and returned to her slate and stones. She groaned out loud when she saw the stones out of place once again. Evidently she hadn’t been vigilant enough to keep the child from moving them, after all.

  Katherina bent to readjust the stones, but froze.

  Not only did the stones sit in a proper musical configuration, they quite possibly sat in just the position Katherina had been trying so long to find.

  #

  The inevitable sound of boots came across the floor.

  Patrick managed to avoid the Cardinal Guard for most of the day, but they eventually found him in the last place soldiers would look.

  The library.

  He sat as far away from the entrance as possible, bent over an ancient tome. A single candle illuminated his corner of the library, a nook reached only by traversing the maze of shelves. When the soldiers found him, he sat with his back to them. Even so, judging by the footsteps and their breathing, he counted three of them.

  “Sir Patrick,” one of them said, the hint of malice in his voice. “It pleases the cardinal you come with us.”

  “It does not please me,” Patrick said tiredly. “If the cardinal wishes to see me, we can have this discussion during the council. Besides, I want to finish this book.”

  Patrick smiled, feeling the men look at one another in disbelief.

  “Irishman.” The lead guard said the word as a slur. The sound of swords slithering from leather scabbards filled the air. “You will come with us now.”

  Patrick breathed heavily out his nose, closed the book, and leaned toward the candle. The thumb on his left hand rubbed the pommel of his sword.

  “This isn’t going to happen the way you pictured it,” he said, and blew out the candle.

  #

  “The great hall, or the throne room as they call it here, is really the only room large enough to accommodate all the council members and aids,” Victor said. “We could use the auditorium, but there is little level space for tables, only the stage, and the seating is primarily for spectators. We do not want to give the other benefactors the impression they are only spectators. Each must be given his seat of honor and made to feel he is a participant.”

  Teodorico thoughtfully chewed on a nail. He shifted in his plush seat. His sizable pavilion was the largest of the temporary housing in the tent city beyond the Greensprings fortress. He studied the intricate rug that covered the floor of his traveling bishopric. The hours had begun to stretch into the night and he was tired of making preparations for the upcoming council.

  “Agreed,” he said. “It is always better to leave them feeling the final decision was their idea, though I see the English delegates protesting no matter what, hmm, yes?”

  “Their protests would be greatly diminished if the Knight of Cups had only done the simple courtesy of stating the cup ‘told him’ it belonged in Rome, hmm?” he added with a growl. “Where is that damnable Irishman anyway, hmm!”

  “They will find him soon Your Eminence,” Victor said, shuffling more papers. “It is an island, after all.”

  Just then, one of the Cardinal Guard staggered into the tent, his helmet missing, an eye blackened, and his sword scabbard empty. Another guard shot through the tent doorway as if pushed from behind. He lacked his sword and helmet as well, but had gained a split lip.

  At last came the largest of the guards, whose face had received the worst of the beatings, with his surcoat pulled down around his elbows, pinning his arms to his sides. Sir Patrick walked behind the angry man, holding the surcoat with a single hand, twisting and bunching the fabric tight.

  As they approached Cardinal Teodorico’s throne-like chair, Sir Patrick pushed the man into his companions.

  A moment’s pause hung in the air when no one talked. The Irishman stood by with arms crossed. The three soldiers looked at the ground sheepishly.

  “Leave us,” Teodorico hissed to the soldiers.

  They hesitated at the command, looking unsure.

  “His Eminence is in no danger,” Victor added. “Leave. You will be dealt with later.”

  The moment they shambled out of the pavilion, Teodorico shot to his feet.

  “What was the meaning of that insolence this morning, hmm!” he shouted, feeling blood rise in his face. “You had a simple duty!”

  “I made my stance clear on Your Eminence’s boat at Cornwall,” the Irishman responded. “The guardians of the cave said it should never have left, and I promised to return it.”

  “It is the Cup of the Last Supper and belongs to Mother Church!” Teodorico railed. “I’ve been more than considerate in prodding you towards making the right choice, hmm? Am I not an archbishop? Am I not the representative of the Seat of Peter? Am I not a successor to the Apostles? Are you not obligated to do as I command, yes?”

  Sir Patrick glowered silently. Several heartbeats passed while Teodorico felt his eyes might bulge from his head before the Irishman’s finally spoke.

  “I’m merely pointing out the obvious, Your Eminence,” he said at last, some contriteness in his voice. “The cup will not allow itself to be moved. The only ‘message’ I feel I’ve received from it is that it has made its own decision. I apologize for my apparent lack of respect, but you did essentially ask me to lie. That I cannot do, and...” The Irishman added injury to insolence when he added with a slight curl of the lip, “I wouldn’t want to place a cardinal in a position where other benefactors might ask if I had been coerced by said cardinal to say such untruths.”

  Teodorico now felt certain his eyes might explode from their sockets. He felt his nostrils momentarily pinch shut when he drew a breath through them.

  “Sir Patrick, I did not ask you to lie, hmm? I merely asked you to express an opinion. You could have benefited from having done so, hmm, yes?”

  “How do you mean?” Sir Patrick’s insolence melted away, replaced by the hint of concern Teodorico hoped the man should feel.

  “This is all a test.” Teodorico leaned back in his seat and rested his head against the backboard, but maintained a steely gaze on the Avangardesman. “Just as I suggested on my boat. God is testing you. If you fail the test, do you think God will be kind, hmm? He may not ‘punish’ you, but I would not doubt He would show you the error of your ways in some way, yes? I would hate to be in your boots.” The cardinal leaned forward and his tone lowered to almost a whisper. “Or perhaps unfortunate things will happen to those close to you. Sin doesn’t always affect the sinner, hmm? I’d hate to see anything happen to that pretty maidservant of yours.”

  The Irishman narrowed his eyes and said nothing at first. Eventually, his lips slowly curled into a smile and he chuckled.

  “Aimeé?” he said with a disaffected shrug. “We’ve gone our separate ways. It was a foolish romantic notion on my part. A notion that a visit to my family soon remedied. They reminded me I am noble born and can do better.”

  Teodorico scrutinized Sir Patrick for a moment, gauging the man’s impassivity.

  “Be that as it may,” he said at last, “my point is that God may not be finished with you and those close to you, hmm, yes?”

  “I’ll take my chances.” The Irishman’s insolence returned.

  Teodorico’s eyes flared and he made the sign of the Holy Cross. “Th-th-then may God have mercy on your soul, hmm? Y-y-you are excused.”

  The Avangarde bowed, pivoted on a heel, and moved toward the exit.

  “S-S-Sir Patrick, hmm?” Teodorico said before he left, causing the man to pause and look over his shoulder. “I-i-if you are not with me, then do not be against me, hmm? I-I-I am not so forgiving as God, yes?”

  “As you say, Your Eminence,” he said with a curt nod and left.

  Teodorico walked over to the table populated with wine flagons and cups.

  “Shame he is not a supporter,” Victor said. “His celebrity would have been a great asset.”

  “Shame, yes?” Teodorico said, reaching for a cup and flagon. “But there is, as the
y say, more than one way to skin a cat, hmm?”

  “Do you believe him? About the maidservant, I mean?” Victor asked.

  Teodorico raised his eyebrows. “I’m not certain. It merits keeping our eye on them, yes?”

  The flagon shook violently in Teodorico’s hand, and the cup in his other hand shook even as he tried to pour the liquid. He bit his lip and returned them to the serving tray, raising the clatter of metal on metal.

  “Victor,” he said, forcing his voice calm. “I’d like to turn in for the evening. I am not to be disturbed, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” Victor bowed and backed out of the tent.

  Once Victor was gone, Teodorico raised his hands before his eyes to note how badly they shook.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “C-C-C...” he stammered, taking another deep breath. “O-Oh...” Another breath. “Nnn...” And yet another, followed by, “T-R-O-L!”

  He thrust his hands down to his sides, forming fists.

  “C-O-N-T-R-O-L!” he squeezed the letters between his teeth. “CONTROL!”

  He took the deepest breath yet, held it, then said calmly, “Control.”

  He exhaled, smiled and reached for the flagon and cup. No shaking occurred this time and he had no trouble pouring himself a drink. He returned to his chair, drinking with one hand and rubbing his head with the other.

  He sat hard on the cushions and said out loud, “We need to investigate every possibility. We must do whatever it takes to obtain the cup.” He took a sip of wine and added, “Oh, and I’m sorry about that ‘cat-skinning’ analogy. Poor choice of words.”

  He leaned over to the travel trunk next to his chair and rapped on its surface with his knuckles.

  From inside came an answering rap.

  #

  Silence rendered the church as still as a crypt, though an occasional cough or sniffle escaped from the fifty or so pilgrims who gathered before the altar. Incense thickened the air, giving the candlelight a hazy quality.

  At this hour, only one newcomer appeared in the doorway at the back of the church. All others had arrived long ago and taken their place before the cup which was glimmering like a heavenly treasure. Now, they struggled to stay awake to keep their vigil.

  But not for much longer.

  The newcomer would see to that. She would nudge them into the arms of Morpheus.

  The Lady Lilliana stepped to the edge of light and removed her hood, freeing her auburn hair to cascade down her back. Candlelight flickered in her amber eyes, but soon her eyes flared with a light of their own, shining forth from all but her slitted pupils.

  She opened her mouth and raised her hands. A mist billowed from her mouth, starting as any mist that might form from breath on a cold day, except no cold touched the inside of the church. Even so, the mist grew thick and dense as a fog engulfing a seashore, then curled along the floor like clouds descending from mountaintops. It spread in all directions from her stationary form, boiling across the flagstones, pooling around the worshippers. It smashed against the communion rail and frothed like ocean waves. The nearest worshipper suddenly rose her head and sniffed, realizing something amiss.

  Before slumping forward, the young woman smiled and sighed, “Pretty.”

  Soon all of them were asleep. Gentle snores replaced the rattle of prayer beads.

  Lilliana strode forward, confidently stepping over the slumbering forms, disturbing the pearly mist hovering just above the floor.

  As she approached the altar, however, her confident stride slowed until she stood an arm’s length away from the cup. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.

  She took off one of her lacy gloves and held a claw-like hand near the vessel for a heartbeat, then reached for it.

  Her hand grasped it firmly, eyes widening at the achievement, but then widened even more. She screamed as smoke rose from her hand where it touched the cup. She withdrew it, pain searing through her arm. Her skin bubbled as if splashed with acid. She grasped her wrist just below the smoldering hand and raced for a side door, shrieking.

  The worshippers twitched in their sleep, troubled by unpleasant dreams.

  #

  Father Wulfric thought the church bells rang to announce Terce, the late morning prayers sung by the Keep monks, but when the bells continued to ring much longer than usual, and an obvious disturbance erupted around the stables, he knew trouble had risen with the morning sun.

  He stopped a running stable boy. “You there, young man—what is happening?”

  The boy gasped, “Somebody has died and I have to tell someone.”

  He ran inside the keep to find someone of authority, but Father Wulfric already spotted several knights in black surcoats jogging towards the building, holding their scabbards steady as they ran.

  Father Wulfric followed the crowd toward the stables, where people gathered like bees around a hive. Because of his height he could see over their heads to the two Avangarde knights kneeling next to a body. A third interviewed a stable keeper. He couldn’t hear what they said over the buzz of the crowd, but from the crowd itself he heard, “Dried out,” “Sucked dry,” “Aged,” and “Attacked.”

  “Let me through,” he urged as he fought his way through the crowd to the front. “I need to talk to the knights.”

  Once they saw the cross of thorn branches on his robes, people let him pass.

  “Father, thank you for coming,” a knight said. “I’m sure this poor soul could use a prayer.”

  Father Wulfric confirmed his fears. Before him lay a desiccated husk of a corpse like the woman found in Cornwall.

  “I won’t believe it was the Fair Folk,” the stable keeper said to one of the knights, apparently responding to something said. “They don’t kill people. Play tricks on us sure, but not kill. Certainly not like this, my lords.”

  Wulfric kneeled next to the body to examine it. Like the victim at Cornwall, this older man looked as if he had died days ago, not hours. His clothes hung loosely on his corpse. By the appearance of the body one would expect the smell of decay, but a hint of a flowery aroma wafted on the air. Wulfric leaned forward to make the sign of the Holy Cross. When he did so, he noted something in the man’s mouth. He bent closer and extracted something white from the open orifice.

  “Only an evil sprite would or could do this,” the stable keeper continued to say, “and that just doesn’t happen. We’ve lived peacefully with the Fair Folk for a long time.”

  “You seem to know much about the Fair Folk,” Wulfric said, standing and putting the flaky white object to his nose.

  “Aye, Father, I’ve been in Avalon twenty-two years now,” the man replied. “We’ve had much dealing with the Fair Folk. Mostly peaceable.”

  “Tell me then,” Father Wulfric said, holding out the white flowers. “Have you ever heard of fairies killing people by stuffing baby’s breath into their mouths?”

  The stablehand squinted at the little flowers.

  “No, I have not,” he replied.

  Wulfric had noted a similar white sprig in the mouth of the woman in Cornwall, but had thought it more of the shed skin found near her body. Now he knew otherwise.

  “Did anyone, by chance, see anything suspicious?” Father Wulfric asked, looking around. “Something looking like sheets of thin paper, with a pattern in it? Or, perhaps the skin of a snake, if you know what that looks like?”

  The knights and the stable hand exchanged glances and shrugged.

  “No, Father, but we’ve only just arrived,” one of the knights answered.

  Wulfric started to search the stable, scanning the ground and kicking up hay. He followed the edges of the building to a side entrance. The stable keeper and the knights followed him, curious.

  “Look for something unusual,” he urged them.

  Something between his commanding tone and their curiosity convinced them to comply. As they did, Wulfric noted the crowd at the entrance watched with intense curiosity—all ex
cept the child from the boat. The girl turned and left, clutching her dirty doll with one hand and a dead rose in the other.

  His eyes followed her as she meandered through the forest of adult legs, but a call from one of the knights drew his attention back.

  “Look,” the knight said, “I think I found something.”

  Wulfric hurried over and saw the knight pointing to a wispy, semi-transparent material snagged on the wood of an empty stall.

  “What is it?” the stable keeper asked, eyes narrowing. “Cobwebs?”

  “No,” Wulfric responded, gently picking it up. “It is the skin of some creature. It’s as when a spider grows; it bursts out of its skin, leaving an empty shell behind.”

  When he said this, the substance disintegrated to dust in his hands.

  Chapter Seven

  “There is a monster among us,” Father Wulfric stated, concluding his concerns to the authorities with that simple statement.

  “Are you certain it’s the same creature from Cornwall?” Sir Wolfgang von Fiescher asked, his voice echoing off the walls of the keep’s meeting chamber.

  “Are we certain it is a creature at all, hmm?” Cardinal Teodorico added. “Perhaps someone is casting a curse of some sort, hmm, yes?”

  “Normally I would agree,” Father Wulfric replied, “but the fact that a discarded skin has been found at the scene of every incident—skin which did not come from the victims—tells me it is a creature and not a curse. I believe it came with us hidden on the boats. I should have said something earlier when I thought I found a portion of its skin on the deck.”

  “You couldn’t have known, Father,” the cardinal reassured his fellow clergyman.

  “But now that we do, we need to take action,” Wolfgang said. “Finding a monster should be easier than finding an evil sorcerer disguised among us. We will send the Avangarde to search every corner of the keep. We will find this thing. We have some experience dealing with monsters.”