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

by Adam Copeland

  Rain started to fall.

  A Lost Boy raced towards the barrel with a lighted torch. Lucan raised the Spear of Destiny to hurl at the man, but multiple arrows feathered the Lost Boy’s back, stopping him in his tracks.

  A cheer rose from the Avangarde host as more arrows flew through the scene, followed by brown-garbed villagers in leather and brass armor joining the fray.

  Patrick opened his mouth to add his cheer, but it died in his throat when he realized the Lost Boy holding the torch did not drop like a rock; rather he teetered forward and landed on top of the oily barrel in the iron launch basket. The torch fell into the incendiary material and ignited it with a whoosh! It flared, sending a rush of heat over Patrick.

  “Lucan! Cut the cable!” Patrick climbed the frame and ran for the launch lever.

  Lucan heaved himself onto the trebuchet, but his head snapped back suddenly as a cord of boiled leather wrapped around his neck and pulled him down into the mud.

  From horseback, Philip pulled the whip around Lucan’s neck taut. He tied his end of the whip to the saddle, slid to his feet, and smacked his horse on the flank, sending it running. Still holding the spear, Lucan was dragged out of sight in a heartbeat.

  Philip drew his sword and came forward.

  #

  Aimeé stumbled through thickets, pausing only to disentangle her hair and skirt from brambles. Yet in circumventing obstacles, she became disoriented and lost track of the rainbow. After what seemed like hours, she rested against a mossy tree, panicking.

  The canopy here grew so thick little sunlight penetrated, giving the impression of night. Though the trees grew large and healthy and an abundance of toadstools and ferns carpeted the forest floor, the darkness gave the place a sinister aspect.

  “Where is it?” she wondered aloud.

  Patrick had spoken of a group of gray rocks surrounded by aspen trees. She saw no such thing, only giant oaks, ash, and yew. She’d passed plenty of knolls that might hide a cave, but they’d been fenced with brambles.

  She turned about, searching for the rainbow.

  When she made one final turn, she came face to face with a bloodied Dragonetti.

  “Hello, wench,” he hissed, grabbing her by the throat.

  Aimeé screamed and fought out of his grasp, stumbling away. She ran but tripped over a branch, then crawled on all fours as fast as she could.

  Dragonetti staggered after her, holding one mangled arm close to his chest.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, snagging her by a foot.

  She turned onto her back as he dragged her toward him, and kicked him hard in his gashed face. He lost his grip on her and cursed, holding his bleeding nose. When he did, Aimeé kicked him in the crotch and ran.

  She didn’t get very far when he leaped on her. Her head struck a rock.

  Stars flashed across her vision and sound slid away to a muffled distance.

  He climbed onto her body and started to rip at her dress.

  “You like to play games, do you? Well, I have a new game for you!”

  #

  Patrick slashed one Lost Boy’s throat and pierced another clear through the chest with his sword. He pulled his blade out and kicked the body from the trebuchet frame. For the time being, he stood alone next to the launch lever.

  “You want me?” he taunted Philip who fought his way towards him. “Then come and get me!”

  Aesclinn villagers courageously threw themselves at Philip, but they did not realize they faced a warrior god—all of them fell to his sword. But they slowed him down. Patrick had a moment to wonder how Aimeé and Geoffrey fared, and to hope maybe if he kept the enemy away from the launch lever long enough, the blazing missile just might do the job for them, burning the machine down around it if it stayed in place long enough.

  Something heavy landed behind him, shaking the engine. When he turned, a creature of nightmare stood there.

  On the far side of the flames perched a batwinged monster, its giant pinions spanning the siege engine. She stepped over the flaming missile, impervious to the heat licking at her scaly legs. A long sinewy tail narrowed to a scorpion’s barb. Even in his shock, a corner of Patrick’s mind still thought surely Homer had this creature in mind when he described the harpies of Greek legend.

  For despite her fangs, pointy ears, slitted yellow eyes, and horns, Patrick recognized the face.

  “Lilliana,” he breathed. Lilith.

  She lunged and swatted at him with great clawed hands.

  Backing away, he ducked and slashed at her, but he may as well have hacked at the trunk of an oak tree. In his retreat he nearly lost his balance; he realized he was at the back edge of the trebuchet, straddling the end of the launch channel. He windmilled his arms to regain his balance, but Lilith took advantage of the moment to deliver a backhand that sent him flying into the mud—and his sword spinning away.

  The ground shook when Lilith landed astride him, scorpion tail poised over her back, directed at him.

  “You should have taken the first kiss I offered you.” Her voice dripped with malevolence. “Because I guarantee you this one won’t be so sweet.”

  #

  Though still dazed, Aimeé fought the brute who pawed at her.

  She tried to focus her efforts, but her senses were blurry. Stars flickering across her vision started to truly dance, bobbing and weaving around Dragonetti’s head. Rather than dissipate over time, more appeared, forming a constellation among the tree boughs. A singsong hum filled the air.

  When the lights buzzed Dragonetti’s face he swatted at them in agitation. Aimeé used the distraction to try and rise, but he slapped her face.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” he growled.

  The slap focused her.

  “Fight!” a tiny and familiar voice at her ear said.

  Dragonetti struggled with her corset. Memories of past assaults flashed across her mind, and her hand gripped a rock. With all her strength she smashed it into Dragonetti’s temple.

  He fell to his back, but immediately tried to rise. “Run all you want, I’ll still—”

  “Who says I’m running?” Aimeé struck him again.

  He fell back and Aimeé straddled his torso, pounding his face repeatedly with the rock.

  The forest echoed with savage cries. The cries were hers, but she lost all sense of time and only stopped when her wrist gave out and the bloodied rock slipped from her grasp. When it fell away, a weight also seemed to fall from her shoulders.

  Wide-eyed and sucking air through clenched teeth, she looked into the ruin of Dragonetti’s face. She also realized a tiny voice squeaked in her ear, urging her to stop. A mote of light danced around her head.

  Aimeé picked up the cup and stood, looking around in wonder at the dancing lights illuminating the forest. Blues and whites bobbed and pulsated around her, casting her in an ethereal glow. Beautiful, but indistinct music filled her ears.

  The mote that had spoken in her ear transformed into a familiar face.

  “Talia!” she cried happily.

  The little fairy girl buzzed to Aimeé’s ear as her comrades also revealed themselves. They formed a Fairy Kingdom carousel rotating around her head, comprising all manner of tiny creatures.

  “What’s that?” Aimeé said, leaning her head to one side to hear better. “Yes, yes, a very bad man. No, no, I think he was the only one here, but there are many more out there, and they are going to do bad things to my friends if I don’t find the end of the rainbow. Can you help me?”

  Talia danced away and looped through the air, urging her to follow. Aimeé followed the beat of dragonfly wings. When they had gone a fair distance, Talia pointed out into the darkness.

  “It’s this way?” Aimeé asked.

  Talia nodded. With that, she flew to Aimeé’s cheek, gave the tiniest of kisses, and shot away like a miniature falling star. In a blink, the others left as well, leaving the forest almost completely dark.

  “Wait,” Aimeé called after her
, “I don’t see the way.”

  No sooner had she said this than the ground at her feet lit up. Glowing flowers sprang up in the shape of a footprint. They grew out of the green moss, winding and twirling as they grew to finger’s height. Another batch grew in the shape of another footprint, then another, and another, leading in one direction like an invisible guide.

  She followed them and sure enough they brought her to a pile of gray rocks with a clear cave entrance. The footprints ended there.

  Aimeé peered into the darkness. A torch flared to life at the entrance, then another farther down the tunnel, then another. She followed the path lined with breezy cobwebs and ancient hand paintings.

  Eventually she came to a cavernous chamber filled with magnificent, golden treasures, just as Patrick had described.

  Aimeé turned in circles. “Hello?”

  “We are here,” a woman’s voice said.

  Aimeé turned to see three women, tall and willowy, with porcelain features. They had eyes like Patrick’s mother. Aimeé sighed with relief.

  “I have returned the cup,” Aimeé said quickly, lifting the vessel for them to see. “Thank you for taking it back. Please tell me my friends will be safe now.”

  “We will take the cup,” declared the lead woman, then in unison they all said, “but we cannot help your friends.”

  #

  The scorpion tail rose, but paused when a familiar voice bellowed from the side.

  “Keep away from the Irishman!” Philip cried. “He’s mine!”

  The Rhinelander marched forward unimpeded by opponents, blood dripping from his sword.

  “Keep your distance!” Lilith returned, giving Philip an acid glare. “Or I’ll suck the soul from your corpse!”

  Patrick groped in the mud for his weapon, but to no avail. He raised his arms against the stinger’s strike.

  But just then, a thunderous creak shattered the air and the counterweight dropped in a free-fall. The launch chain rattled between Lilith’s legs, dragged at high speed in the trench underneath her.

  At the noise, Lilith turned with a squawk of surprise just in time to see the flaming launch basket smash into her as it scooped her up and flung her toward Greensprings along with its fiery missile to the sound of ker-whoosh!

  “Suck that,” Philip quipped, removing his hand from the launch lever and continuing toward Patrick.

  #

  “What do you mean?” Aimeé choked out. “That can’t be. The rainbow led me here. I’ve returned the cup.” She held it out again for emphasis. “Will you not help?”

  One of the maidens gently lifted the cup from Aimeé’s hands. “We are no longer of this world. We can only help by guarding the cup again.”

  “But not long ago goblins of Avalon attacked Greensprings—they were enough of the world to do that much. And the wee fairies? Twice they have attacked those who would hurt me,” Aimeé argued.

  “We are mostly shadows now,” the third woman said. “Even the goblins have faded. As for the pixies and their kind, they can act as pests at best. It would take a miracle for us to intervene in a battle.”

  “Yes!” Aimeé cried. “A miracle! That is what I hoped for when I followed the rainbow.”

  “The Creator placed it in the sky to guide the cup here, and avert any greater tragedies,” the first woman explained, “but many choices have set current events in motion, and they must play themselves out. If the Creator were to intervene, then He would be dishonoring those choices made freely.”

  “But we want intervention,” Aimeé protested, frustration mounting. “We’re asking for help. We’re praying for a miracle.”

  “I’m sorry, Child,” the second said sadly.

  “No!” Aimeé wailed, falling to her knees. “It can’t be! Did not Mother Mary ask her own son to turn water into wine? Did he not agree? Is there nothing I can ask for? I will do anything!”

  The ethereal creatures gazed upon her compassionately. “Then you must pray to the Creator directly,” the foremost maiden said, gesturing. “There you may find your miracle.”

  She pointed to the wall of the cave where another tunnel led into a room shrouded in mist that glowed from within.

  “What is this place?” Aimeé asked.

  “That is beyond our domain,” the maiden responded. “There lies your hope. Good luck, Child.”

  Aimeé rose and approached the mist. She could not see through it, but stepped into the swirling mist. It was both crisp and soft as it caressed her skin. Something crossed her path in the mist, no higher than her waist. Distant laughter echoed. Another form ran across her path, but from the other direction, giggling. More movement came from behind her, and above her, and all around her. The laughter came louder, and from many sources, as if from a playground.

  Airy hands brushed across her face, though she could not see their owners. They touched her forehead, cheek, and lips.

  “Hello?” she called out into the mist.

  The brushes on her face subsided, as did the laughter, and the place slowly brightened to a dazzling white.

  “Welcome Aimeé de la Chasse,” came a feminine voice.

  A single form walked toward her out of the mist, materializing into a tall woman in a white gown. Her face had simple features, but beautiful ones, though somehow also indistinct. In fact, they seemed to shift as she spoke.

  Aimeé regarded her sharply, then looked around. Because of the mist she could not tell if she stood in a cave, a room, or an open field. “What is this place?”

  “This is your prayer,” the woman responded simply. “It is not a ‘place,’ exactly. I apologize for my choice of words. Language can be inadequate when it comes to the human plane. We are neither here nor there, nor are we now, nor ever.”

  Aimeé closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “You’re praying,” the woman explained. “What would you call where you mind goes when you pray? Especially in deep prayer that touches the face of God?”

  “This is the face of God?” Aimeé asked incredulously, looking around again.

  The woman smiled kindly. “In a manner of speaking. Moses conversed with a burning bush, did he not?”

  “I see,” Aimeé responded. “And you are?”

  Again the kind smile. “Not important. You are what is important. You have a difficult path ahead of you.”

  “Yes,” Aimeé agreed. “Everything I care about is about to be destroyed. Many of my friends may already be dead. We thought bringing the chalice back would end all that. We thought the rainbow meant something. Were we wrong?”

  “No,” the woman replied, and her smile turned bittersweet, “but things rarely are exactly as they might appear.”

  “Is there nothing I can do or say? Cannot I save my friends? Was the rainbow just a false hope?”

  “It was a real sign,” the woman conceded, her sad smile deepening. “Returning the chalice atoned for having taken it in the first place; an admirable act that many would never have attempted, but what you are asking now, to alter both the present and the future, is something different. It requires... more.”

  “Like what?” Aimeé’s asked. A chill came over her.

  “Faith,” the woman explained. “God created order from chaos. He created natural laws to maintain that order and cannot break them lightly, or chaos will return. He is not blind to suffering, however, and would risk chaos for those who have faith.”

  But she felt doubt. She imagined the Lost Boys stepping over Patrick’s body to corner a frightened Chansonne. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again; I’ll do anything,” Aimeé said, voice trembling.

  The woman’s smile disappeared. “People always insist on ‘doing’ something, when God only asks that people believe.”

  “God doesn’t want proof?” Aimeé said, her nose crinkling. “Did He not ask Abraham to sacrifice his son? Did not God sacrifice his own son?”

  “Is that your concern, that you feel your faith
must be accompanied by a sacrifice to make it feel ‘real’?” The stranger asked, leaning forward with eyes narrowing sternly. “What if you were asked to sacrifice your child, like Abraham. Would that be ‘real’ enough for you?”

  “But I can’t have children, not anymore,” Aimeé responded.

  “In this place all things are possible,” the woman said, waving a hand in a broad stroke to the surrounding mist. “Perhaps you are asking the wrong question. Perhaps you should be asking yourself, ‘What prayer would I sacrifice to win a miracle for my friends?’ What would be the ‘hard’ choice?”

  Aimeé remained silent. The mist turned colder, sending a shiver up her spine.

  The woman answered for her, and to Aimeé it seemed the woman’s features turned almost sinister. “What if your prayer to have children again were answered, in place of saving your friends? What harm would there be in that? Your friends might yet survive without the intervention of a miracle.”

  “No,” Aimeé said, shaking her head resolutely. “I came here for one reason, to save Greensprings.”

  The woman smiled slyly, and she gestured into the mist. “Ah, easy to say ‘no’ when the opportunity is abstract, but what if it were here before you?”

  Laughter pealed from the mist and a small form walked towards her: a boy of no more than seven. He wore a tunic. His hair was dark, his skin light, and his eyes—hazel with halos of gold about the pupils. He looked up at her and smiled sweetly.

  “Your child,” the woman explained.

  At the sight of the boy Aimeé’s heart fell into her stomach. She bit her lower lip and knelt before him. He touched her face—her forehead, cheek, and lips. Aimeé drew a sharp breath and tears brimmed in her eyes. She touched his face back.

  “Please don’t do this to me,” Aimeé said, turning to the stranger. “Make it stop.”

  The hard look in the woman’s face softened. “This is your prayer, you can make it stop any time.”