Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  “How did the quilt come out?” he asked. He was sprawled on the staircase. He held a goat skin flask in one hand.

  “Fine,” Katherina replied. She noted that he was wearing the same clothes as the day before, yet they were damp looking. Patrick was also garbed in his chain mail coat and he hadn’t shaved. His eyes were sunken and he seemed to glower.

  “Did it take you long to finish it? Or did you end up having much free time on your hands after all?” Patrick took a long swig of the flask. The red fluid that beaded about his mouth indicated that it was wine.

  Katherina turned a lighter shade of pale. “Yes, it took most of evening.”

  He no longer looked at her, but focused on something in the air before him. He took another drink of the wine. “Are you sure? If you had been free, I would have been more than happy to make you laugh for the evening. Tried at least.”

  “I was busy entire evening, Patrick,” she insisted.

  Patrick shook his head. His hair hung in his eyes and Katherina could not tell whether the sounds he now was making was silent bitter laughter, or weeping.

  “Tell me poem, Sir Gawain,” she said, the first thing to come to mind.

  Patrick looked up, but his eyes were still hidden. His mouth moved into a mechanical smile.

  A glittering storm had blown my way;

  A foreign beauty

  Whose eyes pierced like the winter sun.

  At first I resisted;

  I ran and denied

  The grasp in which I twisted,

  And wished I had died.

  But then I accepted

  This pale hand held out.

  And for once I felt rested,

  And with joy cried out.

  But it was not for long.

  The storm blew away,

  And she was gone

  With nothing to say.

  My Snow Princess had become

  An Ice Queen.

  During his recital, he had been quite animated, but now he slumped back against the balustrade.

  Katherina’s chest heaved and her jaw set. She turned suddenly and left. Sir Patrick’s bitter laughter followed her, interrupted only by a pause to take another drink from his flask.

  #

  The Viscount Loki yawned as widely as possible. He hoped that the young Guest, William, would take the hint and stop speaking. But the boy was as oblivious as he was dull. The Viscount told himself that it wasn’t much longer. A few more days and he could leave these people.

  The Lady Katherina approached the table. Loki, William and Minion all stood in consideration.

  “Do I interrupt?” she asked.

  “No, not at all, my dear Lady. Won’t you join us?” Loki elbowed Willy gently aside to make room for Katherina. She took her place and the conversation turned to other things.

  Patrick entered a few minutes later, unshaven, unkempt and haggard. He looked even worse than the poor King-Steward Mark. Loki smiled to himself. Even though he had been forced to endure this place, he had had some fun. It was not unlike puppeteering. Why, there was Sir Peredur, glaring at Sir Jon who pretended not to notice; Sir Mark and Sir Gawain were hollow shadows of themselves; Sir Geoffrey still bore the faint, discolored bruises around his eyes; the maidservant Aimeé stood by with a vacant look in her eyes; and the list went on.

  Katherina relaxed a bit when the Irishman took a seat―nearby, but not in her line of sight.

  “You know, Lady Katherina,” the Viscount whispered. “I was thinking about being naughty. How would you like to accompany me on an adventure?”

  Katherina glowed. “Yes, I’d like very much.”

  Loki rubbed his hands together. “Splendid! How would you like to join me a week’s time from now and travel to the other side of the isle?”

  Minion, who had been working on a roasted chicken leg, froze.

  “Isn’t that against rule?” Katherina asked.

  “Of course, that’s why it’s naughty.”

  “I don’t know...”

  Loki scowled. “Why Kat, I’ve never known you to back down from an adventure. Why, I expected more from you.”

  Her countenance became angry and indignant. “Yes, I want to go. I just want to know what you have in mind and how you expect to get away with it.”

  “Well, that’s more like it: I have heard tell that on a full moon’s night, one can see the fairy-ghosts on the moors. Their spirit flames light up the countryside like a heavenly rainbow. Would you like to find out if there is any truth to this story?”

  Katherina smiled. “Yes.”

  Minion hissed to the Viscount, “Master, you want to take her with us?”

  Loki hissed back, over his shoulder, “Of course, fool, I have plans.”

  Katherina had overheard Minion’s half of the exchange. “Is he going?”

  Loki turned to her and murmured, “Of course, we need him to drive the carriage. How else am I supposed to divide my time between gazing out onto the moonlit moors and your eyes? I have only two eyes, you know.”

  Katherina’s smile deepened. “Still, how do you manage to make this happen? We just can’t slip out gate in middle of night with guard everywhere.”

  “Let me worry about that,” Loki said. He noticed that Sir Gawain was leaning in their direction. “Besides, it will be no more trouble than the time we went to that little chapel you showed me,” Loki said in a louder voice. “You know, when you made me tell you a story about those pictures on the wall.”

  Loki gently, and obviously, took the Lady Katherina’s hand and kissed it.

  Patrick stood and made to leave the dining hall, but caught his pant leg on the bench, stumbled, knocking over plates and falling into people, red-faced.

  Before Patrick disappeared out the door, Loki raised his hands and mimed pulling on puppet strings.

  Sir Corbin saw Sir Gawain leave the hall in a huff and went after him. He caught him in the corridor.

  “Patrick,” he called. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”

  Patrick held up and wondered what he had forgotten to do. He ran his hand nervously through his hair.

  Corbin looked uncomfortable. He didn’t look Patrick in the eyes and sighed heavily. “We’ve been talking, Mark and some of the others. We think that perhaps it would be a good idea if maybe you took some time off―just for a while,” Corbin added. “Until you―work things out. You seem to be under much stress right now. A distracted guard is next to a useless guard. Nothing personal, friend. It is better for everyone.”

  Patrick did not respond right away. He stood quietly as if pondering, or concentrating on something invisible before him. Corbin fidgeted during the silence, not sure what to say either.

  At last, Patrick nodded and grunted something in acknowledgement, then said, “What of the tournament I was organizing?”

  Corbin fidgeted some more, his eyes wandering.”Mark feels that the resources for such an event are best applied elsewhere at this time.”

  Again Patrick was silent for a moment. “When can I return to my duties?”

  Corbin shrugged. “We’ll let you know.”

  Patrick smirked. That statement held many possible meanings. He left Corbin standing there, and as he walked he ran his hands through his hair. The flush in his cheeks had not quite ever left.

  “Gawain?” Corbin called.

  Patrick waved him off.

  Like most people, he may have wanted attention from time to time, but what he didn’t want was pity.

  #

  “What do you mean you’re not serving Aphelon right now?” Patrick growled.

  Frederique shrugged an apology. “I am sorry, monsieur, but the holiday is coming up and we need to increase our stores of the cider.”

  “Why, so you can increase the price as well?”

  Frederique smiled. “Of course. How about some beer instead, good sir?”

  “I was hoping to find myself in a drunken state as soon as possible. With beer, it will take a little longer. Not
to mention more money.”

  Frederique shook his head. “I can give you Trub, if you are that eager to crawl into the depths of despair.”

  Patrick frowned. “Trub? That dark beer that if you put a fork in it, it will stand on end?”

  Frederique nodded.

  Patrick slapped his hand on the table. “Very well, Trub it is!”

  Frederique shuddered a bit as he prepared a mug of the heavily sedimented brew for the knight.

  As Patrick waited for the foam to subside, he used his last lucid thoughts to consider what led him to this chair with this drink in his hand. He knew that his actions towards Katherina bordered on obsessive, and that letting his feelings run his actions did not help his already poor image as Sir Silence. Sir Corbin’s dismissal said as much.

  He had known it was coming. Now that it was actually here, he was ashamed. All his work to act the part of a true Avangarde was wasted, and he was no good to Katherina, the Avangarde, or himself. So what was left? This chair, this beer—out of everyone’s way. If he really felt anything for Katherina, he could do that much for her. Stay away.

  Patrick took a sip of the dark brew. Actually, it was a nice change from the acidic Aphelon.

  #

  He spent the remainder of that night alone in the public house drinking everything he could keep down, as he did for the next many nights to come. He had nothing else to do except sit alone in the dark in his room, which was worse.

  At first he tried busying himself with swordplay, but as a solo activity, it proved difficult and boring. So, inevitably, he found himself back at the Aesclinn pub. Logically, being antisocial and crawling into the bottom of a mug was the wrong thing to do, but what he knew and what he felt were different things. Drinking himself into a stupor made him feel better. Made him forget.

  Oddly, however, it made the Apparition clearer. It dogged him in the halls, his room, at the pub. It followed silently, occasionally pointing with its outstretched hand, as if it were feeding off his misery. The Irishman almost became used to the thing being around. Almost.

  It accompanied him one evening as he sat on the stool at the bar.

  He was in rare form this evening with his hair and clothing in disarray. He no longer tried to maintain an image. He had no one to impress. Now that his days were filled with―nothing, he was slowly going mad with boredom and the dull ache of worthlessness. The madness circled about him like a dark flock of bats that obscured his good memories. At night, as he lay in his bed, if he listened hard enough, he could hear the wings of madness circling him. It sometimes made him laugh.

  During the day, he lurked about the stables, the kitchens or in the basement to hide from people. It was working all too well. No one really noticed him gone. He thought, with all seriousness and chagrin, that if he were to die suddenly in his room, no one would notice until the smell alerted them.

  Patrick sat bitterly at the bar and glared at the other patrons. He didn’t know who perturbed him more at that moment: the silent Apparition or the loud gay patrons.

  They seemed so happy. They knew each other and exchanged greetings. As far as Patrick could tell, he was invisible to them. He couldn’t blame them, they were only doing what they did on a regular basis anyhow. They only did what they knew best: be themselves. Something that he wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to do.

  As usual, he sat by himself with a pint of Trub as his only companion―well, that and the Apparition, who sat across from him. He swirled it about, smelled it, tasted it, downed it; but it was always the same bitter drink. It dulled his senses and gave everything an unreal dreamlike quality. He couldn’t dream enough or run far enough away, though, because the painful fact of reality was always there. His discomfort. His awkwardness. His sense of not fitting in.

  And yes, of course, there was the Apparition adding to his malaise. Sitting across from him staring from that dark, anonymous hood that revealed nothing.

  At least it wasn’t pointing at him.

  Instead, it seemed to shake its head in pity, as if it found Patrick too pathetic to torment any longer.

  “To hell with you!” Patrick shouted. Patrons looked at him as if he were a madman. “I don’t care what you are or what you think! If you have come to take me, I wish you would hurry up and do it! I tire of this game!” Men were moving away from Patrick. He didn’t care. He was beyond caring.

  Expelled from the Avangarde? Taken by a baleful ghost? Who cared? He just wished it would happen. Something! Anything!

  So, Sir Patrick raised the glass of dark beer to the Apparition in salute. “Here’s to you anyway, my only companion who stays with me through thick or thin...”

  He drank deeply.

  #

  Avalon was famous for its apple orchards that bloomed year round in never ending cycles of blossoms and fruit. Some called it magic, some called it a miracle. To those who made Avalon their home, and whose lives revolved around the apples, they just called it a blessing and once a year they celebrated the fact. In some lands one might call it a Harvest Festival, in other lands an Oktoberfest, but in Avalon they called it Alhhard-Aphel, Apple-Day or Apple Fest.

  The holiday was marked with apple pies, candied apples, apple-dunking contests, dancing, singing, bright colors, rollicking music, games, and of course large quantities of the island’s signature drink, Aphelon hard cider.

  Though the village put on quite a festival for the occasion, it was tacitly understood that the common folk reserved the day to let loose among themselves, and so Greensprings made arrangements for their own celebration in the keep.

  Aimeé, like the rest of the staff, spent most of the day preparing for the event, which surpassed all other occasions in grandeur except for Christmas and Easter. By nightfall they finished hanging the bright streamers from the balconies and chandeliers, and setting equally festive table cloths. No sooner had they finished placing the silver and crystal, than the Guests, knights, other staff, and clergy started to filter into the hall. Until then, Aimeé had been feeling the grueling day catch up with her, but now that the room was coming alive with smiling faces and happy chatter she felt reenergized. She took her place with the other maidservants along the wall, and waited until enough seats were filled to start serving.

  “It’s a pity,” Anna said at her side, “that we had to use some of the everyday cutlery to make up for the missing silver, crystal, and cut glass.”

  Aimeé frowned at the news. “They never found them?”

  “Nay lass, and rumor has it that Mark may be forced to start investigatin’ the servants.”

  Aimeé shook her head at the very idea. She just couldn’t believe that any of them would steal. Where on earth could they possibly sell them? Sure, if they could somehow sneak them off the island...

  She banished the thought from her mind. Today was a day to be happy.

  Their rest was short-lived. The hall filled up quickly and they moved to start filling glasses and bring food-laden platters to the tables. They paused only long enough to allow King Mark to stand and greet the assembled with a short and cheery speech. After glasses were raised and clinked in a hearty response to Mark, the maidservants continued their routes about the room.

  In her duties she leaned over the Lady Katherina, who was talking gaily to the Viscount Loki, and replaced an empty flagon with a full one. As she stepped back from the table, she made it a point to bump the Lady.

  This did not escape Katherina’s attention, who turned icy eyes on the maidservant and started to rise from her seat, mouth hardening with harsh words. But even as the Viscount Loki, with a whimsical smile on his face, reached out to halt her, she froze and looked past Aimeé, brow furrowed with concern.

  Aimeé turned.

  Sir Patrick, obviously drunk and disoriented, staggered into the hall. He shuffled to a corner of the room and took a hard seat next to the hearth, daring with defiant eyes for anybody to stare at him. Everyone in the room at first did stare, and pointed and turned to their comp
anion to comment, but once he sat back against the hearth and closed his eyes, they ignored him.

  Almost in a daze, Katherina sat down again. Aimeé moved across the room towards the Irishman. Halfway there, Anna stepped into her path.

  “Don’t do it lass, let him sleep. It’s better if he stays in a harmless manner,” she advised.

  Aimeé withdrew her arm from Anna’s grasp and said between her teeth, “He needs somebody to take care of him. Maybe I can convince him to leave or something.”

  She went to Patrick’s side.

  “Poor girl,” Anna said to another maidservant, Claire. “I’m not sure who I feel more sorry for.”

  They both shook their heads as Aimeé tentatively approached the motionless knight.

  #

  Aimeé shook him awake. His eyes took a moment to focus, and it seemed that if his eyes could groan out loud, they probably would at the sight of her. Despite this, she managed a congenial smile. “Sir Gawain, you look tired, why don’t you go to your room and lie down?”

  Patrick scoffed. “Nonsense. I wouldn’t miss this night for my life.”

  Aimeé looked about. King Mark had other things to brood about. The Lady Christianne, like the Lady Katherina, looked troubled by Patrick’s state. Most everyone else ignored them.

  She returned her gaze to the lanky Irishman sprawled in the chair. The belt about his surcoat was buckled at the wrong hole and hanging loosely, his hair was unkempt, and his boots muddy. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms and wrists. His face was moist with perspiration, and stubble shadowed his strong jaw beneath high cheekbones. A musky aroma told her that he hadn’t bathed in some time, but it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant odor. Despite his attempt to be flippant, his eyes were tired and sad.

  Still, Aimeé didn’t want to take any chances. “Look, Patrick, if I bring you drinks on a regular basis, will you behave yourself?” she asked.

  Patrick smirked, but he gave her an exaggerated salute. “Knight’s honor.”

  Relieved, she turned to go.