Ruins of Camelot (45 page)

Thomas considered telling Yazim his suspicion.  Eventually, of course, he would.  For now, however, he enjoyed the silence and the teasing hope of his secret suspicion.

Soon enough, the village opened up before them.  A few peasants moved amicably through the streets, gazing up at the two riders as they ambled into the town proper.  Thomas smiled at them, nodding.  By the time they reached the stone church, the sun was a brilliant orange furnace between the forest and the mountain cliff.  Its light glowed fiercely on the bell tower and glittered from the copper bells inside.

The two men clunked the knocker on the double doors, but no one answered.

"Perhaps it is their dinner," Yazim suggested, turning back towards the steps.  "Let us check the rear entrance if there is one."

Thomas followed his friend down a narrow path that led between the church wall and an overgrown garden.  The rear churchyard was quite small, already half-full of the shadows of the nearby mountain cliff.  A tiny cemetery dominated the yard, enclosed in a leaning iron fence.  Yazim passed beyond this, approaching a small outbuilding, presumably the parsonage.  He knocked on the wooden door.

Thomas stood near the gate of the cemetery.  From here, the noise of the mountain waterfall was a dull roar.  He saw it in the near distance over the roofs, raining its heavy mist onto some unseen pool.  Rainbows danced on the falling water, and each drop glittered like a diamond in the copper sunset.  Thomas wandered idly into the cemetery, seeking a better look.

Yazim reached to knock again on the parsonage door, but before he could, it swung open before him.  A thin man with a short, white beard met him, smiling vaguely.  Yazim could tell by his clothing and demeanour that the man was the church vicar.

"Greetings, my son," the old man said in a tiny voice.  "How may I assist you?"

"My friend and I are traveling on the business of the Kingdom of Aachen, of which your village, it appears, is a part.  May we come in?"

"Certainly, my son," the vicar agreed easily.  "I have heard of this kingdom of yours, of course.  I trust you will inform me exactly how it might benefit us.  And of course, I suppose, how we must benefit
it
."

Yazim nodded wearily and then turned back to call over his shoulder.

"Thomas, shall you be joining us?"

The red-haired man stood in the middle of the tiny cemetery, unmoving, his head bowed slightly.  He did not respond.

"Thomas?" Yazim called again.

Thomas finally glanced back.  Yazim saw that his friend's face was unusually pale, his eyes wide.

"You…," Thomas said querulously, "you… might wish to see this."

Yazim frowned.  Together, he and the vicar descended the short stoop and angled into the centre of the cemetery, joining Thomas where he stood.  Yazim followed his gaze.

The tombstone was quite large but flat against the ground, so that its face always caught the light of the sky.  Faint words were still legible on it, cast in harsh relief by the lowering sun.

Yazim read them.  His own eyes widened slowly…

Sigrid sat in the shadow of the lake cottage’s back door, snapping green beans in a large bowl and watching the Little Prince with one eye.  He was already walking, albeit haltingly and with many false starts and sudden sits.  He moved through the tall grass of the yard studiously, chasing butterflies and blinking owlishly up at the clouds.

She, Sigrid, had always wanted a child; the Princess had been right about that.  The truth was, however, that the Little Prince would never truly be hers, even if she raised him his whole life.  She loved him just as if he were her own son, but he was not, and eventually, he would have to know the truth.  She hoped that the knowledge of it would not crush him.  She hoped that he would still grow into the noble, strong-hearted man that she sensed even now within him, buried in those sombre, blue eyes.

They were Darrick's eyes of course.  Even the Princess, his mother, had seen that.  But the rest of his features, from his high forehead to his bow lips, were all Gabriella.  He began to amble back towards the dooryard, taking great, careful steps through the grass.  Crickets leapt into the air before him, and he smiled at them in wonder.

A figure moved into the open back door.

"He grows faster than those weeds," the man said, running a sleeve across his brow.

"The Little Prince gets fed well," Sigrid replied archly, peering into her bowl.  "Venison and rabbit three times a week will do that to a child."

The man smiled and rolled his eyes.  "Only you, Sigrid, could turn my skill with a bow into a backhanded compliment."

Sigrid sighed and tossed a handful of green bean stems into the bushes.  "All those years you spent as a castle guard, Treynor, when your true calling was as a woodland huntsman."

Treynor stepped out onto the stoop, sat down on its ledge, and stripped off his gloves.  "You still call him the Little Prince sometimes," he commented quietly, "do you know that?"

Sigrid did know it.  It slipped out regularly even though the boy did have a name now.  She was reluctant to forget his true heritage, despite the dangers.

Treynor went on.  "His name is noble, even if no one will ever realise his royal blood.  Darrick's family was a solid one, even if their vocation was a common one."

"None are truly common," Sigrid smiled faintly.  "Not even blacksmiths."

Treynor nodded.  "How right you are, my dear."  He lifted his chin and called out, "James!  Come here, boy.  I've a rabbit for us to skin.  Would you like to help?"

The boy smiled broadly, tried to run, then dropped to his hands and knees on the grass.  He jumped up again, unperturbed, and aimed towards the door.

"Nothing will ever stop that boy," Treynor grinned affectionately.  "Not if he does not wish it to."

Sigrid nodded thoughtfully.  Together, they watched the young Prince approach.  As he got close, Treynor arose to his feet, stepped forwards, and scooped the boy into his arms.  James giggled happily and clung to the man's broad neck.  They turned towards the cottage.

"Treynor," Sigrid said suddenly, and the tone of her voice made him stop.  He glanced aside at her, saw the curious frown on her face as she stared out over the yard.

"What is it?" he asked, suddenly wary.

She replied evenly, "Something is out there."

Treynor turned around again, still holding the boy in his arms.  The yard swelled towards a low hill fringed with trees and thick brush.  Treynor studied the view.

"I see nothing—" he began, but then stopped.  There was movement in the trees, a rustle of grass and leaves.  A shadow approached, took on the shape of a figure, and then stepped out into the sunlight.

No one spoke.

Slowly, Sigrid stood.  Her eyes were tense with disbelief.  Across from her, the figure, a young woman, began to walk forwards again.  The sun caught in her hair.  Her eyes sparkled as her steps quickened.  A slow, helpless smile began to dawn on her dirty face.  She started to run.

"Princess…," Sigrid whispered, dropping the bowl of green beans.

Gabriella ran forwards, and the others dashed into the yard to greet her.  She threw off her armour as she came, leaving a trail of it in the high grass.  Tears coursed down her cheeks as she laughed with delight and disbelief.  She favoured her left side as she ran.  Her right hand was streaked with scars.  In it, held tightly, was a length of tapered wood: Goodrik's gift wand, its power finally spent.

The four met.  They embraced.  There were tears, laughter, shouts of joy, but very few words.

And in the centre of it all, the Little Prince reached for his mother.  He threw his arms about her neck and went to her happily, as if he had always known this day would come and was not surprised at all that it finally had.

In his little fist, surrounded by rejoicing and the babble of voices, his cheeks smothered with his mother's tearful kisses, he clutched the twin shapes that hung about her neck—two sigils, one in the shape of a
dragon
, the other a
falcon
.
  One represented his lost father, the other, his found mother.

They were still warm.

Yazim smiled slowly as he read the gravestone's inscription.

Thomas spoke first, his voice thin in the evening air.

"Does… does the family indicated on this stone still live here in the village?"

The vicar smiled and shook his head.  "No, I daresay that they have long since moved on.  The days of their hiding are thankfully over.  Their line is scattered to the wind, as are so many others."

"But you understand the significance of this…!" Thomas insisted, glancing back at the vicar.  "This tiny village and this…!"

The vicar nodded and shrugged.  "Well," he answered, his eyes twinkling enigmatically, "she had to be buried somewhere, did she not?"

The three stood there for another minute.  Finally, Yazim turned to his friend, still smiling crookedly.

"Come, Thomas.  We have a task to attend to."

Thomas shook his head, frowning, and then laughed lightly.

Without another word, the three men turned back towards the parsonage.  They approached it, stepped into the shadow of its open doorway, and then, with a clunk, the door shut behind them.

Beyond the parsonage, the waterfall roared and glimmered.  The sun dipped over the horizon, now lighting only the highest ledge of the mountain cliffs.

In the cemetery, shadows deepened peacefully, full of radiant summer warmth and the chirr of evening crickets.  In the cemetery's centre, one gravestone seemed to stare up at the darkening sky.  Its etchings were still clear in the twilight.  The top was engraved with the image of a noble falcon, its beak raised, its wings partly unfurled.  Beneath this, in large, simple letters, were the lines of a short inscription: