Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2)

by Adam Copeland

  Patrick swallowed hard, his eye glued to the window, unable to dislodge himself. He cried out as he pushed against the wall of fire, and tears streamed from his trapped eye. The buzz in his ear threatened to explode his head.

  Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, he managed to blink, breaking the bond. He fell to the stone floor of the dais, gasping.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” a voice asked him.

  Patrick stood, breathing heavily, and faced the speaker.

  The Other stood there, contemplating him with his own face.

  The room had gone quiet, and the buzzing was gone. The refugees remained, still frozen in place, and so too the brilliant wall of fire.

  “Truth, that is,” the Other clarified. “Truth always hurts when faced directly.”

  “You talk,” Patrick said, stumbling forward. “Is that my voice? Is that how I sound?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Patrick shook his head and blinked. “No, it doesn’t, but can you help me?”

  “How?”

  “You are a ghost or a spirit, or some such,” Patrick explained. “The cup is spirit, so can you grasp it and take it from here? Take it back to the cave? Please, I beg of you.”

  A profound sadness came over the Other’s face. “I’m sorry. I can only point out the obvious.”

  “But you’ve helped in the past,” Patrick pleaded.

  “That was then, this is now.”

  “What must I do?” Patrick asked. “Please tell me, I will do it. I will do anything to make the pain and suffering stop.”

  “After casting a stone into water, can a man stop the ripples that spread in every direction?” The Other shrugged sadly. “It is good you take responsibility for your actions, that you are repentant, but what is done is done. Do not compound the matter by dwelling on guilt. Guilt is an illusion.”

  Patrick fell to his knees and beat his breast, shouting, “But I am guilty, and I will give up my life to fix it! Take my life! Take it!”

  “Oh, a life will be taken,” the Other said, and every word that came from him came sadder than the last, “for certainly that is what is needed to restore the balance you disrupted. The girl was not meant to live.”

  “So take mine!” Patrick shouted, beating his breast again.

  “It will not be yours,” the Other continued. “You see, consequences are not necessarily about what happens to you because of what you did—but what happens to others, because of what you did.”

  A chill went up Patrick’s spine and he swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

  “Remember the sermon Teodorico gave the day Chansonne held the cup?” Patrick’s own face came close to his. “Remember the story of King David? How he sinned? How, overcome by the beauty of Bathsheba, he had her husband killed, and took her for his own? Even after David repented with all his heart, it was too late. You see, though he was forgiven, the wages of sin are still death.”

  Patrick frowned, struggling to remember the scripture through the pounding pressure against his skull. Who died in that tale? Not David, not Bathsheba, but...

  Patrick’s heart leaped into his throat.

  “No,” he choked.

  The Other disappeared.

  Patrick looked around. The brilliant light had disappeared, the torches and votive candles flickered normally, and the refugees stared at him.

  “NO!” Patrick cried and ran to the entrance.

  #

  Aimeé tucked Chansonne into bed and kissed her gently on the forehead. The other children already snored peacefully away.

  “Go to sleep now,” she purred. “Tomorrow is a new day.”

  Chansonne grabbed her as Aimeé rose to leave.

  “There, there little one,” Aimeé reassured, “I’ll just be in the next room. I’ve checked under the beds and in all the closets, there are no monsters. I will only be in the next room, and Sir Geoffrey stands guard down the hall. You are safe.”

  Chansonne leaned back into her pillow and Aimeé kissed her one last time and departed.

  Closing the door between her chamber and the children’s dormitory, she moved to the little bureau and exchanged her clothes for a nightgown and slipped under the bedcovers. She left a candle burning in case the children needed her in the middle of the night, which happened often. She wished Katherina helped more in this one duty: assisting with the frequent late night walks to the water closet, fetching glasses of water, and explaining away frightening shadows. But the princess slept peacefully in her bed several floors above.

  Exhaling gently and letting the day drain from her limbs, Aimeé closed her eyes. Before long, sleep began to overtake her, and she felt the now familiar brushes on her cheeks accompanied by children laughing in the distance. Normally, the distant giggles faded as sleep overtook her, but tonight they grew louder and more discordant, turning more to wails and sobbing.

  Aimeé opened her eyes, or thought she did. A whiteness engulfed her like a mist.

  “Am I dreaming?” she said out loud, again not sure for no sound came from her.

  She figured she must be, because she could not move. Her arms were pinned at her sides in a nightmare’s paralysis. The distant wailing intensified and the whiteness collected around her like falling snow. No, not snow, little flowers. Little white flowers that fell in her mouth and nose and choked her. Every breath she exhaled sent the little florets fountaining above her, just to be sucked back in when she struggled to inhale. She coughed and choked and fought to sit up, but could not. A heavy warmth rested on her chest, pinning her down like a pool of molten lead. The wails and sobs became louder and louder.

  A pair of amber cat’s eyes appeared in the mist above her, glittering with pleasure. More of the flowers she exhaled disappeared into the creature’s mouth.

  Aimeé struggled to rise, to breathe, to call for help, to do anything, but could not.

  Panic overtook her as she felt her dream-self dislodging from her body, slowly slipping away in the form of a stream of flowers down the throat of the evil cat.

  A sound broke through the mist and mournful wails.

  Suddenly, the cat stopped robbing her of breath. The creature’s head snapped in the direction of the sound, and Aimeé’s eyes followed as well.

  In the mist, a tall, willowy figure stood at the center of the room, singing.

  Hush little sister don't you cry,

  Because in the morning we're going bye-bye,

  But first we're going to close our eyes...

  Katherina?

  No, the voice was younger, unknown.

  The cat growled from deep in its throat. Aimeé coughed flowers and found she could breathe again, but could not rise from the weight on her chest.

  The mist began to lift as the song continued. The cat’s claws dug into her flesh as its growls and hisses protested against the chant. The animal shifted and faced the singer, and now that the air had cleared, Aimeé could see the glossy black cat clearly.

  Also, she could clearly see her savior.

  “Chansonne?” she wheezed.

  The child stood in the center of the room, not so tall as the blurry image in the mist, but just as fearless as she sang. The words escalated in tone and the cat seemed to wince at them. It laid back its ears in fury, baring its teeth.

  The song finished and the cat and girl faced off.

  The cat launched itself from Aimeé’s chest, relieving her of the invisible bonds. She rose, but a scream from Chansonne sent a palpable shock wave throughout the room and knocked Aimeé down again. The same shock hit the cat in midair, sending it flying, writhing, and twisting. It transformed and grew in the air, becoming some sort of giant bat that fluttered to the ceiling and clung to the wooden beams.

  At that moment, Patrick and Geoffrey burst into the room with swords drawn.

  “What the—” They cried out at the sight of the creature hanging from the beams.

  It turned its head towards them and hissed a mouthful of fangs. Blaz
ing yellow eyes with slits for pupils set in a vaguely female face glared hate at them. The creature dropped and took flight on webbed wings and targeted Chansonne in a flurry of claws, fur, and scales.

  Chansonne screamed again, and the shock wave of her voice caught the monster in mid-flight like a fly slamming into a spider’s web. The scream turned into a coherent rendition of the sung Gloria and the beginning long note emanated from the child like a wall of air washing in every direction, picking up Patrick and Geoffrey, their capes, the bed and its sheets, Aimeé’s hair, and the bureau and candle.

  Every loose item in the room hung suspended in air, temporarily frozen in space like insects in amber. Even the air took on a hazy quality, as if folded in on itself.

  The monster screeched in pain, fought against the invisible web, and grabbed at its ears. By the time Chansonne had reached In Excelsis Deo the creature had disappeared in an explosion of silent lightning. When they opened their eyes and they could see again, a screaming comet was shooting out an open window.

  Sheets of gossamer material gently floated in the air, falling to earth. Geoffrey let a large sheet come to rest in his outstretched hand and to his surprise he held the wispy skin that had always fascinated Father Wulfric at the murder scenes. This particular skin held a face imprinted on it.

  “Lilliana?” he said in shock and disbelief.

  “I made Lilly go bye-bye,” Chansonne whispered. “I sung her a Lilly-bye.”

  Patrick and Geoffrey looked with amazement at the child.

  “Patrick,” Aimeé said, her voice cracking in fear, “something’s wrong.”

  Patrick looked to her sitting up in bed, a crimson color spreading from between her legs across the white sheets.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lilliana’s skin burned, but not nearly as much as her anger. Both disrupted her rest as she tried to regain her strength in the darkness. Voices came, muffled as if from behind a door.

  The voice was Philip’s. “If time is of the essence, as you say, then this is the best course. I know you would rather I assault the keep every waking moment, but I have found everything I need to know from the first assault. My plan is the preferred way.”

  “Time is of the essence,” came Teodorico’s reply. “When a rescuing army arrives, we must be gone and this place a smoldering pile of rocks, hmm, yes?”

  “And so it shall be,” Philip assured, but he sounded as if he struggled to be cordial. “My men’s time and effort are best applied to assembling the engines.”

  “Shouldn’t you at least be wearing their defenses down, or something, hmm?”

  “Your Holiness, please,” Philip said, a growl starting to creep into his voice, “leave the matters of battle to me. I promise you will have the keep, girl, and cup.”

  “Oh very well, hmm?” Teodorico said. “Go prepare your toys.”

  After a pause, Lilliana could sense heavy footsteps departing.

  Nearer, she felt a rhythmic tapping as if someone’s leg bounced in an agitated manner. A grumbling belonging to Teodorico accompanied it.

  “You can come out now. He’s gone,” Teodorico’s voice said beside her.

  Daylight filled her world, first in a thin horizontal line as she opened the lid, and then full brightness. From the trunk next to Teodorico’s chair, she slowly extracted herself, nude, like a flower reaching for sunlight. She examined her arms, noting how ghastly white she had become. Large patches of dead skin flaked from her body.

  “How are you feeling, my love, hmm?” Teodorico asked, taking her by the chin.

  Lilliana pulled away. “I need to feed.”

  “Are you still sore at me, hmm, yes?” he asked, hurt.

  “You should have told me the extent of her powers,” Lilliana said, anger in her voice as she tiredly peeled off a piece of skin hanging from her face.

  “Perhaps you should have gone straight for the girl and grabbed her in her sleep; you could have covered her mouth, hmm?” Teodorico admonished. “Instead of wasting your time with the maidservant, hmm, yes?”

  “She was in the way,” Lilliana lied.

  She scowled as she recalled how at the swimming hole the maidservant had recoiled from her outstretched hand.

  Who’s not having a baby now? Lilliana licked her lips.

  “Honestly, I had no idea Chansonne had found her voice again, hmm?” Teodorico tsked. “And from what you told me, I doubted her voice was that powerful.”

  “You had better hope Philip’s toy works,” she said coldly, “because I will not go near that child again. I have not felt pain like that since... Well, for a very long time.”

  “I’m not placing all my eggs in Philip’s basket, hmm?” Teodorico said. “While you were resting, a messenger brought us a little something, hmm, yes?”

  He stroked a small and longish box on the table next to his chair.

  Lilliana cocked an eyebrow. “So, the young King Henry finally made good on his promise. I told you he would.”

  “I didn’t doubt it for a moment, hmm?” Teodorico said. “But I will need you to deliver it to Lucan.”

  Lilliana’s mouth twitched.

  “You needn’t worry, hmm?” Teodorico assured, caressing her chin. “Wait until he is well away from the girl. There will be no need for you and Chansonne to cross paths.”

  Lilliana’s mouth twitching turned into a sneer. “After I feed,” she said, and turned to leave.

  “Feed off of one of Philip’s people, hmm?” Teodorico called after her. “I need to get my money’s worth out of them.”

  #

  Patrick paced outside the door of the room in which Father Hugh, Mother Superior, and a handful of nuns attended to Aimeé.

  Every hour or so a nun would depart with an armload of bloody cloths, then return with fresh linens and hot water. Every time he asked what progress had been made, they placated or admonished him with kind but stern pleas for patience.

  When the sounds of activity and cries of pain subsided, Patrick placed his ear to the door and listened: voices in low tones, occasional words that left him both relieved and distressed. “...lucky to be alive...” and “...may never have children again.”

  Footsteps approached the door and Patrick jumped back.

  It opened and the room’s occupants filed out looking as if they had experienced battle: weary, blood-splattered, and shutting their medical bags like knights sheathing swords.

  “Is she going to live?” Patrick asked.

  “Yes,” Mother Superior replied. “She needs her rest, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to stay for a bit, but only a bit.”

  “Yes, Mother Superior,” Patrick said gratefully. “Thank you.”

  He slipped into the room. Daylight streamed through a window. The thick, metallic smell of blood still hung in the air and collected at the back of his throat. Aimeé and the bed on which she lay, however, were clean.

  “Aimeé,” he whispered.

  Her eyes fluttered open and tried to discern if he were real.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried so hard to get to you, to help. It’s all my fault.”

  She tiredly put a finger to his lips and hushed him. He sat on the edge of the bed.

  “You need to stop that,” she whispered. “You can’t protect everyone all the time. It is what it is. I don’t blame you. I blame... her. Lilliana? How? What is she?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to kill her.” He took her finger and kissed it.

  Aimeé smiled. “Good.”

  Rubbing her finger, he cleared his throat. “I need to tell you something.”

  She watched him, curious, and he had a hard time maintaining eye contact.

  “You said I talked in my sleep about a woman named Paulette. Her name was not Paulette, but Yvette. She was a nun who accompanied a holy order that followed the crusaders to the Holy Land. Their plan was to pray the enemy into submission. To make Christians out of them. I know, crazy. But they were not the craziest people to join the Crusa
de.” Patrick swallowed hard. “We... had a dalliance. I made her question her faith. I guess she felt it necessary to repent by throwing herself into her ideology. She convinced her people to contact the enemy directly. They were captured. I tried to rescue her, but it was too late.”

  Expressing no judgment, Aimeé touched his cheek.

  “And you blame yourself for her death,” she said, “letting it eat you up inside until it bleeds out in your dreams.”

  He pressed her hand to his face. “I do have a tendency to ruin women’s lives.”

  “Stop,” Aimeé said. “Let it go.”

  “How?”

  “Stop squashing the things inside you needing to come out. For example, I know you love me, but you never say it.”

  Patrick smiled and kissed her hand. He leaned back, bracing himself with his free hand. “Is that all? That should be easy enough...” His expression fell as he lifted his bracing hand from the bed and stared at it. Blood covered it. “You’re bleeding again,” he said, panic rising in his voice. Another red spot bloomed between her legs.

  He turned his attention to the blood on his skin and how it covered the thin scar running the length of his hand. The ghost of Yvette visited his memories.

  “I’ll get help,” he stammered to Aimeé, who nodded and swallowed hard.

  It did not take long for Mother Superior and the others to return. They tended to her and gave him reassurances, but implored him to leave the room.

  As he stood in the hall helplessly watching the door, Geoffrey found him and urged him to the main gate.

  “You need to see this,” he said. “We have trouble.”

  Patrick nodded, moved to the exit, but Geoffrey stared at Aimeé’s door.

  “Is...?” Geoffrey asked, swallowing.

  “There is no baby anymore,” Patrick growled, “if that is what you’re concerned about.”

  Geoffrey’s brow furrowed in anger. “I meant, is she going to live?”

  #

  “God, what a monster,” Corbin said, looking out onto the field near the enemy camp.