Ruins of Camelot

Chapter 11

The citadel stairs ascended into shadows, following the curve of the outer citadel wall. Gabriella crept up the stone steps slowly, eyes wide, her sword clutched before her. A faint sound echoed down to her, light and trilling, incongruous in the musty dark. It was music. She frowned even through her fear. There was a harpsichord, a fiddle, a flute, all playing in perfect unison, framing a whimsical tune that would have been perfectly appropriate for a royal summer picnic. Here, however, the jaunty tune seemed nearly mocking, like gaudy rouge on the cheeks of a corpse. She followed the sound of it.

A landing opened before her. It was quite long, carpeted with what had once been a rich, red rug. Now the rug was rotted and mouldy, adhering to the floor like a skin. Beyond this, more stairs curved further up the tower, probably leading to archer nooks and, eventually, the war room at the top. That was not her destination however. The music was not wafting down from above, but echoed quite nearby from the citadel's grand hall. A bar of firelight lay across the carpet, emanating from the hall's unseen double doors, which were apparently thrown wide open.

The music played on, teasingly bright and lilting.

Gabriella stopped. Her heart thudded heavily beneath her breast plate. She was less than ten paces away from her final destination. Normally, she knew, a knight in this situation would take a knee and pray, the hilt of his sword clasped between his hands. She wished to do the same, but could not quite bring herself to do it, despite her great fear. She and the Almighty had never enjoyed a particularly amicable friendship, even in her youth. After all, God was supposedly the ruler of all things, and He had seen fit to take away her mother. Since then, He had allowed the beast Merodach to grow in strength, to threaten everything she loved. God had taken Rhyss. And most importantly, He had allowed Darrick to be cut down, viciously and senselessly.

She could trust Him no longer. Not with the life of the Little Prince, and not with this, her final mission.

But there was someone she could trust.

As silently as she could, she leant her sword against the wall, crouched, and unslung her pack. Reaching inside, she quickly found the small weight of the wrapped candle and drew it out. The cloth fell to the ruined rug as she unwrapped it. Slowly, she raised the candle in both of her hands, touched it to her lips, and closed her eyes. She leant against the wall, touching the smooth wax to her forehead.

Sigrid had not told the truth about the candles in the cathedral. Gabriella had sensed it even as the older woman had spoken of it. The candles were magical—perhaps the best and greatest magic left in the kingdom of men, left over from the time when Merlinus himself worked his art for the elder King Arthur and his noble Round Table. The candles were not mere

symbols any more than the sun was a mere symbol of the day. Sigrid had not extinguished the Queen's candle on the night she was murdered, despite her claims. The candle had gone out on its own, because it did not burn on wax or wick. The candles burnt on the life force of the ones they represented. When that life force ceased, the candles went dark. Sigrid had been lying. It had been a well-meaning lie of course, meant to offer hope and faith, but it had still been a lie.

And sometimes, unfounded hope and faith were the worst lies of all.

Gabriella lowered her hands and looked down at Darrick's candle. It was not mere wax and wick. It, like the other life candles, was far more magical than anyone remembered. The wick was blackened, but the wax had barely even melted. It was nearly perfect.

She reached up, held the candle to the torch that crackled just overhead. The wick caught the flame reluctantly. It crackled faintly, flickered, and finally took light. Gabriella lowered it, suspecting that she had very little time.