She gripped her new sword, drew a deep breath, and dodged into the nearby shadows. Quietly and carefully, she began to make her way towards the citadel.
She expected to be accosted at nearly every turn, but the camp was eerily quiet and almost totally dark. She passed the glowing guts of several cook fires, their embers strewn messily and popping with grease, but there were no lanterns or torches. Voices muttered in some tents, grating snores emanated from others, but she saw no sentries. Whatever the truth about the viciousness of Merodach's armies in battle, this one, at least, did not seem to be concerned with being attacked in its own camp.
As Gabriella darted along a main pathway, she wondered how many of the tents were occupied by creatures such as Brom—dead but somehow alive, consuming putrescence to maintain their own putrid flesh. Perhaps most were still human, but not all. How was such a thing even possible? What sort of black enchantments was Merodach dabbling in that he could employ such horrors?
Perhaps she would find out. Or perhaps not. All that mattered was that she face the monster and that he taste her sword. She was terrified to do it, now more than ever, but she refused to give in to her terror. There had been enough of that already. Perhaps (she hoped) she was like David in the scriptures, who had faced the giant Goliath when all the others had refused. The difference, she realised with a sense of sinking dismay, was that David had placed his trust in God for victory. Gabriella had had enough of trusting in God. For good or ill, victory or defeat, she was taking matters, finally and firmly, into her own hand.
The citadel loomed over the tents, a hulking black tower, its top serrated with crenulations. Unlike the rest of the camp, lights burnt within the citadel. The arrow slits glowed and flickered against the inky darkness. Gabriella stole through the shadows, aiming for the left side of the tower. There, a large, dark door stood, flanked by two guards. She skirted this, keeping to the shadows and eventually sidling up against the citadel wall some twenty paces away from the guards. She dropped to an alert crouch in the weeds, considering her options.
The guards were very tall, wearing rusty but heavy amour and carrying nine-foot battle-axes. Even from her vantage point, Gabriella whiffed the stench of the men. They were like Brom, dead yet walking, haunted by the unspeakable.
Could she kill them both? It seemed a ridiculous fantasy. Blades neither killed nor slowed down such monsters. Granted, she had managed to kill Brom with a stake, but that had been a stroke of enormous luck. She had bypassed his armour by attacking from above, driving the point straight down into his heart. It was highly unlikely that she would be able to duplicate such an act, especially on two of the hulking creatures at once. Even if she managed to kill one of the guards and succeed in gaining entry, the second guard would give chase and would likely alert reinforcements. If that happened, her chances of confronting Merodach alone would be greatly diminished. It was absolutely essential that she maintain the element of surprise.
She frowned pensively as she watched the guards. Neither moved in the slightest. They looked like nothing more than oversized statues sculpted from human flesh and bone. How could she possibly defeat such huge, beastly things?
In her mind, the memory of Darrick spoke: You're small, Bree, so you're quick… She blinked, remembering. It had been the day of the battle practical. He had been giving her advice on how to defeat Goethe. He'll squash you if he gets a chance, but you can make sure that chance never comes if you're wary.
… If you're wary.
An idea occurred to her. It was, on the surface of it, so preposterous, so utterly unthinkable, that she very nearly rejected it instantly. The reason she did not, however, was because it also seemed teasingly plausible. If indeed she was very quick and very wary. She remained crouched in the weeds, her back to the cold stone of the citadel, and glanced aside at the guards.
They did not budge. It was as if they were hibernating on their feet, simply waiting for something to approach, whereupon they would animate and respond accordingly.
Stealthily, quietly, Gabriella pushed herself upright, keeping her back against the wall but being careful not to let her armour scrape against the stone. Keeping flat against the wall and holding her sword carefully before her at the ready, she began to edge towards the door.
The guards stood a pace forwards of the door, battle-axes leant against their shoulder plates. They did not even seem to be breathing. Gabriella could see their faces in profile. They were huge, jowly, their beards forming brambles on their chests. Their eyes shined dully in the night, unblinking. She crept on, trying not to breathe, lifting her feet carefully so as not to disturb any of the loose stones that ranged around the tower. Amazingly, she began to near the door, sidling behind the guards, pressing back into the shadows of the citadel.
She moved into the range of their stench. If she could smell them, she realised, then there was a good chance that they could smell her as well, no matter how quick and quiet she was. She held her breath as she inched around the edge of the door. The nearest guard was barely an arm’s length away. His broad back loomed over her in the darkness.
Collecting her sword into her right fist, she reached back and pressed her left hand to the iron handle of the door. It was latched of course. She felt for it and found the thumb bolt. Gently, she began to exert pressure on it. It resisted. And then, with a soft click, it depressed. The door budged slightly open behind her.
"What was that?"
Gabriella froze, her eyes wide, petrified. One of the guards had spoken, his voice a low, grating growl. The other one stirred slightly.
"I smell something," he muttered, and sniffed the night air harshly, like a dog. "Blood. Sweat." He paused, then added, "Fear."
Both guards were silent for a long, awful moment. Finally, the first guard spoke again.
"Perhaps it is a wounded beast. Check the wood."
The second guard nodded. With a jerk and a rattle of armour, he stepped away from the door, hefting his axe. He paced slowly towards a range of trees that ran along the nearest edge of the tower.
Slowly, still holding her breath, Gabriella pushed herself back against the wooden door, silently begging the hinges not to creak. The door began to press open behind her. Warm air wafted out through the crack, lifting the hair from her brow. The guard sniffed again, growing agitated. He began to look around.
Gabriella pushed harder against the door, knowing her time was nearly up. Finally, swiftly, she slipped through the crack into the warmth and light of the citadel's main entry and caught the door as it began to swing back. Gently but quickly, she eased it shut, leaving it unlatched.
With a deep shudder, she exhaled and closed her eyes. She could scarcely believe that her plan had succeeded, and yet she was inside the citadel, standing in the torch-lit corridor of its main entry. A curving staircase dominated the end of the corridor, ascending into darkness, waiting for her. She leant back against the wall next to the door, weak with relief.
The door rammed open in front of her, very nearly striking her. Cold air coursed into the chamber, buffeting the flames in their wall sconces. Gabriella's eyes flew open as the shadow of the door fell over her. Fortunately, she had leant against the wall nearest the door's hinges. Had she been on the other side, she would have been spotted immediately.
She saw the guard's fingers clutch the edge of the door, holding it open. There was a shuffle of feet as he edged inside.
Gabriella gripped her sword and bit her lips, watching, waiting for the guard to enter fully and close the door, revealing her behind it. She would have to take her chances fighting him if that happened. Quickly, she calculated where the best place to strike would be and determined she would have to take the guard's head off. The beastly man might survive even that drastic a blow, but he would at least be debilitated and possibly blinded. She swallowed and tensed her muscles in preparation.
The guard did not fully enter, however. He stood on the other side of the open door, breathing deep, grating breat
hs, tasting the air. Finally, with a soft grunt, his fingers released the edge of the door. Gabriella heard him step back outside, and the door swung shut with a rattling clunk.
She swayed on her feet, her sword still clutched before her, staring at the heavy wood of the door. With an effort, she forced herself to relax. The sooner she got herself away from the door and into the upper reaches of the citadel proper, the better.
Trembling faintly, nearly sick with adrenaline, Gabriella crept down the corridor, heading for the dark staircase.
Chapter 11
The 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.