3MA

3MA | Chapter 7

7
CARVEN

Amaris holds up a can of Volcanic Red to a section of brick wall between two snow-plastered windows. "Do you mind?"

I let out a sigh and nod in consent. What difference will a little spray paint make when I'm on the brink of living on the sidewalk?

She sprays the word PENDELTON on the wall. "This is currently my family's last name."

"Thanks for sharing. Did you have to make it a permanent part of my home?"

"But it's changed through the years," Amaris continues.

Under PENDELTON she sprays: PENDROVIEN. "This is what our name looked like about five hundred years ago."

And then she sprays a word that I recognize.

A word that sends a trembling gale of childhood memories from the base of my spine to the back of my neck. Memories of staying up late at night, listening to Mom reading from the old leather-bound book of fairy tales she kept at my bedside. Stories of majestic forests and enchanted cups and knights sworn to an eternal oath.

The word Amaris sprays on the wall is: PENDRAGON.

"And this was my family's name five thousand years ago."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you're looking at the great ancestor of King Arthur Pendragon, leader of the Knights of the Round Table and the one true King of Camelot."

"No! Friggin'! Way!" Mag shouts from behind the pillar. "Shouldn't we like — kneel or something?"

Amaris laughs. "If you want. But no, it's not like I'm the King himself. Just a very distant relative."

"King Arthur is not real, Mag." I say. "He's a character in a children's story about a place that never existed."

Amaris's gaze flicks to mine. For a moment her face changes, like she's lifted some kind of convincing façade she's been wearing since the moment I met her. And now I'm looking into her real face. Staring into her real eyes. Watching her real lips form these words: "Everything you've ever been told about Camelot is a lie. There's more to this city, Marlon. There is honor. And power. And hope. You've felt it haven't you?"

Amaris bends to a knee and places her palm to the floor. Then she wraps her knuckles across the floorboard.

One-two. One-two. One-two.

A subterranean heartbeat.

For a second there's nothing I can say in response. My mouth just hangs open, waiting for my brain to offer some kind of clever deflection. But I can't deflect it. Because I know that heartbeat better than anyone in this city. It follows me everywhere I go. Always has.

I shake my head. "The only thing I feel is cold and hungry and exhausted. Believing you won't change a damn thing."

Amaris closes her eyes and nods. "Fair enough. But it's not who I am that's important. It's who you are."

"Who am I?"

"Have you ever wondered where your name comes from?"

"It's an old family name."

Amaris shakes her can of spray paint and writes a list of names on a fresh patch of brick:

Marlon

Maerlon

Meerlund

Morlyn

She pauses just before she writes the final name.