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

by Adam Copeland

  The child tugged on Aimeé’s hair. “Can you tell me a story?”

  The brimming tears in Aimeé’s eyes now overflowed and she broke down. She held the child, sobbing.

  #

  Patrick’s fingers finally brushed the hilt of his sword in a puddle. He rose to his knees, but the pain temporarily paralyzed him; Lilith’s attack had at least broken some of his ribs. Worse, with a sinking heart, the trebuchet missile struck the tallest tower of Greensprings. It exploded in a shower of cinders, collapsing the top portion into an inferno of sputtering flames. A chill came over him. How many people had died in the destruction, and how many more would in the resulting blaze? Who would they be? Katherina? Chansonne? Trent? Willy?

  Philip fell upon him now, his sword cutting a wide arc at his head. No preamble, no attempt to gloat before achieving his revenge. Just a rush to murder.

  Given time, Patrick would have told Philip not to bother, for the light that imbued Patrick’s spirit had extinguished just as the light of the flames engulfing Greensprings flared brighter.

  Patrick’s sword arm drooped.

  #

  “Not again,” Aimeé sobbed, clinging to the child. “I can’t lose you again.”

  Time passed, an indistinct period during which the boy returned her embrace. Eventually, she wiped her tears and looked at the woman. “Is there no other way?”

  The woman sighed and her features shimmered, making it difficult for Aimeé to discern whether anything sinister had ever marred her beautiful features, or if she had only imagined it.

  “You see,” the woman said, “so easily, you humans fall into the trap of believing a sacrifice is necessary. You only need believe your prayer will be answered.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Aimeé protested, brow creasing as she struggled with the idea. “It can’t be that simple.”

  The woman smiled. “Love doesn’t always make sense, but there it is.”

  Aimeé nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. A warmth blossomed across her heart. “It’s a gift.”

  “Yes,” the woman agreed as her smile broadened, “a free gift.”

  The warmth growing in Aimeé turned bittersweet.

  “Then you’re not real,” she said to the boy, stroking his face sadly. “You’re a dream. A lesson.”

  “Of course I’m real,” the boy laughed, then touched her breast. “I’m here.”

  Aimeé hiccuped a sob in her attempt to suppress it. The boy touched her necklace. “I have to go now, but would you play for me first?”

  Wiping away tears, Aimeé put the tiny instrument to her lips and played, letting her fingers dance lightly along the holes. The music came easily, melting pain in her heart along with the mist around them to reveal natural sunlight and a brilliant blue Avalon sky. They stood not in a cave, but in an open field. Both the child and woman tilted their heads to the sky with smiles and closed eyes, letting sunlight bathe their faces. A breeze stirred the woman’s dress, sweeping it behind her like gauzy wings.

  When Aimeé finished, the boy wiped her tears. “Goodbye, Mummy. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Baby,” Aimeé choked out, hugging him.

  He faded, leaving her holding emptiness. She pulled in her arms, hugging herself. After a long shuddering exhale, she turned to the woman and asked, “Now what do I do?”

  “You have faith. You can ‘do’ anything,” the woman explained. “Play the other tune on your flute. You just might be surprised what comes to your aid now.”

  Aimeé raised her eyebrows, returned the flute to her lips and played the music. It came powerfully, echoing like an anthem, and she wondered how she ever could have confused this tune for the healing one.

  Something blocked out the sunlight. She looked up expecting to see the woman standing closer, but she had disappeared.

  In her place stood a king.

  Chapter Twenty

  Patrick staggered back, grabbing his head, his vision returning to normal.

  “Do you see now, Patrick?” the Other asked. “You did nothing wrong. You were not alone in causing all this to happen. In so many instances, your guilt is an illusion, holding you prisoner. Now, will you lift your sword arm and continue the fight?”

  Patrick stopped his staggering and came to rest, looking about the frozen battlefield. Though he understood the sights better now, nothing had really changed since the Other took him on his vision-journey. Greensprings still burned. Philip’s sword still came precariously close to his head, and many of his friends lay dead, dying, or about to die all around him.

  “I believe you,” Patrick said, “but I’m still struggling to see how I can break these chains of guilt so I can do as you ask.”

  “Just let go. Recognize the truth,” the Other counseled. “Recognize that life is a river down which we’re all carried. How we choose to float, swim, or sink determines who we are when we arrive at our final destination. Swim and keep your head above water so those struggling next to you in the river will be inspired to stay afloat. Letting guilt weigh you down will only drag others down with you.”

  “I’ve already dragged so many down,” Patrick whispered, extending an arm and holding out a bloodied hand to an image shimmering into existence before him.

  A petite blonde in a blood-smeared habit regarded him with large blue eyes.

  “It is an illusion,” the Other insisted. “Even pain can become so familiar it becomes comfortable, but you must let it go.”

  “I want to,” Patrick struggled to say, tears choking his voice, “but...”

  Then he heard the music.

  Flute music floated to him on the wind. It was the tune his mother had played for him as a child, but the tempo differed. A tempo that belonged to Aimeé and the sound sparked a light in his heart; the music meant she still lived. He latched onto that light and let it grow, even when he felt a familiar darkness try to smother it. Rather than help the darkness as he had done so many times... he let go. He let the music engulf him, filling him with peace.

  When the music finished, he opened his eyes, not realizing he had even closed them. The blood on his outstretched hand fell away like a scattering of crimson butterflies and a smile bloomed across Yvette’s face as she faded into nothingness.

  “I will fight,” Patrick said, clenching his cleansed hand into a fist.

  The Other smiled and motioned him back to frozen Patrick. “Come, take your place and see this through.”

  Patrick stood behind his kneeling form. “What do I do?”

  “Just kneel into yourself,” the Other explained.

  Patrick positioned himself, but turned one more time to the Other.

  “I know what you are now,” he said.

  “Oh?” the Other returned.

  “You are me,” Patrick explained, “but it is I who am the doppelgänger; the creature that would usurp the life of the good Patrick and bring ruin to all those he loves. You have also shown me it doesn’t have to be so. I have a choice. I can choose to be the good Patrick, and not the doppelgänger. Isn’t that so?”

  The Other nodded.

  Patrick smiled, dipped, and merged into himself like a hand into a glove.

  The Other turned and started to leave, but hesitated and came back. He leaned over and lifted Patrick’s sword arm, positioning the blade to meet Philip’s.

  With that, he turned again and walked away, lifting his hand and snapping his fingers.

  #

  The blow bounced off his sword and he used its force to get to his feet.

  Both he and Philip looked to their weapons, taking a moment to wonder at the suddenness at which Patrick had deflected the assault. But only for a moment.

  They set to attacking each other—hacking, slashing, piercing.

  The pain in his ribs went numb with battle-passion, and Patrick frustrated Philip’s plans for revenge. He focused all his attention on fighting to the end, as the Other had counseled. Meanwhile, Philip gripped his sword with both hands and red
oubled his attack. Spittle flew from between his gritted teeth, and through his visor, his green eyes bulged in rage.

  With three successive double-handed blows, Philip sent Patrick’s sword flying. Patrick ducked the next swing and dove for his weapon. Recovering it in a roll, he came to his feet to see Philip raising his sword. Philip froze, however, when a long barb protruded from his chest.

  The great mercenary leader dropped his sword. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. And then his body flew to the side like a rag doll. In his place stood Lilith with smoke rolling off her blackened skin.

  “Damn you!” Patrick cried and rushed forward to attack before she could extract her tail-barb from Philip’s body.

  She struck him, sending him sprawling. When he rolled to a sitting position, he noted the odd angle at which his left forearm hung, wondering why he couldn’t feel it.

  Lilith casually, but deliberately, marched forward, whipping her scorpion's tail about. With her blackened skin, she looked even more like a vision from hell, and though her hair smoked, the long skeins webbed her face and stuck to her teeth.

  She opened her fanged maw and cackled. Her tongue darted over the air like a snake’s. Spreading her wings wide in triumph, she arched her barbed towards Patrick.

  Before she could take another step, a tremendous blow sent her stumbling to the side. Lucan stood there in a muddy blue cape.

  “Sorry it took so long,” he panted, “but that horse just wouldn’t stop.”

  He turned his attention to the furious Lilith. Her tail whipped at him and her claws windmilled. As she rushed him, Lucan whirled the spear and thrust it at her head.

  She dodged, and her stinger punctured his breastplate.

  Lucan cried out in pain, but returned the favor by ramming the spear into her chest. It penetrated deeply, and for the first time she screamed in something other than rage. She raked Lucan with her claws from forehead to groin, leaving bloody gouges across the soft places between his armor plates. He withdrew the spear and slashed it across her chest, opening a valley of black ichor and bone. She staggered back, taking her stinger with her.

  Lucan spun the spear, crouched, and readied for another attack.

  She didn’t take the invitation. Instead, she spread her wings and flew away, screeching and wobbling through the air.

  Lucan planted the spear and leaned heavily on it, holding his side. “God, that hurt.”

  “She is defeated, then?” Patrick asked, struggling to his feet. His arm hurt again, and so intensely that he expected to vomit.

  “No, she will be back,” Lucan replied, trying to catch his breath, “but we have other things to worry about.”

  Patrick looked around. The fighting was in a lull. Fewer than fifty Avangarde remained, and with them, a handful of villagers. They slowly backed their way into a small circle around Patrick. Though surprisingly few Lost Boys remained, they still outnumbered the Avangarde four to one.

  The enemy slowly closed in.

  #

  Lilith crashed among the tents, rolling to a stop.

  Smoke still seethed off her flesh and blackness oozed from her wounds. She shrieked in angry pain.

  “I take it things are not going well, hmm?” Teodorico fumed from his canopy.

  “Lucan wields a reforged Spear of Destiny,” Lilith growled, straightening to her full height as her wounds closed up. “It is a complication.”

  Teodorico leaned forward and growled back, “Then you’d best get back in there and ‘uncomplicate’ it. That damn fool Philip again miscalculated his ridiculous toy’s trajectory, and now Greensprings burns. We need to get in there quickly to keep the girl and cup from burning too, hmm, yes?

  Lilith cast a hesitant glance to the battlefield.

  “Just distract him long enough, hmm?” Teodorico purred, sitting back in his chair. “He is just one durable man with a very sharp blade. We can still overwhelm him with my final play. Trust me, my dear—we are very close, hmm, yes?”

  Lilith hissed at him, but nevertheless took to the air.

  Teodorico turned to Victor. “Send the signal and let’s end this, hmm?”

  #

  Patrick limped over to Philip and knelt over him. He was immobile in a growing pool of blood.

  “Hold!” a voice among the Lost Boys shouted. “They have Philip captive!”

  A tense calm hung over the battlefield—the sort of calm before the trap door on a gallows opened.

  “It would appear you have won,” Philip choked, blood spilling from his mouth.

  “Nobody wins in our business,” Patrick said.

  “Das ist true,” Philip conceded and coughed more blood. “So, now what?”

  Patrick undid the strap to Philip’s helmet and flung it away, revealing his mop of blond hair. He glared down at him, remembering Jon, Josef, Jakob... and many more.

  Philip’s mouth curled into a sly smile. “Go on. Do it. You want to.”

  Patrick drew his dagger from his belt with his good hand and held it suspended over Philip’s face. Shouts erupted around him, urging him to kill or not kill him. Some wanted revenge. Cooler minds wanted a prisoner.

  “Do it!” Philip shouted in a spray of bloody spittle.

  Patrick squeezed the dagger until his knuckles turned white. He raised the blade, but stopped. “I will not fall into this trap,” he said, lowering it. To himself, to the Other, he murmured, “I didn’t learn to forgive myself just so I could fall into darkness all over again.”

  Philip sneered at him. “Coward.”

  Patrick blinked and shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand, but it takes more courage to give forgiveness than to take revenge.”

  “Forgiveness?” Philip’s sneer turned into a bloody, coughing scoff. “What business do you have giving forgiveness? You hypocrite! I don’t want your forgiveness—I want my brother back!”

  The accusation stung. While he spoke of not falling into one trap, he had fallen into another. Whether receiving it or giving it to yourself or others, forgiveness remained incomplete unless you asked for it.

  The Avangarde and Lost Boys were getting unruly. Soon the killing would recommence unless Patrick did something.

  Patrick pursed his lips, nodding. “Yes, I caused Karl’s death. I didn’t ask him for help, but I should have known he might try. It was a suicide mission.” Patrick met Philip’s green eyes, which were clouded with pain. “My foolishness took him from you, from Brutus, and from Sigirid. He is no longer around to take care of his family. I’m sorry for that. I’d die in his place if I could, as God is my witness. I beg your forgiveness.”

  They stared at one another for a time. Patrick’s eye twitched as the shouts around him escalated.

  “I don’t believe you,” Philip spat.

  Patrick took Philip’s hand and slapped the dagger into his palm, then held the blade to his own chest. The sounds of agitation turned to a collective gasp of shock. “There, you want your revenge? Take it! Just swear to me on Karl’s name you will call off the Boys and tell Teodorico to shove it up his arse! Tell me you forgive me, and I will give you my life.”

  Philip stared wide-eyed. He breathed heavily through blood-soaked teeth. Shouts erupted again, now directed at Philip.

  “Your word, in Karl’s name!” Patrick insisted.

  Philip grabbed the dagger with both hands and his body tensed.

  “Phht!” he said at last. He tossed the blade aside and his body relaxed. “You take all the fun out of this. Asshole.”

  Patrick let out a breath he didn’t realize he held. The shouts and agitations around them quietly died under a blanket of new gasps.

  “Karl loved you,” Philip continued. “He wouldn’t want this. Besides, I am dying. I just wish I could be there to see Teodorico’s face when he learns I told the Lost Boys to stand down.”

  Patrick slumped with relief, then laughed. “I’d like that, too.”

  “You know what I’d really like?” Philip added, beckoning with a hand
to Jon de Lorraine and Jeremie Le Beau who hovered on the edges of the Avangarde circle. “To see Brutus and Sigirid one last time, to explain to them why I can’t watch over them.”

  Patrick called to Corbin and Waylan to let the two Lost Boys through their defenses. Lucan followed them, keeping a cautious eye.

  “You still can,” Patrick said, “just as a guardian soul.”

  “Bah, there is no going to heaven for the likes of me,” Philip scoffed, urging his lieutenants to kneel down when they arrived.

  “Not true,” Patrick replied, making room for Lorraine and Le Beau. “If you can forgive me, you can ask forgiveness from God.”

  Lorraine and Le Beau looked between them quizzically, having arrived in the middle of the conversation.

  Philip barked a cynical laugh that turned into a cough and more blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  “You know my deeds,” Patrick continued, “and I can tell you there is hope for everyone. I found it here in Avalon. I’m still far from perfect, but I am no longer lost. I made my peace with God, and you can, too.”

  Philip’s eyes softened and he regarded Patrick with something like curiosity. He touched Patrick’s face. “Ja, you are different. At first I thought it weakness, but now I see otherwise. You think it’s possible... even for me?”

  Patrick nodded, squeezing his hand.

  “You were always good with words,” Philip said, frowning. “What do I say?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Don’t say anything. Just use your heart.”

  At first Philip frown deepened, but eventually he nodded and closed his eyes. A quiet moment passed. Lucan watched intensely, caught between skepticism and wonder.

  When Philip opened his eyes, much of the anger and hardness had melted away.

  “Thank you, my brother,” Philip whispered, “and now I’d like to return the favor.”

  He turned to his lieutenants and gave them quiet orders.

  Patrick stood and looked around, making a quick assessment. Corbin, Waylan, Brian, Lucan, and forty some other Avangarde and villagers survived, crouched and holding weapons ready to fight to the end. Not a horse among them. The trebuchet smoldered from small fires, but was intact. Bodies lay everywhere. Blood soaked the ground and every puddle glinted crimson. Arms, hands, and heads lay side-by-side with the weapons, helmets, and shields to which they had belonged. Spent spears, pikes, banners, and javelins made a macabre forest among which crows and ravens already swarmed.