Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  The same wind that propelled the vessel cut the mist surrounding Avalon, and admitted the ship to the enchanted isle. Lightning flashed.

  The black ship slipped into the harbor. The huge oars dragged in the water, then suddenly lifted skyward to accommodate the vessel near the dock.

  Within moments of reaching the isle, a wide section of the ship between oars collapsed neatly inwards, revealing an opening. Horses could be heard from within just as a ramp extended forth from the darkness onto the dock like a protruding tongue.

  The sound of thundering hooves on wood could be heard as the beasts galloped forth. They were six great black creatures with flaring nostrils and wild eyes, harnessed to an elegant carriage as black as their glossy coats.

  This vehicle clattered across the ramp without hesitation and continued on its way along the now muddy road to Greensprings. The ramp was withdrawn, the opening closed up, and the strange ship slid into the mist that had collected around it, and disappeared without a trace.

  #

  Just as suddenly as the storm came, it left. The dark billowing clouds rolled on, taking with them the pelting rain and driving wind.

  The gutters and rain spouts rattled and gushed. Gargoyles all about the keep disgorged water at such a rate that it spurted out horizontally, but within minutes the streams faltered and sunshine glittered on the puddles.

  Guests ran about the corridors, shouting and excited.

  Patrick stepped out of his room. “What's going on?” William and Trent were drenched.

  “Somebody is approaching the keep in a rich wagon. It's a new Guest,” Trent said. Patrick followed the two up onto the castle walls where a crowd was gathering, some soaked, some dry. They looked over the wall and watched the sleek black carriage approach the keep.

  “Who is it? I didn't know any new Guests were coming,” Trent said to Patrick.

  Patrick shrugged. “You're asking the wrong person. I didn't even know that Amy du Lac was coming, let alone leaving so soon. Well, actually, now that I think about it, I could have guessed she would have left that quickly.” A few people within hearing distance chuckled.

  The carriage reached the gate and waited for the drawbridge to be lowered. Mark was standing at the forefront, legs apart and fists on hips. He was in Avangarde garb, with a huge broadsword belted at his side. He looked very kingly. Gathered around him was a retinue of knights, and behind them were milling Guests and staff trying to get a better view of the new arrival. There were murmurs in the crowd, and many questions. The drawbridge was down, and the horses pulled the carriage across and stopped in the courtyard before the assembled greeting party.

  “Does anybody have any idea who this is?” King Mark asked from the corner of his mouth. McFowler at his side shook his head.

  A stocky driver scurried down from the carriage and approached the coach door. He was a pale looking creature with narrow slitted eyes and a shorn head. He looked more a toad than human. He lowered a stepladder from the side of the coach by a metal hinge and then opened the door for the passenger.

  First came his glossy leather boots, followed by kidskin leggings. The man who stood upon these tall legs was thin with a craggy face and a well-groomed beard and mustache. His hair was dark to the point of having a blue sheen. His eyes were an indiscernible color and were situated perfectly between razor sharp cheekbones and finely arched brows. In short, he was all angles and edges. Even his ears were oddly elongated, slightly pointed, and he wore a golden ring in one of them.

  The man stood momentarily gazing upon Greensprings. Then he threw back his cape and leaned forward on a silver-tipped walking stick. His entire wardrobe was composed of fine dark fabric with a rare lavender lining.

  He stepped forward, motioning to his dwarfish servant to retrieve something from the carriage, and walked up to King Mark and his entourage.

  “Greetings,” said Mark. “Welcome to the Keep at Greensprings. I am its Steward. And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” He extended a hand in friendship. The man took Mark's hand and smiled. His teeth were extremely long, but perfectly straight and white.

  “I am the Viscount Loki, of Jotunheim. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” The sun was back out and shone radiantly on Loki. A sweet perfume surrounded him. The servant returned with a scroll, and handed this to his master who in turn handed it to Mark. “I believe this is for you.”

  Mark took it, looked it over then popped the seal on it. It glowed for a moment as all the swan-sealed invitations did. Mark unrolled it and read silently. His brow furrowed, then cleared. He folded the document and placed it inside his surcoat. He shook hands again with the newcomer, and then turned to all assembled.

  “Welcome our new Guest, the Viscount Loki.

  Chapter Six

  The Viscount Loki was an enigma.

  He did not at first interact with the other denizens, and he did not make many appearances. His first many days at the Keep at Greensprings he stayed concealed in his room, sending out his dwarfish valet, Minion, to fetch his meals and do his errands.

  In the process, Minion was into everything. His odd squeaky voice was everywhere as he asked directions or for assistance—anything to make his master more comfortable. Minion's spikey haired head was seen in the kitchens, the stables, the vestuary, the library and even managed to be kicked out of the Hall for Lady Guests, having wandered there, so he claimed, on accident.

  Loki's arrival may have been a surprise, but he bore an invitation, so he was given all the hospitality afforded to any other.

  “What does he look like up close?” Sir Jeremiah asked McFowler at the dinner table one night.

  Between large bites of food, Sir Jason answered, “He's a thinnish fellow, all bones and edges. And his face, Mother of Joseph, it's all pock marked as if he tripped and fell face down in an alchemist's vat. His ears aren't all that easy to look at either; all stretched out and chewed on looking, and they say I'm strange looking?” Jason shoveled more noodles into his face and caught many of them on his beard.

  “Who invited him anyway? I hadn't heard of his coming. Who's his Patron on the outside?” asked Sir Waylan.

  Sir Geoffrey shrugged. “I was right there when Mark read the invitation. It was signed by Marcus Ionus himself, but it didn't mention who recommended he come here.”

  “Where's he from anyhow? What's his reason for being here?” Sir Jon asked, reaching for bread in the middle of the table.

  “He said Jotunheim. Where's that?” asked Sir Corbin.

  “He has a funny accent, like those people from the far north...” McFowler began, but Sir Brian shouted; “You would know!” His smile suddenly turned painful and he jumped in his seat, as if he'd been kicked underneath the table. McFowler finished, “...but his mannerism and dress are completely unlike them. His speaks eloquently. I can't place him.”

  “Perhaps you all should let it be. He is not obligated to tell us about his origins,” King Mark said. He was in hearing distance of the knights from his large chair at the center of the table. Christianne Morneau, who was ever at his side now, ate quietly while pretending not to listen.

  “But we do have the right to know why he showed up on such short notice,” Sir Geoffrey said. Patrick could not discern if there was awkwardness or animosity between the two noblemen because of Christianne, and if there had been originally, he missed it during his mission in the woods.

  King Mark shrugged. “His invitation bore the seal, and it was signed by Marcus. That should be all we need to know.”

  “But it can't hurt to ask him,” said McFowler. “If he so wishes to divulge all, he will. Correct?” There was a mischievous glint in his eye. Mark conceded.

  “Good then,” Jason said, standing. “Lord Viscount, how timely. Won't you join us here at our table?”

  There in the doorway was the black clad Viscount, having just arrived with his servant Minion.

  Mark groaned.

  “Why thank you, Sir McFowler, I would be d
elighted to join your company.” Loki's words were almost musical. He approached the table and the knights made room for him before the feast. Minion dutifully stood behind him. Sir Jon called for a maidservant to bring more food and drink.

  “Viscount, I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. It seems you know my name, though I have not been properly introduced to you.”

  “That is quite alright,” the nobleman returned. “I'm familiar with all of you: Sir Mark, the keep Stewart, Sir McFowler, the Captain of the Guard; Sir Corbin, Waylan, and Brian, senior Avangardesmen; Sir Jon, Jeremiah, and Patrick, Reservists and...” he raised his goblet, “...assorted lovely Ladies.”

  All around the table there were surprised and flattered murmurs. He was very informed for somebody who spent most of his days in his chamber.

  Talk was easy for much of the meal. The Viscount, who insisted on being addressed as just “Loki” was very interested in the Isle of Avalon, and those at the table were very interested in him. But McFowler, who was usually very good at the talking game, found his inquiries rebuked.

  “Where exactly is Jotunheim?” the Highlander finally asked.

  “Why that is difficult to explain.”

  “Try me; I'm a very traveled and learned person despite my brutish appearance.” Jason flexed his tattooed arms.

  “Well, if you insist on knowing,” Loki commenced. Mark was frowning at the Scotsman. Loki turned to one of the Ladies present and stroked the underside of her chin. She smiled with kitten-like pleasure. The eyes of the other Ladies present widened and they giggled. “It is a wonderful land beyond the Northern Wind, where dwarves with magical silver beards weave the finest clothing from them. It is a place where a giant tree that sings holds the sky together with its boughs and keeps it close to earth. It is a land where terrible giants roam the hills and it is a land where,” he stopped and tweaked yet another girl's nose, “every girl is a princess.”

  The Ladies sighed. Sir Geoffrey rolled his eyes.

  Loki turned to his glass and swirled his wine while dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

  “But I am more interested in this land,” he said losing interest in Lady Guests. “This...this Isle of Avalon. It intrigues me. As a matter of fact, I plan on venturing out into it and learning more about it.”

  This caught Mark's attention. “We would be more than happy to provide a chaperone to show you around the island.”

  “I wouldn't dream of inconveniencing anybody. I can travel about myself, with my man Minion of course. You see, I wish to spend an evening or two underneath the stars and explore the out of the way places. I am an adventurer of the truest sort.”

  “It is no inconvenience, and I'm afraid that it is a matter of keep policy that all Guests be escorted by Avangarde when out of sight of the walls.”

  Loki chuckled. “Why really, Sir Mark, I am an adult and I can take care of myself.” He touched the slim sword at his side.

  “Believe me, Viscount, I mean no disrespect, but the keep rules apply to everyone. It would be difficult to explain to the Benefactors that I let one of their Guests fall afoul of some misfortune. It is for the best.”

  “Come now, it can't be that dangerous. Unless there is something to hide,” Mark’s eyes narrowed at the comment. Loki changed his stance. “Perhaps you are right. I am the one being childish. I should follow the rules like everyone else. After all, I am a guest and should be a polite one. My apologies.”

  “None needed, Lord Loki,” Mark said, saluting him with a drink.

  #

  Sir Jason McFowler swaggered into the kitchen, surveyed the treats arrayed on the preparation table as if surveying a kingdom, and began to reach for a tart as he walked by.

  The Kitchen Madame, Rosa Maria, swooped in from another doorway and gave the would-be thief the eye. Jason, not even skipping a beat, withdrew his hand and bypassed the table whistling to himself and continued on his way.

  His swagger turned into a saunter as he passed into the corridor and came across one of the maidservants bent over a basket of laundry. He approached, all smiles, grabbed the lass by the wrist, spun her around and reeled her back into his arms. The young girl squealed in surprise and McFowler grabbed her gently around the waist and dipped her in a dancing maneuver. The maidservant didn't seem to mind once she recognized her assailant.

  Just the same, Jason twirled her away and gave her a slap on the behind before he moved on down the corridor where he came across his next victims. They too were maidservants, bent over their task. Which in this case happened to be picking through baskets of apples from the orchards. Jason tapped one on the shoulder, jumped to her opposite side, stole an apple while she was distracted and kissed her on the cheek when she turned in the opposite direction.

  “Sir McFowler!” The maidservant Claire exclaimed. “You are worse than a child.”

  “If you are saying that I am young at heart, I gladly accept your compliment.” Jason bowed. “And how are you lovely ladies on this lovely day?”

  “If you are trying to make up for stealing apples, flattery will get you everywhere,” said Anna, the other maidservant.

  “We are fine, Sir Scoundrel, and you?” Claire replied.

  Jason merrily ate his apple. “I'm bored, underpaid, surrounded by beautiful women whose virtues I am sworn to protect, and must be on my way to give a lesson in Gaelic song. That is how I am.”

  “My, aren't we the busy little bee. Well, go then, and teach your music before I spank you for being naughty. I'd hate to do that.” Anna shooed him away.

  “Spank me? I think I might rather like that.”

  “That's why I'd hate to do it.”

  McFowler laughed and skipped away to the auditorium.

  #

  When Jason entered the chapel, a previous class was just leaving. Many, probably all, of the youngest Greensprings Guests were scattering like a flock of birds to go play now that lessons were done. Several stopped by McFowler to say hello and hug his legs.

  “Why Sir McFowler, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?”

  Jason turned to be confronted by the Mother Superior and her entourage of young nuns. He surmised that it had been they who administered the singing lessons.

  “Would you believe me if I said I came to be in your charming presence?” He offered. Mother Superior's icy blank stare told him that she would not. The woman never smiled.

  “No, hardly,” she said. “But I would be delighted to direct you to a confessional, should that be the reason for your visit.”

  Jason's grin widened. “I wager you would,” he whispered under his breath, and then said quickly, “Mother Superior you know that you would be the first person that I would come to if I had any sins of major consequences to confess.”

  “Ha!” she exclaimed with a straight face. “I wasn't born yesterday—”Jason fought hard to suppress a comment. “—and your roguish behavior hasn't gone unnoticed. If only I knew the extent of it.”

  Jason looked to the nuns. “If only you knew.” The nuns snickered and blushed behind Mother Superior's back. Jason placed his hands together and said, “Actually, seriously, I am here to teach lyrics of Gaelic song to the Lady Katherina. She is a remarkable musician and was very much taken by my bagpipe playing and wished to know if there were any words that accompanied the music. I told her that there were, but I never sang them because I can only carry the tune of a bulrush in rut.” He winked at the Mother Superior.

  “And?” She said, refusing to let Jason's antics perturb her.

  “...and she said she wished to learn them. So I offered to teach them.”

  “That was mighty kind of you. And I suppose it will be just the two of you, all alone in here?”

  Jason feigned shock. “Why Mother Superior, I am just aghast at what you might be suggesting.”

  “But I am right in assuming it will be just the two of you?” she said, eyes narrowing.

  “No, no, not at all. Ah, Sir Gawain!” Jason's face
brightened with relief. The other knight, who seemed to be in the process of passing through the chamber, furrowed his brow at the sound of his name.

  “Yes?” he said.

  Mother Superior seemed incredulous. “And just how is he supposed to help you?”

  Patrick had approached after being addressed, and was now encircled by Jason’s one-armed embrace. “He also speaks Gaelic.”

  The nun glared. “I thought Irish Gaelic and Scottish Gaelic were different?”

  Jason shrugged. “Details, details.”

  “So, you're going to help McFowler, Gawain?”

  Patrick had been standing with a blank look on his face. “Actually, I was just passing thr...ouch!”

  Jason pulled on his ear. “What a funny one this one is!”

  “Yes, help! I'm going to help!” Patrick cupped his ear tenderly.

  Mother Superior was silent as she stared at the nervous looking pair of knights. “Hmph!” she said, with what might have been the slightest hint of a smile, and departed with her nuns.

  Once gone, Jason relaxed as if dropping a weight from his shoulders. He wiped his brow. “Lucky thing that you came by when you did.”

  “What am I supposed to be doing?” Patrick asked.

  “I'm teaching lyrics to the Lady Katherina, and for a moment I thought the Mother Superior was going to insist on staying.”

  “Ah, I see...” Patrick smiled.

  “No, you fool. Seriously, I'm teaching lyrics and that's all. My music has words to it, and for once I would like to do it justice by having it heard by a voice that conveys the true meaning of it. Surely you must understand, coming from Eire. The ballads are similar, right?”

  The Irishman nodded. He wasn't sure if he entirely believed it, but he would give Jason the benefit of a doubt. Why else would he play his pipes at all hours of the day?

  “Ah, and here she is,” Jason said. “Sir Gawain, the Lady Katherina of, of...how do you say it again?”