Ruins of Camelot, Page 2

  Sigrid returned to the tub and settled her considerable bulk onto a stool. She tugged the stopper from the oil, dabbed some onto her palm, and began to rub her hands together briskly.

  "Do you wish you'd been born a peasant?"

  Gabriella turned in the tub so that she faced the tall, mullioned window. It glowed dusky purple, almost the same colour as the oil in Sigrid's bottle. She didn't answer. After a moment, Sigrid began to stroke the oil onto Gabriella's hair and comb it in. There would be one more washing after that, removing most of the oil but leaving the scent of it. It was nice to be taken care of this way, but it was also strange. Gabriella knew that none of her schoolmates had such luxuries. It should have pleased her, but instead, it gave her a vague unease.

  Sigrid spoke as she combed Gabriella's hair. "Being a princess is not all baths and perfume, darling," she said in a mildly chiding voice. "You are afforded such luxuries because you are expected to bear great burdens. You will carry weights and responsibilities that your friends will never know."

  "What responsibilities?" Gabriella asked.

  "You do not need to know such things now, dearheart," Sigrid said, and Gabriella could tell by the sound of her voice that her nurse was smiling. "Your concern, I think, is much simpler."

  Gabriella frowned. "Ow," she said as the nurse tugged at a tangle in her hair. "Tell me then. What is my real concern, Sigrid?" she asked doubtfully.

  Sigrid hummed to herself for a moment. Finally, she said, "Your true concern is not what the burdens of a princess will be. Your true concern is… will you be worthy of them? Will you rise to the challenges presented to you?"

  Gabriella thought about this. She turned in the tub again and peered gravely back at her nurse, the woman who had known her and cared for her since birth, the woman that she knew better than she knew either of her own parents.

  "Will I?" she asked seriously, studying the older woman's face. "Will I be able to do what a princess must do?"

  Sigrid lowered the comb in her hand and met the girl's solemn eyes. She nodded, and then shook her head faintly. "You may," she said with a shallow sigh, "if you choose to."

  Gabriella nodded to herself and turned around again. "I will. I will choose to."

  Sigrid did not reply. Instead, she hummed some more and resumed combing the Princess's long hair.

  Gabriella’s bedroom was on the third floor of the castle. It was large, still filled with the toys she'd played with when she was a baby. She considered herself too old to play much with them anymore, but not too old to still keep them nearby, comforting her with their familiarity. Her rocking horse stood by the hearth, casting its long shadow in the glow of the coals. Her dolls dozed atop the cupboards. A tiny table beneath the window was set with a miniature silver tea set, complete with doilies and lace napkins.

  Gabriella rolled over and stared at the tall window. Beyond it, the moon hung like a sickle, thin and sharp. She blinked slowly, not sleepy in the least. After a minute, she flung the covers off and slid over the side of the bed. The floor was smooth and cold to her bare feet. She crept to the door, listened for a moment, and then eased it open.

  Her father was in his library, as always. She heard his voice echoing dimly along the outer corridor as she crept down the stairs. He would not be angry if she slipped in to see him, even if he was in the middle of an important meeting. He would beckon her to him, chide her dutifully, and allow her to climb onto his lap for a moment. But then he would send her back to her bed of course. He was the King, and he had weighty matters to attend to.

  "You would not be interested, Princess," he would tell her with a weary smile. "Fill your head with pleasant things. I will handle the rest."

  And he was right. She was not interested in the matters of state. But she was interested in her father. She liked to hear the deep rumble of his voice. It lulled her and soothed her on nights like this, when sleep seemed far away and her toys no longer beckoned her.

  The corridor was empty and dark, lit only with a sliver of firelight from the mostly closed library doors. Her father was meeting with his council, although not all of them were present. They rarely were nowadays. They were important men themselves, with their own affairs to attend to. In truth, it seemed to Gabriella as if the Kingdom ran itself. Her father and his council simply oversaw it. It did not seem like a fun task exactly, but neither did it seem difficult, despite what Sigrid had said.

  Gabriella crept along the corridor, dragging one of her blankets behind her. There was a tall cabinet next to the library doors, meant for the coats of her father's visitors. In wintertime, the cabinet was often full of heavy furs, dripping with melted snow and smelling of night air and reindeer. Tonight the cabinet was dry and mostly empty. Gabriella slipped inside and lay down, tucking her blanket around her and resting her head on an old, folded cape. There, she lay blinking in the darkness, staring at nothing and listening to the timbre of the voices beyond the nearby door.

  She couldn't remember the first time she had hidden there, drifting to sleep to the drone of voices and pacing feet. She only knew that it was one of her favourite places. Her father, the King, sometimes found her there once his councils were through. He was never angry. He would merely lift her into his arms and carry her back to her bed, kissing her once on the cheek as he lay her down. Gabriella always awoke at these times but never allowed her father to notice. She liked the silent comfort of his arms and the kisses that he gave her even when he thought she was asleep. Of all his kisses, those were the ones that meant the most to her.

  The voices rumbled from the library, and she listened. She didn't pay attention to the actual words, but they drifted into her thoughts anyway, skipping like stones on the valley brook.

  "There are at least forty of them, Your Highness," a high, nasally voice said. That was Percival, the chief of the castle guard. "They do not meet in the same place, nor in such numbers, but keep council in desolate areas and in small groups of six or seven."

  "We could arrest them," another voice suggested.

  "No," Gabriella’s father, the King, said. "No need to overreact. Some fires burn out better on their own. Stomping on them only spreads the coals."

  There was a murmur of mingled agreement and dissent.

  "They speak against you, Your Highness," a deep voice warned. "They may be few and remote, but treason is still a deadly poison."

  Gabriella's father seemed unperturbed. "We have neither the resources nor the patience to stamp out every stray thought or word in a kingdom as far reaching as Camelot. Such groups are a constant. They burn off the fervour of malcontents before such fervour can stew into action. Let them mutter and rabble. They've done so since the time of my fathers in numbers hardly less than these."

  "A slow-growing vine sinks the deepest roots, Your Highness," the low voice replied gravely. "Things are different now than they were in the time of your fathers. I do not think it wise to turn a blind eye to these rebels. Their leader may be vile, but he is persuasive. He may find an audience with your enemies."

  There was a silence. Finally, the King said, "Watch him then. If he is found to palaver with the barbarian empire of the north, then bring him in. I am doubtful that even the greatest zealot would dare stoop to such treachery."

  Gabriella was barely listening. Her eyes drooped heavily, lulled by the droning voices. Dreams circled her, calling to her.

  "Tell me his name again," her father's voice said, echoing from the depths of the library.

  "We do not know his true name, but only the name he uses to identify himself to his followers," a voice answered gravely, almost secretively. "He calls himself Merodach."

  "Merodach…," the King mused.

  Merodach, Gabriella thought dreamily, and shuddered. The name echoed in the corridors of her mind, following her down into the canyons of sleep, fluttering as if on bats' wings.

  "Merodach?" Thomas repeated, stepping carefully over a strew of stone blocks.

  Yazim shouldered his pack
and surveyed the broken walls. Vines and heather had overtaken the ancient structure, hiding it, softening its shape. "A mythical name. Merodach was a god of the underworld. But the man who took that name was no god."

  Thomas shaded his eyes and peered down a grassy hill. A brook trickled through a grotto of shadows below, disappearing under an ancient stone bridge. "A rebel with delusions of grandeur then?"

  "A monster in the guise of a saviour," Yazim replied. "He was the downfall of Camelot and the usher of a long, dark age. According to the legends, he was handsome. Tall. Charming. But so cruel that his friends dreaded his disfavour and his enemies would kill themselves rather than face him."

  "Surely, the tales are exaggerated," Thomas commented, picking his way into the deep shadows of the ruin. Rows of stone benches lay buried in the brush, facing the remains of a collapsed tower. Yazim stood there, peering down at a half-buried shape. Morning sunlight glinted off a smooth, tarnished surface. Thomas saw that it was a bell.

  Yazim lifted his eyes and gazed up past the remains of rafters and the encroaching trees. The shadow of the nearby castle spread over the rubble. "The tales are actually very detailed," he said. "Merodach surrounded himself with a small band of soulless villains. Bloodthirsty and inhuman, these were his hands and feet, sent off amongst the populace to recruit the desperate, the dregs, and the haters, for every society, no matter how enlightened, cultivates such people. In time, thanks to the complacence of the King, Merodach assembled a small secret army. These, he employed to begin ravaging the distant outposts of Camelot. His tactics were simple and horrible. A small band of marauders would descend upon a village under cover of darkness and dismember every firstborn child where they slept, leaving the horrors for the adults to find upon waking. In the morning, Merodach would enter the village with his force behind him, summoned by the wails of the mourning parents. He would call forth the men of the village and offer them a bargain: join him and fight to overthrow the King of Camelot or die and join their children in the afterlife."

  Thomas looked at his friend with revulsion. "Truly, such a beast could not be counted amongst the brotherhood of humankind. Who would join the man who had murdered their children?"

  "Some did," Yazim answered stoically, "out of fear for their lives and that of their women. Others submitted to death at the hand of Merodach's brutes or fell upon their own swords. A few fought, but Merodach was a connoisseur of sadism. He knew that those who fought to avenge their dead children would fight recklessly, blind with grief. These, he made examples of, desecrating their bodies in ways more horrible than I wish to recount.

  "Soon, rumours of Merodach's elaborate cruelty began to spread over the Kingdom. To many, the stories were indeed too horrific to be believed. Many doubted, only to discover the truth too late.

  "Eventually, the reality of the situation became evident even to the King himself. But by then, Merodach's army had already overwhelmed and decimated the outlying regions. He had fortified his forces in key outposts all around the Kingdom. It was a rude awakening for the King, but even then, he could not bring himself to believe that all was lost. Camelot simply could not fall. He sent diplomats and ambassadors, attempting to negotiate with his enemy. He failed to understand that there is no diplomacy with he whose only desire is to destroy. There is no compromise with the one whose only goal is death."

  Thomas shook his head sombrely. It was chilly in the shadows of the ruin. Together, the two men made their way out into the sunlight of the hillside. Some distance away, their horses cropped the grass amiably.

  Thomas sighed. "So, in the end, cruelty won."

  Yazim frowned thoughtfully. "Cruelty never really wins no matter how things might seem to those observing. If there is any truth in the world, my friend, then it is that."

  Thomas looked aside at his companion and then shook his head. "I wish I could believe that."

  Yazim didn't offer any debate. After a minute, the two walked down the hill and collected their horses.

  Once they were astride their mounts again, heading into the shadow of the derelict castle, Thomas asked, "So what became of Princess Gabriella? What did she do whilst the beast Merodach was planning his war against her father's kingdom?"

  Yazim urged his horse forwards into the tree-lined grotto. Its hooves splashed across the brook, wetting its smooth flank. "Princess Gabriella did what all little girls do, God willing," Yazim answered simply, "she grew up."

  The dueling theatre was very small and dark, located in the cellar of the school cathedral. Gabriella had loved it from the first time she'd ever seen it, ten years earlier, at the age of eight. Back then, it had seemed huge and regal, like something the gladiators of Rome might have fought in. Now she saw it for what it was: a small, oval floor surrounded by four rows of terraced seating, lit only by a ring of tiny, barred windows. The ceiling was rough beams and planks, covered in soot and decades of cobwebs.

  The topmost row of seating, where she herself now sat, was within reach of the nearest rafters, and it showed: the ancient wood was etched with hundreds of names, crude drawings, symbols, and anatomically impossible limericks. Her name was there as well, carved with a dagger point some years past. She remembered doing it, remembered pinching her tongue between her lips with concentration, laboriously shaping each letter: "GABRIELLA G. XAVIER." Since then, some amusing wag had added "DROWNS IN THE RAIN." Gabriella didn't mind. She had occasionally been a stuck-up brat in her younger years. If it had not been for the refreshingly brutal honesty of her fellow students, her nose might still be in the air today.

  "I'm sweating like a pig under all this armour," Rhyss muttered, tying her red hair back into a ponytail. She clanked faintly whenever she moved, a constant reminder that hers was ill-fitting hand-me-down armour worn by at least two generations of graduates before her. Even so, it gleamed pristinely in the dimness, made of rolled steel and edged with copper. The Feorie family crest shined brightly on the round shield where it leant by Rhyss's feet.

  Gabriella sighed. "I cannot wait for this to be over. I'll be happy to live a thousand years and never lift a sword again."

  Rhyss shrugged. “It’s the price of privilege. The peasants never have to experience the battle floor. How very fortunate we are to be the sons and daughters of nobility. All except for Darrick, of course.”

  On Gabriella's other side, Darrick buffed his own sword with a thick cloth. "I’ll take a blacksmith father over a lazy old duke any day.” He said dismissively. At one time, Gabriella had wondered why Darrick was allowed to attend the Royal Academy at all. Now she understood: his family had just enough money, and just enough clout to place him there. More importantly, his father had just enough imagination to hope for a better life for his son. Darrick sheathed his sword and nudged Rhyss. “So who do you face?"

  "Vasser," Rhyss replied with a shrug. "I'm not exactly worried about it."

  "Vasser's no daisy," Gabriella said. "He is good enough to let you show your skills but not so good that he'll put you down before you draw your own sword." She frowned down at the slip of parchment in her hand and sighed darkly. "Not like Goethe."

  Darrick and Rhyss murmured sympathetically.

  On the floor below, Constance and a taller girl named Destra approached each other warily. Constance's armour was new but sparse, made mostly of hardened leather. Her short sword and shield were the only metal on her. Destra, whose father was Percival, the chief of the palace guard, was clad in a mismatched but intimidating assembly of mail and iron plate. She smiled confidently, hefting a small, evil-looking war hammer.

  "One-minute rounds, students," rang the voice of Professor Barth, the Battle Master. "Remember, this is not a contest of strength, nor is it a battle to the death. No one's honour is at stake on this floor today. The goal of this final exam is to prove your grasp of fundamental battle technique. Your only enemy is yourself."

  Having spoken, Barth strode to meet Constance and Destra in the centre of the floor. He briefly inspected their we
apons, nodded, and returned to his bench near the door. He sat, crossed his huge, bare arms over his chest, and nodded again.

  "Begin!" he barked.

  Destra lunged first, trying to hook Constance's shield with her war hammer. Constance dodged reflexively, turned, and batted the flat of her sword against Destra's mail-covered shoulder.

  "Point," Barth called.

  More warily this time, Destra began to circle Constance. Apparently feeling a bit more confident now, Constance lifted her shield and jabbed beneath it. Destra anticipated the maneuver however. She twisted away from Constance's sword and swept her war hammer forwards, low and quick. With a deft jerk, Destra hooked Constance's heel and swept it out from under her. The leather-clad girl went down backwards and dropped her shield.

  "Point and fault," Barth shouted, pointing first at Destra, and then at Constance where she lay on the floor. Gabriella felt sorry for her friend as she collected her shield, but it really had been a clumsy maneuver. If only she, Gabriella, had drawn Destra's name from the lot, she'd have felt confident of her chances to defeat the taller girl soundly if magnanimously. She liked Destra after all, even if she was a bit mean-spirited sometimes.

  The duel went on for another half minute until Barth struck a small iron bell. When it was over, Constance was awarded three points and one fault, Destra four points and two faults, passing marks for both girls. In reality, except in cases of gross error or injury, every student passed the final battle practical. It wasn't so much graduation that was at stake, but reputation. For many noble families, this duel, even more than the graduation ceremony itself, marked the transition into adulthood. All around the theatre, students watched the proceedings with grim eyes. They might pretend that the outcome didn't matter, but in their hearts, they knew differently. Gabriella saw it on the faces of her classmates, even Rhyss. The only one who seemed completely unfazed by the duel was Darrick.