Avalon Rising Read Free

go until I’ve replicated Azur’s jaseemat so my aeroship can fly all the way to the Great Sea of the Mediterranean in Greece, but the endeavor is impossible. When Azur heard of my task to build an aeroship powerful enough to soar above the skies, he was quick to tell me stories about inventors in Jerusalem—accomplished and trained, and certainly never handmaids—whose attempts at such a feat by utilizing the mechanical arts and the ingenuity of advanced aeroships were massive failures. They fell from the sky and into horrifying legend. Modern aeroships can only fly as high as the boldest falcon.
    The whole thing is impossible, and so I rebuilt Caldor, the detailed carving taking up an entire evening. A means to distract myself when the task of finishing such an aeroship becomes too overwhelming to bear.
    Gawain’s face goes somber. “It was just one pint. We were so close to Avalon, and the Black Knight had a different sort of chalice in his grip. One just for me. And it drew me in.”
    I lean closer. “You knew how to find the Grail?” I whisper. Cannot be.
    He opens his eyes to mine. “No,” he says. “That’s why they took my arm.”

TWO
    Winter mornings are best for sword fighting.
    Most knights agree, Gawain tells me. Habit. On the quest, his infantry would be up an hour before dawn, the best time to get used to a new day before risking hot summer weather that would render a knight lethargic by noon. And so began the practice of riding at night and sleeping come sunrise. Conveniently enough, this is also the only time my father is guaranteed still to be asleep. Dawn was hours ago, but the courtyard might as well be a graveyard, host to the phantoms of Camelot, and never the few left here.
    I don’t complain about the cold. It was difficult enough to convince Gawain to teach me my way around a sword. He’d suggested archery, but I refused. I couldn’t bring myself to rebuild my miniature crossbow. It reminds me too much of Morgan’s war and the lives I stole. Of the witch herself seizing it from my grasp and sending in into a nearby tree. The exact moment I thought I was going to die.
    “Check for frost,” Gawain says, rolling his shoulders and pacing the courtyard. His own blade is easy in his grasp. It was the first thing that struck me once he agreed to teach me: he’s just as good with a weapon in his left hand as his right.
    I run the blade across my skirt, smoothing Merlin’s prized sword until it’s shining and dry. A silent weapon, the sole reason we decided on swords rather than firelances or fusionahs whose blasts would echo for weeks in the ruins that is Camelot. Anyway, Merlin’s pistolník went missing when he became the ghost for the mechanical dragon Victor.
    Gawain gestures to my stance. “Hold your blade high. Like I showed you. Both hands on the hilt.”
    My knuckles go white with my grip. Gawain walks casually toward me and lifts his own blade over his head, letting it slam down on mine. I jump and swing Merlin’s sword against Gawain’s. He frees our blades and steps back.
    “Good. But don’t flinch. Your footing makes you awkward; you look as though this is the third or fourth time you’ve ever held a blade.”
    I glare at him. “It is.”
    He cocks a lighthearted smile and sends his weapon through the air, the point straight at me. Instinctively, I lift my sword vertical, and our weapons clash. We both hold. If I hadn’t moved, I would have lost an ear. My mouth goes agape.
    “Faster next time.” His eyes gleam.
    I find my breath again. The clock tower chimes six o’clock and surprises me, and I glance over at the still-missing numbers near its top.
    “Don’t turn away from your enemy,” Gawain warns.
    I look back, but he’s already advancing and swinging his sword. A rush of irritation turns my blood hot from my error in gauging his speed. His blade strikes mine, and his heavy step moves me backward, giving him the advantage. The steel spins around my wrist and