Page 23 of Avalon Tower
Tana hands me another cup of tea. “Almost there, love.”
“To Camelot?”
She nods. “It was once part of Cornwall, you know, until the king of Wessex invaded. The rulers of Camelot used magic to hide it. Some say it was Merlin himself, protecting Camelot from his oak tree. Some say he doesn’t die.”
Goosebumps rise on my skin.
Around us, the river narrows. On either side, stone and timber frame buildings crowd the riverbanks. A thin fog hangs over them, tinged by rosy morning light. Gas lamps lend an ochre glow to the mist. This place really feels like stepping back in time.
“How come no one knows about Camelot?” For some reason, I’m whispering.
“It’s secret, of course.” She smiles at me. “That’s what makes it a perfect place for spies. Only permitted ships can enter.” She sighs. “This river is haunted, you know. I can feel it. A long time ago, the Fey used to cut off people’s heads and throw them in the river, and now, I can hear their spirits whispering.”
A shiver runs through me. “Oh.” I can almost hear their whispers myself. “I didn’t know the Fey once lived close to humans.”
Tana smiles faintly. “Oh, yes, in peace for a while.” She cocks her ear at the water, as if listening to something, then shrugs. “They named the tower after the old Fey kingdom, Avalon.” Tana smiles wistfully. “In some parts of Camelot, you can still find the roads and temples built by the Pendragon kings long ago. The Pendragon walls encircle the city, hundreds of feet high. A few hundred years ago, we stopped putting severed heads on the city gates, you’ll be pleased to know. At least, I’m pretty sure we stopped.”
I clear my throat. “I’m glad to hear it.” That’s twice now she’s mentioned severed heads.
“Our academy dates back to the Roman occupation of Britain. You’ll learn all about it soon enough.”
We drift past stone buildings that stretch up into the morning sky. As the wind skims over me, I take another sip of warm tea and stare as we slowly drift toward a white bridge. My heart flutters. The remaining mast and the engine’s tall pipe will never clear it.
No sooner does the thought cross my mind than the bridge splits in the middle with a metallic groan, the two halves lifting into the sky to make room for our ship. Once we clear the bridge, we glide further east, where the river widens into a glassy lake. In the distance, a castle towers over the river.
My breath catches, and I stare at it. Camelot. The stone has an almost golden tinge, the towers cloaked in wisps of fog. Part of the castle stretches out into the lake, shrouded in mist.
“Avalon Tower, Camelot’s oldest castle,” Tana whispers, pointing to the right. “In the days of Arthur, Avalon was out there, occupied by the Fey and ruled by the evil Queen Morgan. She’s dead now, defeated by the Pendragons. For fifteen hundred years, Avalon has been lost in the mists of the lake, and no one can find it.”
“And Merlin was a Fey?”
“Oh, yes. A Fey ally to the humans, but things fell apart.”
I turn to look at Camelot again, and my jaw drops. Tana said the castle was called Avalon Tower, but it’s a city surrounded by walls and gates, turrets and spires, connected by high walls that rise over the river. Moss climbs the stone, the growth so dense that it makes the walls seem to blend with the natural world around them. The fog thins, and the rising sun washes the golden stone in a rosy shade.
Our ship glides into a narrow canal and bumps into a wooden dock. On the main deck, I can hear Raphael barking commands to the crew. Tudor-style timber frame houses line one side of the canal, and apple trees grow on the other.
My bleary eyes take in the activity all around us, burly men unloading cargo from ships, others pulling ropes to moor us to the wooden dock. A mixture of scents assaults my nose—spices, apples, the sweat of the workers. Finally, the ship is moored, and I close my eyes, thanking the gods that we’ve arrived at last.
I’m in a daze as I follow Tana down the gangplank. Even here on steady earth, the ground seems to still move beneath me.
Dressed in a dark peacoat, Raphael leads us off the ship toward a stone archway. He shoves his hands in his pockets, not even looking at me. Viviane glides along next to him.
But when we’re in the archway, she stops abruptly, blocking my path. She stares down at me, cocking her head. “May I see your passport?”
“Why?”
“I want to see exactly what the French soldiers read.”
I retrieve it from my leather bag. It’s streaked with water in a few places but readable. I hand it to her, and she turns and walks away, little pieces of ripped paper fluttering in her wake.
The torn pieces of my passport.
Panicking, I hurry after her. “What are you doing?”
She whirls and grabs me by the throat, pinning me to the wall. “I don’t want you here,” she says through gritted teeth. “You’re weak, you’re impulsive, and you threatened to inform the French soldiers about us. I think Raphael is making a bad decision because of a pretty face. Do you know how much that infuriates me?”
I don’t answer. Hard to talk when you can’t breathe.