Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  He had distracted himself with the ritual of the mass during the funeral, especially while Father Hugh prepared communion. Something about the communion cup that he used struck him as familiar. Father Hugh held up the chalice to be blessed and to transform the wine in it to the blood of Jesus Christ, and in doing so, sunlight from an open window glinted off the gold. The beautiful craftsmanship, the hourglass shape, the reverence with which it was held, all reminded Patrick of another cup. A cup held by delicate fair hands in a cave.

  A shadow enveloped the room, yet there were no clouds in the sky now. The Irishman suddenly had no desire to look behind him for fear of what he might see. He cupped his face in his hands and wished for the shadow to pass. Though he could no longer see it, he could feel its chill on his back.

  Then, from outside his window, came the sound of bagpipes. The same music that Jason used to play. From the sound of it, the music wasn't McCabe. It wasn't his style. It was as if someone were carefully imitating McFowler himself.

  The icy shadow faded away, just as David’s harp-playing drove away the evil spirits that afflicted King Saul. Patrick looked up. He could see down the length of the wall to where William of Monmouth was standing, in Jason's old place, playing the pipes.

  And for once, it sounded good.

  Chapter Seven

  The weeks that followed the attack, Mark ordered double the guards about the fortress, and added heavy patrols as well.

  Envoys traveled from Rome and Brussels. They were serious looking old men who represented the Benefactors and Patrons of the Greensprings école, and they were gravely displeased with the news that the keep’s defenses had been breached, exposing the royal progeny inside to risk and harm. They arrived anonymously and no banquet was made for them, and few were seen outside the meeting chamber in which they had cloistered themselves.

  Patrick Gawain and the rest of the staff walked on eggshells for the duration of the inquest. For that is just what it was; an investigation into the misconduct of the Avangarde who allowed this to happen. Mark was their steward and leader, and thus responsible. There were rumors of the disbanding of the Garde, and the closing of Greensprings.

  Sir Wolfgang Von Fiescher came back for the closed door meeting. He sought out many of the knights and asked them, one by one, to come into the meeting chamber to give their account of that night's events. Patrick was no exception.

  “Sir Gawain,” asked a hawk nosed and cold eyed man at the table. He had a heavy Italian accent. “From what we gather, yourself and...” he looked over some papers before him, “...Sir Gregory witnessed the demon that undoubtedly heralded the attack, correct?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You warned Sir Mark of this?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And yet he made no action that evening in preparation?”

  “Well, no my lord, but you must under-”

  “Thank you Sir Gawain, but that will be all.” The man waved him away.

  Patrick looked from the man to von Fiescher to Sir Mark, who looked tired and beaten at the table's end. Wolfgang nodded, and Patrick turned to leave.

  “Oh, Sir Gawain, one more thing,” another man at the table said. This man was short and portly. He had a Flemish accent. “You were in the Crusade, correct?” Patrick nodded. “What can you tell me of Sir Robert, Duke of Normandy?”

  Patrick paused before answering. He was surprised at the question which seemed to have little to do with current events. “I never met the man personally. I fought under Godfrey de Bouillon's banner, whom I never really met either. Robert was a capable leader and soldier from what I understand.”

  “But what can you tell me of him personally, from 'what you understand'?”

  Patrick struggled to keep his lips from curling in contempt, angry that they were berating Mark like this, and then had the gall to change subjects as if nothing important was going on here.

  He replied flatly, “He was typical of the Frankish Princes who went to the Holy Lands. He went looking more for earthly treasures than for heavenly salvation.”

  The Flemish man nodded thoughtfully and motioned for Patrick to leave, who went gladly.

  #

  The meeting stretched on for another week, during which time it seemed the entire keep held its breath. At week’s end, just as suddenly and just as unceremoniously, the visitors left. They looked just as agitated as when they arrived. Wolfgang von Fiescher also left, but only after having had close and friendly words with Mark.

  Then, to everyone’s surprise, Mark announced a feast. Lady Christianne was put in charge of the arrangements, but as was her way, she delegated the particulars to other Guests and servants.

  The dinner was colorful and bountiful, but a hush wrapped the assembled guests and few people laughed or even smiled. King Mark sat in his central large chair. At last he stood as if to make a toast. He lifted his goblet and announced that Greensprings would continue unchanged. The silence cracked like the sound of a rope, long pulled taut, snapping in half. And though the hall was brilliantly lit by a hundred candles, it seemed to grow brighter.

  Mark sat down. Some of the color returned to his face.

  #

  Sir Jeremiah ran down the corridor and burst into the kitchen. The other Reservists were gathered around some leftover wine and loaves of bread. Jeremiah struggled to get close to Sir Jon who sat at the head of the table.

  “...so then they left for the port. Mark nearly collapsed after that,” Jon was saying, gesturing wildly.

  “What did I miss?” Jeremiah asked, brushing a dark curl from his eye.

  “You would know if you weren't late,” a Reservist near Jeremiah said, and slapped him on the back of the head.

  Jeremiah winced. “I hadn't finished my bloomin' dinner.”

  Jon continued. “So I hear Mark and Corbin—who, incidentally, is our new Captain of the Garde—talking about how the Council is going to let Greensprings be for the time being, because of the fight that is happening on the outside between the brothers Henry and Robert of England and Normandy. Which makes sense; because Robert is the rightful heir to the English throne and who naturally we are supposed to renew our contract with. Avalon uses the ports of England as a jump-off point for the Guests and such. But since Henry usurped the throne, we don't know who we are supposed to pay allegiance to.”

  “That must be why they asked me about Robert,” Patrick cut in. There was a murmur that ran through the crowd of assembled Reservists.

  “Right,” continued Jon. “So, the problems here are trivial to what's happening on the outside. Thus they are going to let Mark stay in control, and independent. Now is not a good time to have a mass exodus of young royal Guests. It's rumored that Robert, despite a current agreement, is massing an army to invade England later this year. We're safer here, and so are the Guests.”

  “The Council must know that, otherwise they would have done something by now,” said Sir Gregory, his youthful face shining just as brightly as his new black and white Avangarde surcoat. It had been he who was chosen to fill Jason’s place in the Avangarde.

  The young Reservists, eager for information, talked for a while longer into the night. Until, that is, Rosa Maria came and chased them away. The knights might have had full run of the keep, but the kitchen was Rosa's.

  #

  The Viscount Loki squinted at the stars. He grumbled, handed the parchment roughly to Minion, and held up the shiny brass contraption in his hand. This he put to his eye and peered at the heavens. He lowered it without taking his gaze from the sky, and then raised it back to his eye. He frowned, lowered the device and angrily grabbed the parchment from Minion.

  Minion had perused it himself. Of all the documents from the library’s secret chamber, this was the only one Loki had brought back to their suite. At its center was the image of an island with several stars above it, shining upon the island.

  Loki consulted the parchment for some time, shoved it back into Minion’s grasp, the
n consulted the brass device once again. This he squinted at, ticked off several graduated symbols along its length with his finger, then turned one of the many gears on it. Its intricate parts moved in unison. Once satisfied with its new configuration, Loki again held it up to the sky. “Hmph,” he said, and began to pace. He moved along the lakeshore, paused, and scratched his head. “This is certainly challenging.”

  “What is, Master?” squeaked Minion.

  Loki shot him a glare. “Never you mind. Watch for Avangarde. We're not supposed to be out like this all alone.” Loki stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “Goblins might get us. Imagine that.” He swung about, looking up as if surveying an invisible structure.

  “What will they do if they find us?” Minion asked.

  “Spank us, I suppose,” Loki laughed. “But it won't matter in a little bit. They will be the farthest thing from my mind if I could just figure out this damnable geoconfiguration of the temporal horizon―”

  “What?”

  Loki's face lit up and he shook his finger. “Ah-ha!” he cried. “I have it!” He snatched the parchment and ran to a position near the lakeshore and he looked wildly between it and the stars. Then he hunched over and placed one hand over his brow as if peering out over a brightly lit expanse. He straightened and began to inch forward like a man at the edge of a cliff, and he struggled against an invisible wall like an actor pantomiming in a play. He cursed and grunted, then finally stepped back.

  He set the document and peering-device on the ground and paced a bit more. After several breaths, he threw himself forward with his hands outstretched as if to part a curtain. He grunted and struggled until his brow was covered with sweat.

  Minion stood by shaking his head, sure Loki didn't notice. Minion was accustomed to his master’s odd behavior, but it never ceased to amaze him.

  Suddenly, Loki's head disappeared. Minion cried out and ran forward to grab at his legs and pull on them.

  Loki's head suddenly appeared just as mysteriously as it had disappeared. “Stop, fool,” he hissed, and he turned his head again into the air that engulfed it. Minion stood with mouth agape. The Viscount held his hands in the air as if braced against a wall, and then his head vanished all the way to his shoulders.

  Loki pulled back one last time. His head slowly reappeared as if being drawn from a pool of water. “Damn, damn,” he growled.

  “M-master, what is it?” Minion stammered.

  “It's what I came for, but it's not entirely accessible at the moment.” Loki was angry, but this time not at Minion. He paced with hands on hips. “It must be the season. The moon and Venus must not be pulling on the doorway hard enough to open it wider.” He suddenly brightened and smiled. “But that is acceptable. I'm lucky to have found it at all. If it weren't for that Irish knight suggesting I search out the librarian, I wouldn't even have found the information to come this far.”

  “Master, I don't understand...” Minion started to say, but before he could finish, Loki bent over and picked up the little man and shoved his head into the mysterious air.

  Minion cried out. His head passed through something cold like water. The dark nighttime lakeshore was suddenly bright. He stopped kicking and his eyes adjusted.

  Before him was a twilight landscape that was the fantastical mirror image of the old lake. This lake was flat and smooth as glass. The surface of the water reflected the fiery auburn sky and the image of an island. This island was composed of a clear and faceted rock, like quartz stone. Atop this island was a marvelous castle of solid ivory. From its tallest central tower radiated a single beam that flickered gently. The castle seemed to be drawing in light from all directions and focusing it through this tower, projecting it to the heavens like a beacon.

  Suddenly, Minion was drawn away, and then he was lying on the dark shore of a dull and lifeless world.

  “Wh-what was that?”

  Loki bent forward, his eyes blazing with a life Minion had never seen before. “Home!” he cried. “Where I belong. What I've sought for a long, long time. We're going there as soon as that little window is big enough to allow us to pass.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I calculate in about two, maybe three moons passing.”

  “What if the portal doesn’t get any bigger than that?” Minion asked innocently.

  Loki’s eyes widened and he looked around as if someone might be overhearing. “Shssh! Shut your mouth!” Loki slapped the little man upside the head. “You mustn’t say such things!” Then just as suddenly he grabbed Minion’s head in a playful headlock and stroked it gently. “No matter if it shouldn't get much bigger. The important thing is that I found it. I am not without means to force it wider. However, I should still wait until the moon and Venus are properly aligned to try. I may only get one chance. Unfortunately, that will mean putting up with that nest of do-gooders, Greensprings.”

  Minion made a muffled concession from Loki’s armpit.

  Loki stopped his stroking, absent-mindedly wiped his hand on Minion’s shoulder, and turned them back towards the keep. “But that is acceptable. I am a patient man. I've waited this long; I can wait a little longer. Even if I have to put up with those wretchedly happy people. They remind me so of that silly Marcus Ionus whom I beguiled into inviting me here. I'll just have to make a game of it.

  #

  “Is it only me, or does Sir Gregory seem a bit cockier than before?” Patrick said to Sir Jon at breakfast, gesturing for his fellow Reservist to pass him the bread. “Certainly he never swaggered like that before.”

  “Gregory has never been, nor is he now, cocky. You're just angry that it was he who made Avangarde, and not you.” Jon passed him the loaf. His moment of uncharacteristic wisdom sounded like condescension.

  “And you aren't?”

  “Of course I am, but I don't let it disturb me,” Jon responded in a whisper, for the Viscount Loki’s servant, Minion, came to sit at the table.

  “It doesn't disturb me that much,” Patrick lied, also whispering and trying not to make eye contact with the little man who was for some reason methodically touching every utensil and plate near him. “I was just making an observation.”

  “Well, what is past is past, so...” Jon paused to pass a fork to Minion, whose arms were too short to reach it. “So we must try ever harder to prove ourselves.”

  “I have been trying.” The Irishman smirked, not bothering to whisper anymore. “It doesn't seem to be doing me any good. And I don't see what Gregory did that was so special to be chosen.”

  “Maybe you need a whole new approach.”

  Minion was now biting on the fork. “Like what?” Patrick asked.

  Jon looked about as if he were about to divulge an important secret, whispering even more quietly, though Minion was already moving on to the next utensil, oblivious to the knights’ conversation. “You need to win your way into the confidence of the key players in the keep.”

  Patrick slapped his hand to his face. Of course Jon would say that. “I have no intention whatsoever of demeaning myself to 'win' anyone's confidence. I want to become an Avangarde by my merits, not by whose arse I sniff.”

  “Look, Gawain, if you really want it, you have to become creative. A knight's skills do not lie in the sword alone. Sometimes it's necessary to be a diplomat, not a warrior. For example, I hear that the staff is going to try a new chaperoning method to divide the duties among the staff and Avangarde. They are going to let the Guests choose by whom they are chaperoned when they go outside the keep, or are tutored, and so forth.”

  “So?”

  “So if I can convince a certain Guest, a certain older and influential Guest, to request me as a chaperone, then that Guest will certainly have positive things to say about me, and thus word will reach those who make the decisions, and eventually I will be a prime candidate for an Avangarde.” Jon paused and looked at Patrick for a reaction.

  Patrick stifled a laugh. “And just what Guest did you have in mind?”


  Jon tried nonchalantly to jerk his head in Minion’s direction, which of course, only made it look more obvious.

  The little man was now digging through a burlap sack.

  Patrick frowned. “I don’t think Minion has much influence in these matters.”

  Jon rolled his eyes. “No, his master...Loki,”

  Patrick shook his head whimsically. “Jon, Jon, Jon. If ever I am master of my own kingdom, I certainly would want you as my advisor, for humor's sake if nothing else.”

  Jon smiled. “Well, we'll see.”

  Minion departed then, not having eaten anything, slinging his sack over his shoulder.

  “Where’s my fork?” Patrick frowned as he searched around his seat.

  “Look, there is Viscount Loki now,” Jon said excitedly. He straightened out his collar and quickly ran a hand through his thick blond hair. “Wish me luck,” he said, and left. Patrick smiled and shook his head.

  “Ho, Jon!” Sir Peredur, an Avangarde, intercepted the Reservist in the middle of the dining hall. “Ho, Jon. Where are the scissors I lent to you?”

  Patrick saw Loki glance at the two men, and pass out of the room. Jon didn’t notice. “I left them in front of your door, as always.”

  Peredur was angry. “If someone else borrowed them they would have left a note.”

  Jon crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Just what are you suggesting?”

  Peredur raised his hands defensively. “Look, Jon, I know that they are handy and you have been busy, but those scissors were a gift from the finest smith in my home city. Their handles are gold. Just bring them by later tonight and everything will be fine.”

  Jon's face turned crimson. “I left them at your door.”