The Artifact Hunters

by Janet Fox

  “Dire wolves?” asks the first, dropping his voice. “They’ve not been seen for generations.”

  “They are not, I think, of this world.”

  Some moments of silence pass before the first knight speaks again. “’Tis my thinking that great evil has been lured here by the bewitcher. It has an uncanny hold over His Majesty. All from a stone that has no human soul.” He adds in a low voice, “I’ve never liked the thing.”

  Isaac’s knight nods agreement. “All matters have become worse since the queen’s banishment.”

  “Aye. Our king has fallen prey. The bewitcher should be locked away for the sake of the realm and His Majesty.” He pauses. “And the other—Caledfwlch—as well. It is too potent. Dangerous. An object not to be left in the hands of a brooding king who has fallen prey to a fae invention.”

  “Agreed,” Isaac’s knight says. “I can count on you, then?”

  “Aye. And you’ll find others in our camp.”

  The two stare out in silence. Isaac’s knight says, “We must be careful in our approach. It could be seen as treason. Our only hope lies with Mistress Vivienne.”

  The first knight nods. “You have my word.”

  They stand a moment longer, then move to leave.

  Isaac, stepping behind them into the narrow stairwell, follows the knights as two words—bewitcher and Caledfwlch—turn in his mind.

  * * *

  * * *

  The noises of the busy place grow as they descend. Smells of cooking meat and smoke, and laughter and loud talk, fill the air.

  They step out into an arcade that leads into the heart of the castle and then to a great door that opens into a central room. In that tapestry-draped room the castle noises are muffled, and a dozen or so men—and women, Isaac notes, women in armor—are gathered around a great table. They’re in the midst of what seems to be a heated argument.

  “Where is His Majesty?” asks Isaac’s knight.

  “Sir Bedwyr,” answers a woman knight, “he will not listen to us any longer.” She gestures toward a closed door.

  Bedwyr moves toward the door.

  “You enter at your peril,” the woman says.

  He pauses. “We’re all in peril so long as the bewitcher holds him in thrall.” He moves on and Isaac follows close behind, entering a chamber lit only by a low fire. Bedwyr closes the door softly.

  Slumped in a chair before the fire is a man wearing a crown and a filthy cloak that drags on the floor. The room smells of smoke and sweat and grime, and even with the fire the air is chill.

  “Your Grace,” Bedwyr begins.

  The king (as Isaac supposes) waves his hand. “No,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Go away.”

  After a moment’s silence, Bedwyr says, “Your Grace, it is time for you to remove that which troubles you.”

  The king stirs. “And how do you judge that which troubles me, Sir Bedwyr?”

  “I would judge it to be in part the Myrddin, Your Grace.”

  Myrddin. Isaac wracks his memory, for he’s heard that word before.

  The king stands, swaying a little. “What if I judge you to be wrong, Bedwyr?” He looks up, his eyes sharp. “What if I judge you to be the source of my troubles?”

  Isaac’s knight, Bedwyr, drops to one knee. “You may have my head, if it please you.”

  Isaac sucks in his breath.

  The king paces. “The Myrddin gives me advice. The Myrddin is all I have left.” The king’s voice cracks. “Treachery is all around me.”

  “The Myrddin is possessed, some would say, by an evil magic. They call it ‘bewitcher,’” says Bedwyr quietly. “It tells you what you want to hear, not what you should.”

  “And why is that wrong?” the king asks, petulant. “Do you call it bewitcher? Do you betray me, too?” He moves suddenly toward Bedwyr, drawing his sword.

  Isaac pushes backward, tripping over his own feet, pressing his back against the wall.

  Bedwyr does not move but bends his head, waiting.

  The king raises the sword in one swift swipe, and Isaac throws his hand over his mouth to stifle a cry.

  But just as the sword reaches the top of its arc, the king pauses. “Bedwyr,” he cries, choking back a sob. He lowers his arms and lets the sword fall to the floor with a ringing clatter. The king follows, bending until he kneels, facing Bedwyr, who puts out his arms to steady the king.

  “I am lost,” the king whispers. “You’re my oldest friend. What do I do?”

  “Your Grace. I would remove this burden,” says Bedwyr in a soft voice. “The stone whispers lies.”

  They remain still for a few minutes, then the king nods.

  Bedwyr rises and moves to a corner of the room. Isaac follows, sliding along the wall, as the watch ticks in his hand. Bedwyr lifts a box that holds an orb the size of a football. The orb appears to be made of glass, and it begins to glow with a white fire.

  The hum fills Isaac’s brain and he knows it at once. Dark magic lies within the orb. Dark magic that immediately tries to use Isaac and his skill.

  The white glow is replaced by two red eyes and a grinning mouth, and the eyes are fixed on Isaac, who presses his free hand to the pendant and pushes back against the evil magic, refusing to amplify it, refusing to accept it, and then . . .

  Bedwyr snaps a cloth over the orb, hiding the eyes, and the hum fades to a low hiss.

  The bewitcher. The Myrddin. Isaac remembers now. He’s read so many of these tales. Myrddin is another name for Merlin, an ancient Welsh name for Merlin the wizard who was mentor to Arthurian knights and to Arthur himself.

  Isaac is in Camelot, near its end.

  But this Myrddin is not a benign teacher. This Myrddin is a dark fae using the orb as a spyglass, watching, waiting, searching, and turning what was good toward evil.

  Bedwyr returns to the king, who has retrieved his sword and moved back to the chair by the fire. “Sire, it’s time to put this into the hands of Mistress Vivienne.”

  The king nods.

  Bedwyr says, his voice careful as he picks the words, “And Caledfwlch, as well. The sword was always meant to be returned. That was the promise made at the beginning. The Vault is waiting.”

  The Vault!

  The king mumbles, looking up at Bedwyr with narrowed eyes. Isaac moves closer to the two of them.

  Bedwyr goes on, “The orb and the sword will be safe in this lifetime. Mistress Vivienne will see to it.”

  “And the next?” asks the king, standing again, the sword dangling from his hand. “What of the next? Is my perfect kingdom to turn to dust and vague memory?”

  Bedwyr lowers his head. “All things turn to dust, my friend. But the Guardians keep these artifacts locked in the Vault. That is their duty.”

  Guardians. The Vault. Isaac feels a chill. This is why he’s here. This is what he needs to learn—how the Vault and the Guardian fully connect to him.

  Behind him the door opens abruptly.

  An old woman crosses the room, holding a heavy cane that taps the floor, echoing. Stooped, her white hair falling in countless braids that hang to her waist, her eyes blue-white, she pauses halfway across the room. “I heard my name.”

  “He wants to take them,” the king says, petulant. “He wants to take what little magic I have left. I’m only trying to keep the kingdom alive.”

  Tap, tap. She moves to confront the king where he stands. “You’ve grown up. I may be blind, but you are not and your eyes are too far above my own,” she says.

  The king turns and drops slowly to one knee so that their eyes are level, but it still takes him a minute to look at her straight.

  “I’ve known you since you were born, have I not?”

  The king nods. “Yes.”

  “And cared for you. But I’ve let you rule as you would. Sometimes, mistakes have been
made.”

  The king shifts, mumbling, but then goes quiet.

  She says, her voice gentle, “All things change. All things end. These objects do not give you power. You have that all to yourself. But they must not be left loose to be used by those who would do evil.” She leans closer to the king, and Isaac moves behind him so that he can overhear her whisper. “We do not live forever. We are not masters of time. Only of what we leave behind, for good or ill. Even if it is lost in the mist of memory.” She straightens and looks directly at Isaac.

  He startles. He grips the watch to be sure he still has hold, but he’s certain that she can see him with those white-blind eyes.

  She looks back at the king. “Let go. You’ll feel better for it, even as ill winds blow. You’ll have the strength to keep them at bay for a while.”

  Bedwyr, still carrying the orb in one hand, comes to stand next to Vivienne.

  The king slumps, then straightens and sighs. He stands as if weary and places the sword in Bedwyr’s free hand.

  Caledfwlch, Isaac realizes, must be Excalibur.

  “Mistress,” says the king, “I hope this is not the end of all I tried to make good.”

  “All things change,” she repeats, touching his cheek. “What you’ve done here is diminish the bad that may follow.” She turns and the knight follows her, and Isaac does, too.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mistress Vivienne tap-taps her way out of the room. She and Bedwyr and Isaac pass through the gathering of astonished knights and then out into the arcade. She leads them down a long hallway draped in tapestries, away from the castle bustle and noise, then turns into another empty and silent hallway with bare stone walls, and stops.

  “Here we are,” she says, and leans her cane against the nearest wall. She pulls at her high collar and tugs at a chain that hangs around her neck. When it falls free, Isaac knows. It’s his pendant. The eternity knot.

  The eternity knot has also been scratched into this stone wall.

  She looks straight at Isaac. “This is how it is done,” she says.

  “Mistress?” says Bedwyr.

  “Not for your ears, knight, though you will play a part yet to come.” She holds up the pendant. “The key opens the Vault, which appears at a place the Guardian chooses and marks with the symbol.”

  Vivienne holds the pendant tight in one fist, places her other hand on the wall, and says, “The Guardian requires you, door, here and now.”

  The wall shimmers like water. A door forms, a door Isaac recognizes, and it opens to darkness.

  “Do you understand?” she asks Isaac. “The words that work make a request for the door to appear.”

  Leo was right, Isaac thinks.

  Though he wonders how she can see him, Isaac nods, and she nods back.

  “Give me the Myrddin and Caledfwlch, knight,” she says. She takes the orb and the sword from the knight. “I will not return. It’s time for another, who is waiting for me even now. Bedwyr, see your king to the end.” The knight bows and backs away.

  Vivienne turns back to Isaac. “That watch you have. It carries a witch’s curse and a witch’s promise. Your parents made a choice to give the watch to you, and their choice saved everything, except them. Everything else you need to know you’ll find in your own time.”

  Isaac’s heart aches for his parents, for the choice they made that has trapped them in time.

  “Isaac Wolf,” Vivienne says, “you are already a master of your magic. You already know what to do. Be true to your heart and believe in yourself and in the power of your friends.”

  Mistress Vivienne steps in through the door and before Isaac can move, the door vanishes. He’s left standing before the stone wall with Sir Bedwyr.

  “I cannot see you,” the knight says aloud. “But I’ve pledged myself to the Guardian.” A smile creeps across his rough face. “I think you shall see me again, though I may not be as I am today.” He walks away just as the watch in Isaac’s fist begins to chime the hour, its sweet bell echoing through the stone hallways of Camelot.

  CHAPTER 44

  The Wraith

  The wraith has been watching. Has been trembling with excitement. Its newest mechanical creation lurched inside the castle through an opening in the wards. Then a fae came from nowhere to land a dragon in the topmost tree near the castle, and the fae followed its mechanical creature and her dire wolf inside.

  The clouds lower as the wraith pulls ancient magic on the wings of storm. As the winds pick up, branches break and giant pines twist out of the ground. The dire wolves howl and close in tight, and the fae’s dragon spits fire into streaming sleet.

  Who is this fae? Or . . . does it matter?

  Not to the wraith.

  The wraith slithers toward the small door left ajar. Leaves rise in hurricane spirals around the wraith as it makes its way through the opening. Thorny vines trail over the threshold and wind down the hallway.

  The wraith pauses, what little heart it has left beating wildly. It is so close to having what it wants. What it longs for. Her.

  Parts of her, the mechanical parts, lie at the bottom of the well. Parts of her, the organic parts, lie in the chest the wraith dragged to its hidey-hole. The wraith is ready to remake her, its love. But the part of her it wants the most is trapped inside that silver thimble, and the wraith needs great magic to free it.

  This confluence of evil magic on Rookskill Castle—its own primal magic and the dark fae’s magic—is the wraith’s perfect dream.

  CHAPTER 45

  Moloch

  Moloch strides through the castle. He’s taken his own form again—that boy is too small. Uncomfortably tight for Moloch’s overlarge ego. His leathery wings brush the walls and ceilings, raking the portraits. The subjects of those portraits cower and shut their eyes, and Moloch leans a little closer, just because.

  He’s frustrated that Isaac eluded him in this first encounter, but at least he knows now that it’s Isaac that he seeks. And, in addition to carrying the key, what a powerful skill Isaac has. He can make magic stronger. Even Moloch’s magic. This is a skill Moloch can use—will use—for certain.

  Finding Isaac—capturing Isaac—will give Moloch power beyond even his wildest dreams.

  He finds the hallway again where the boy and his dog and that mechanical monster lie spelled. Moloch doesn’t need the boy’s form any longer; he needs information. He leans over and puts clawed fingers on the boy’s forehead to extract his thoughts and memories. The boy stirs in his unnatural sleep and moans.

  The dire wolf grumbles and sniffs at the helpless dog and salivates. Moloch finishes his task and steps away from the prone bodies, saying, “No feasting yet, my new friend. But soon.”

  He makes ready to go when he senses a presence at the door that leads outside. A withered, once-human wraith stands in the doorway. It grins at Moloch with saw-blade teeth. It performs a small obeisance.

  Ah.

  This is the source of the ancient magic that has broken the castle wards. This is the source of much of the ancient power that fills the stones of Rookskill. This is the creator of the mechanical monster that lies at Moloch’s feet. Moloch acknowledges the wraith with a respectful nod, one twisted soul to another, and then goes on about his business.

  A few minutes later, Moloch catches his newest prey and manages to spell her before she can scream.

  CHAPTER 46

  Isaac

  1942

  Isaac didn’t try to fly back through time, his mind was so full. Instead he let himself tumble. When he landed back in the darkened armory, he sat on the cold stone floor before his knight—Bedwyr—cradling the watch and trying to make sense of what he’d just learned. He pulled out the pendant from underneath his collar and examined it, the eternity knot.

  The pendant that Isaac wore was the key to the Vault. The Vault, as Le
o had cleverly surmised, was anywhere it was called to be, and Isaac knew all that was needed to make that magic happen was the pendant key and the symbol on a wall—any wall—and words asking the door to appear. Mistress Vivienne had said, “The Guardian requires you, door, here and now.”

  The armory was deathly cold and as silent as a tomb. Willow had vanished. Isaac looked up at Bedwyr as he contemplated the answer to his most pressing question.

  * * *

  * * *

  Once, on a bright day when Isaac would have rather been outside, his father, trying to give a philosophy lesson to Isaac, was discussing logic. Isaac sat at the table drumming his fingers, looking out at the blue sky and listening to friends shout as they chased a ball through the street, all while his father kept repeating, “Occam’s razor.”

  “Fine,” Isaac said, thinking of a blade, not an idea. “May I go now?”

  “It’s the principle you can use to answer any question. Can you repeat it?”

  “It’s the, well, sometimes you have to . . . I don’t know.” Isaac was ashamed at having been so inattentive. He sat up and willed himself to listen.

  Isaac’s father began again. “This will help you whenever you’re in doubt. Whenever you need to weigh evidence and come to a conclusion. Occam’s razor states that the simplest solution tends to be the right one. It’s not universally true—some problems in the world are complex. But if you break them down, generally, when you need to find an answer try for the simplest solution first.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Now, sitting before Sir Bedwyr, Isaac applied Occam’s razor to his question.

  The pendant was the key to the Vault of magical artifacts. The key was carried by the Guardian.