Ruins of Camelot (39 page)

T
he citadel stairs ascended into shadows, following the curve of the outer citadel wall.  Gabriella crept up the stone steps slowly, eyes wide, her sword clutched before her.  A faint sound echoed down to her, light and trilling, incongruous in the musty dark.  It was music.  She frowned even through her fear.  There was a harpsichord, a fiddle, a flute, all playing in perfect unison, framing a whimsical tune that would have been perfectly appropriate for a royal summer picnic.  Here, however, the jaunty tune seemed nearly mocking, like gaudy rouge on the cheeks of a corpse.  She followed the sound of it.

A landing opened before her.  It was quite long, carpeted with what had once been a rich, red rug.  Now the rug was rotted and mouldy, adhering to the floor like a skin.  Beyond this, more stairs curved further up the tower, probably leading to archer nooks and, eventually, the war room at the top.  That was not her destination however.  The music was not wafting down from above, but echoed quite nearby from the citadel's grand hall.  A bar of firelight lay across the carpet, emanating from the hall's unseen double doors, which were apparently thrown wide open.

The music played on, teasingly bright and lilting.

Gabriella stopped.  Her heart thudded heavily beneath her breast plate.  She was less than ten paces away from her final destination.  Normally, she knew, a knight in this situation would take a knee and pray, the hilt of his sword clasped between his hands.  She wished to do the same, but could not quite bring herself to do it, despite her great fear.  She and the Almighty had never enjoyed a particularly amicable friendship, even in her youth.  After all, God was supposedly the ruler of all things, and He had seen fit to take away her mother.  Since then, He had allowed the beast Merodach to grow in strength, to threaten everything she loved.  God had taken Rhyss.  And most importantly, He had allowed Darrick to be cut down, viciously and senselessly.

She could trust Him no longer.  Not with the life of the Little Prince, and not with this, her final mission.

But there was someone she
could
trust.

As silently as she could, she leant her sword against the wall, crouched, and unslung her pack.  Reaching inside, she quickly found the small weight of the wrapped candle and drew it out.  The cloth fell to the ruined rug as she unwrapped it.  Slowly, she raised the candle in both of her hands, touched it to her lips, and closed her eyes.  She leant against the wall, touching the smooth wax to her forehead.

Sigrid had not told the truth about the candles in the cathedral.  Gabriella had sensed it even as the older woman had spoken of it.  The candles
were
magical—perhaps the best and greatest magic left in the kingdom of men, left over from the time when Merlinus himself worked his art for the elder King Arthur and his noble Round Table.  The candles were not mere symbols any more than the sun was a mere symbol of the day.  Sigrid had not extinguished the Queen's candle on the night she was murdered, despite her claims.  The candle had gone out on its own, because it did not burn on wax or wick.  The candles burnt on the life force of the ones they represented.  When that life force ceased, the candles went dark.  Sigrid had been lying.  It had been a well-meaning lie of course, meant to offer hope and faith, but it had still been a lie.

And sometimes, unfounded hope and faith were the worst lies of all.

Gabriella lowered her hands and looked down at Darrick's candle.  It was not mere wax and wick.  It, like the other life candles, was far more magical than anyone remembered.  The wick was blackened, but the wax had barely even melted.  It was nearly perfect.

She reached up, held the candle to the torch that crackled just overhead.  The wick caught the flame reluctantly.  It crackled faintly, flickered, and finally took light.  Gabriella lowered it, suspecting that she had very little time.

"Darrick," she whispered.  "I'm so scared.  I don't know what to do."

The candle's flame buffeted slightly at her breath.  Smoke curled up from it in grey ribbons.

Bree…

It was him, or at least the memory of him, captured in the candle like a reflection.  His voice came out of the air like the last toll of a distant echo.

"Darrick," she rasped, her face breaking into a pained, bitter smile.  "Darrick, my love!"

She had not truly expected her idea to work.  She had meant to ask for her husband's blessing and counsel, just as she had on the day she had faced Goethe on the battle floor.  Now, however, hearing his voice again, all of those intentions fled her and were replaced by a much deeper, simpler question.

"Why…," she whispered in a barely audible voice, "why did you do it?  Why… did you break your promise to me?"

I am sorry, dear one,
his voice replied, seeming to come from the wafting ribbons of smoke. 
I was foolish… foolish to make a promise I did not know I could keep.  I did not wish it.  But I am not sad.  How can I be?  I have passed into the Meadows of Heaven, where you will someday join me.  I am sorry that I am not there for you now.  My love remains.  And someday, we will be together again.  Here, nothing will be able to breach my promise to you.  But Bree, you must not make the same mistake I did.  You must not make promises you cannot keep…

"I am not," she breathed, shaking her head slightly.  "I am here to avenge you.  And Rhyss.  And even my mother.  I am here to protect Camelot and our son. 
Our
son…"

You have not come here only to avenge us, Bree…,
Darrick's voice said with quiet emphasis. 
You cannot lie to the dead, dear one.

She shook her head more adamantly now.  "Yes I have!" she whispered harshly.  "It has been my intention from the day I knew of your death.  Everything has led me to this moment."

Yes, Bree.  But there is another, deeper reason why you have come here.  You have come here, my love, not just to avenge… but to die.

As soon as he said it, Gabriella knew it was the truth.  Her eyes widened in the darkness, staring at nothing.  Her lips trembled, and a gasp of misery gathered in her chest.  She fought it back.  He was right.  His words revealed to her the deep longing inside her, the aching desire for it all to end.  There had been too much taken from her, too many lifelong hopes shattered.

This was why you did not name our son,
the haunting voice went on.
  To name him was to make him fully yours, and you knew, even then, that you had no intention of returning to him.  You left him to Sigrid, as a gift, and an offering. 

“That’s not true,” Gabriella insisted, refusing to acknowledge the truth of his words.  It was no use.  The weight of her own hidden motives settled onto her like a stone.

I know the depths of your sadness, Bree,
Darrick said, and the loving sympathy in his voice crushed her. 
I tasted them myself even as the madman killed me.  The greatest pain was not the steel of his blade, but the knowledge that I had failed you, broken my promise to you.  In that instant, I felt a lifetime's worth of regret and misery and despair.  I know how you feel.  But I got off easily, Bree.  My sadness lasted only a moment.  Your burden is much, much greater…

"No," Gabriella protested, her voice suddenly low and hoarse.  "No, I will not.  I cannot.  It is too much for me."

It is not,
her husband's voice insisted gently. 
You are stronger than you know.  You can do what is required of you, if you truly intend to.

Gabriella covered her face with one hand, and a moan of abject desolation escaped her.  "What
is
required of me, Darrick?" she begged.

Our son needs you, my love.  He has already lost his father.  He cannot lose you as well, no matter how great is your longing to be free.

"Sigrid will care for him," Gabriella pleaded weakly, her hand still covering her eyes.  "She will name him, hide him, keep him safe."

No.  He needs you, his true mother.  You must return to him.  Find him and raise him.  Tell him about me.  Make him the man he is meant to be.  Only you can do that now.

"No," she wept, shaking her head feebly.  "I cannot.  It is too much…"

Gabriella,
her husband said, his voice beginning to fade. 
Gabriella, you must do the hardest thing of all.  My love, my wife… you must live.

"But how?" she rasped, dropping her hand and glaring desperately into the tiny flame.  It was shrinking, fluttering.  "Coalroot told me I would face Merodach.  He told me that I would die!"

Of course you will die,
Darrick's voice replied easily, and there was almost a laugh in it. 
Everyone dies.  He did not tell you when or how.  He is a capricious spirit, overflowing with deceptions.  He knows far less than he believes.  You cannot trust his words.

"Whom
shall
I trust?" she whispered fiercely, desperately.  "God?"

Nothing lasts forever, Bree…,
Darrick answered distantly, drifting away. 
Camelot must eventually fall.  All of us must someday die.  No one ever said trust was easy.  But it is always better than the alternative.  Live your life, Bree.  Go to our son.  Raise him.  The Meadows of Heaven will await.  As will I.

Gabriella was still shaking her head, her eyes squeezed shut.  Not in disagreement, but in refusal.  It was too much, the burden too great.  But even in her denial, she knew that her lost husband was right.  Her duty was clear, no matter how difficult it might be.  Ever since she had been a child, she had wondered if she would be able to do what was required of her.  Sigrid had promised her that when the time came, she would.  She would live up to the demands of being a princess.  If she chose to.

If she chose to.

She drew a great, shuddering sigh.  As she released it, she opened her eyes.  Darrick's candle had fallen dark, this time for good.  His voice was gone.  Tears trembled in the corners of her eyes.  She wiped them away with the back of her hand before they could fall.

She stood away from the wall.  Carefully, reverently, she crouched and set Darrick's candle on the floor.  The magic was finally gone from it.  Now, once and for all, it was merely wax and wick.

"Goodbye, my love," she said quietly.  "Until we meet again."

She stood once more, collected her sword where it leant against the wall, and strode forwards, approaching the echoing music and the bar of firelight.  The citadel's grand hall, and Merodach himself, awaited.

Darrick had been right.  Her duty was clear.  And yet she could not allow the madman who had killed him to live.

She just had to make sure that when it was all over, she still did.