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

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication and Acknowledgements Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ripples in the Chalice

  A Tale of Avalon

  Book II

  Digital Edition

  Adam Copeland

  Copyright © 2015 by Adam Copeland

  Printed in the United States of America

  Major edits by Sarah Cypher: http://www.threepennyeditor.com

  Minor edits by Alexis Mason: http://www.alexisllc.com

  Cover Art by David Greene Copyright © 2014

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Paperback edition available at http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0692508945

  For My Mother Gayle, My Sister Annette, And My Aunt Catherine...You Are All My Talisia.

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank all the people in my life who made this work possible, whether they knew it or not. You were the influencers, the motivators, the believers, the task masters, and the contributors. I thank you all. Here is a short list of you (in no particular order), and if I left you out, know you are no less important to me. You are a part of the most important story of all...my life.

  Adam Copeland.

  Sarah Cypher, Jennifer Thomas, Dan Dreier, Will Hertling, Jaymi Elford, Cheri Lasota, Auburn Seal, Gretchen Grey-Hatton, Paul Smith, David Greene, Amanda Washington, Roslyn McFarland, Ripley Patton, Maria Lee, Alexis Mason, Mark Kellar, Lisa Shah & Larrie Noble Sr., Ingrid Wolf, Jason Cortlund, Norman Gouveia, Terese Thompson, Dregam, Ammie Hague, Chris Yee, Craig Hurley, Caitlin Diehl, Dheyrdre Machado, Nicole Gress, Patrick Timm, David Drazul, Andreas Gustafsson, Brian Tashima, Courtney Pierce, Brad Wheeler, Michele Freeman, Shannon Coon, and Stephen Merlino

  Prologue

  They say when you're dying, your life passes before your eyes.

  They're right.

  What they don't tell you is that life mocks and lectures you while it's happening.

  Sir Patrick Gawain did not need that. Not now. Not when a sword was about to strike him at eye level.

  He noted its wide, swinging arc. The blade seemed to slow down the closer it came to his head. Indeed everything began to slow down, taking on a dreamlike, or rather, nightmarish quality—as if the world had plunged into a sea of despair, where grief hindered all movement.

  To his left, Greensprings burned. The central keep tower guttered like a giant candle whose flame licked at low-hanging dark clouds, giving them a brimstone glow.

  To his right, flanks of a group of enemy horsemen disappeared into the forest beyond Greensprings. In the dream-motion, the earth their horses kicked up hung in the air, gently rolling in suspension. The horsemen pursued Aimeé, who held the object of all their troubles—and their salvation. They followed much closer than Patrick wanted. He had hoped to give her a much greater head start, but even that had not gone according to plan. The enemy would catch her soon, and her only protection would be her one-time rapist with whom she rode.

  Around him the battle raged. The combatants danced the deadly dance, a thousand rising arms and falling bodies in tune to the music of clashing steel. Men’s cries of pain and anger formed the song.

  Movement may have been dreamlike, but it only gave him more time to see his friends and comrades dying.

  Nearby Sir Corbin spun with a long sword in each hand, surrounded by opponents. Sir Peredur struggled to get free as an attacker palmed his face into the water of a deep puddle. Sir Waylan and Sir Brian fought back to back, running out of precious space to maneuver. Four enemies forced another Avangardesman, his identity obscured by the press of attackers, to his knees. They held his arms out to the sides while a fifth pulled his head back to expose his throat and run a sword blade across it.

  A mob of attackers pulled down the last of the mounted Avangardesmen, horse and all. Even before the knight hit the ground, his attackers struck with sword, axe, halberd, and maul like farmers threshing wheat.

  Patrick realized it had been raining for some time now. The odd slowing of time enabled him to see the drops of rain, blood, and flying sweat as they hung trembling in the air.

  His heartbeat drummed louder.

  How did things go so horribly wrong? How did it come to this? Were not the righteous supposed to prevail?

  He’d caused all this. Things could have been so different if he had only made different choices; one choice in particular, so long ago, and none of this would have happened. The consequences of his action lay all around him in the mud, the blood, and the fire. Now the grand experiment known as Greensprings on the island of Avalon collapsed into a bloody ruin. And once they captured Aimeé with her precious charge, the world would never be the same, either.

  Patrick would not witness any of this because death had arrived, brought to him by the hands of his own brother. Patrick’s sword arm dipped. His brother’s blade came within inches of his face now, moving so slowly it may as well have stopped. But it did not, for he could see its sharpened edge pass through a fat raindrop, slowly parting it like a quivering bead of quicksilver.

  As he watched the drop separate on the blade, Patrick noticed his reflection in the metal. In the reflection, he could see a figure at his back walking towards him. Another attacker coming from behind? This figure moved at a normal pace, not in slow motion. Once right behind him, Patrick recognized the face.

  The sword truly did stop moving now. The parted raindrop froze in place.

  “Rise, Patrick,” the voice said.

  Patrick came to a standing position from his knees and turned to face the newcomer.

  “You,” he said.

  Before him stood a mirror image of himself, though rain and sweat did not plaster his other self’s dark shoulder length hair against his scalp. Nor did he wear Patrick’s torn and bloodied black Avangarde surcoat with the white swan emblem on the chest. He did not have rent armor with loose chain mail links spilling from threads. The Other’s face, with its high cheekbones and light complexion, was clear of cuts, blood, bruises, and mud. His own hazel-green eyes, with a hint of gold circling the pupils, peered at him intensely.

  Once, Patrick referred to him as the “Apparition” because when he came during his silent, unsettling visitations he wore a deeply cowled robe. Nowadays, he came wearing a sort of simple cassock of a forgettable color and made no attempt to obscure his face. The visitor still preferred to wear gloves, though, which Patrick noticed when the Other hooked his thumbs in his belt. Also, the Other no longer remained silent. Though Patrick often wi
shed he did.

  “Have you come to save me at the last moment, again?” Patrick asked.

  “No,” the Other responded, gesturing with a nod towards where Patrick had sat on his knees moments before.

  Patrick frowned and looked in the direction. To his surprise, he saw he still knelt there, the sword dangerously close to his head. All frozen in time.

  Patrick staggered back and looked down at his hands. He still wore his bloodied and muddied gauntlets, but he held no sword. He gasped and patted himself down, confirming the solidness of his body.

  “Well, this is a new one,” he said. “What does it mean? Am I dead, then?”

  The Other shook his head. “You will be, though, unless you do something quick.”

  Patrick shrugged. “So do something. Step in as you did when I fought Loki and he had the upper hand.”

  A sneer, ever so faint, curled on the Other’s lip. “I’m here to help you help yourself this time,” he responded. “Just moments ago you lowered your sword arm. You weren’t even trying.”

  Patrick sagged and ran a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of grime.

  “Why? Why do you care? Who are you? What are you? Why won’t you tell me?”

  The Other approached the frozen, still-kneeling Patrick and bent over to scrutinize his face as if fascinated by an insect.

  “Much rides on your success here,” he said at last. “You must hold on as long as possible.”

  Patrick chuckled without mirth. “Define success. Look around! It is over! I held on as long as possible, and they’re still dying!”

  The Other broke his gaze away from the kneeling Patrick. “It is not over. You must continue the fight.”

  Patrick staggered a few steps in the direction of the keep and looked at a particular spot of ground before the gate. His jaw muscle moved as he ground his teeth.

  “I’m so sorry!” he shouted at the spot. His eyes glistened with tears though none fell to his cheeks. He pulled his gauntlets off and stared at his hands, turning to the Other.

  “So much blood,” he spoke softly, rubbing his fingers along a scar that ran the length of his right palm. “It flows from the people who trusted me. Believed in me.” He wrung his hands in an attempt to make them clean. “I can’t get it off. I can’t get it off!”

  “Get a hold of yourself!” the Other shouted, displaying for the first time something resembling emotion. “You must be strong. You must follow through. You’ve come so far and taken such great steps. Don’t stop now.”

  “Why?” Patrick asked, meaning more than just the immediate inquiry.

  “These people followed you onto the battlefield because they believed in you,” the Other replied. “If there is any chance of their surviving and changing the course of history, you must believe in yourself as well. You must fight until the end.”

  “Even if it looks hopeless?” Patrick whispered.

  “Especially when it looks hopeless,” the Other whispered back, then gestured to the still frozen Patrick. “And now it is time to return and raise your sword.”

  “What? That’s it?” Patrick glowered at the interloper. “That is your sole purpose for being here? That is all the aid you have to offer—” Patrick waved his hands at the spectacle around them, scowling “—just to say, ‘You must hold on?’ How does that help?”

  “What more do you want from me?” the Other asked, glowering back.

  “I want to know where I went wrong! I want to go back and change things! Surely if you can stop time, you can reverse it?”

  The Other shook his head gravely. “I did not stop time, merely took you out of it for a moment.”

  “Then what good are you?” Patrick kicked at a dirt clod.

  The Other stepped closer, almost nose to nose.

  “Would it motivate you to raise your sword arm one last time if I showed you that you did nothing wrong? That your guilt is an illusion?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said without hesitation.

  The Other reached up and touched Patrick’s face, the glove rasping against the skin of his temple.

  “Then see,” he said.

  Patrick’s vision suddenly narrowed to a dark tunnel. He gasped and almost lost his balance.

  “What do you see?” the Other asked.

  “I-I’m high above, in the dark, looking down on a boat on a river, lit by lanterns,” Patrick responded. “I don’t remember this. What am I looking at?”

  “You are looking at the whole story. All the choices leading to today. Did you really think this was all your doing? Everyone has to take a share of responsibility. Now, watch.”

  Chapter One

  After many hours, the rhythmic creak and gentle splash of the oars had become hypnotizing. All on board fell quiet, lost in their thoughts. This included the young King Henry Salian, fifth of the name, who found his thoughts wandering to old lessons from his father’s tutor. Henry hadn’t liked the man, and certainly resented the many hours spent indoors learning trivia just as easily referenced by any number of counselors at a moment’s notice. He still rankled at the knowledge of having been robbed of a significant portion of his childhood. Children should play. But the elder Henry—Emperor Henry—felt otherwise. He had insisted a leader must project intelligence and wisdom, not just power. Plus, it just wouldn’t do to turn constantly to advisors amid negotiations.

  As the younger Henry grew into manhood, especially tonight, he had to admit that some of his father’s advice rang true. Tonight he needed to project a certain image to ensure the placement of an important game piece on the playing board.

  There were plenty of other lessons, however, whose truth Henry was not willing to concede. The young king set his jaw firmly at the thought. Tonight would be the beginning of asserting himself.

  Project that, Father.

  He placed a foot on the boat’s gunwale, leaned forward, and prayed that his memories of those childhood history lessons would be sharp. Perhaps something in all that trivia would be useful tonight. Though he doubted anything useful would come from knowing that people often referred to the River Tiber, upon which they floated, as flavus—the blonde—because of its yellowish color.

  It didn’t look yellow to him, even in the day’s last light as they departed shore. Just dirty. In the dark it looked black. Gray-brown in the light of the boat’s lanterns. Initially, Henry had questioned the wisdom of having lights at all, considering their clandestine mission. Those of his men who had traveled here before, as well as their boat-guides, cautioned most large boats on the river had lanterns and it would actually draw attention if they hadn’t. Henry relented, and also agreed to dress down for the occasion. The only thing betraying their status was the craftsmanship of their weapons. Those his escort would not part with, to Henry’s relief.

  “We’re almost there,” one of the oarsmen said, from what Henry could guess from his Italian. The hired boat-guide pointed. Rowing proved unnecessary as they traveled from north to south with the river’s current. Returning upstream to the outskirts of the city, where the horses and carriage waited, would be a different matter.

  “Will he be there?” Henry asked, turning to Gustave.

  The large burly man stood next to the young king and stroked his thick brown beard.

  “You can count on it, Your Highness,” he grunted. “They can’t pass up an opportunity such as this. If conditions permitted it, I’m certain they’d have a red carpet laid out from the Castel to the basilica just for you.”

  Henry knew the answer, but liked reassurance just the same, which is why he also asked, “And the owner of our transportation and his crew? I trust they will keep our comings and goings private?”

  Again Gustave grunted, passing a glance at the nervous oarsmen.

  “A substantial sum will assure secrecy—that, and the fact that we greeted them with their family names and what villages they come from, with hands on sword hilts.”

  Henry nodded, smiling. Though officially his father’s man, Gu
stave had proven loyal to the younger Henry’s cause. Gustave also had grievances against the emperor and had been instrumental in showing Henry that one need not be a victim of the established order of things.

  The young king took in the scene as they approached their destination.

  For many leagues the countryside had been mostly dark and empty. Now the buildings became more frequent, larger in size, and made of stone. The docks were larger, as were the boats—some with sails. Shrubs and weeds replaced trees on the cramped shoreline. Before long, the left bank disappeared altogether and the buildings formed a wall extending below the waterline. Ancient, red-tiled roofs sloped down from at least three stories above. The walls’ stones had been re-mortared by countless generations. From the Roman Empire foundation stones, to the trellised windows of the Visigoth Occupation, to the Italian city-state rain gutters, these buildings reminded Henry how short-lived were men and their plans.

  A huge wall slowly curved in from the west and asserted itself closer and closer to the water as the boat made its journey. Soon it dominated their right flank, almost as high as the buildings to their left, fashioned from huge blocks of pale stone streaked with age. Its age did not compare to a rapidly approaching bridge made of similar stone. Flat with no curvature, four major arches supported it over the water, with a series of smaller ones disappearing into a mound of earth rising from the river’s west bank. An oarsman pointed to a gate sitting almost hidden in scrub. It would have been easy to miss if torch light from both the bridge and wall hadn’t illuminated the area.

  Beyond the gate and wall sat a huge drum-shaped fortress.

  “Rome,” Henry whispered, taking in the stout buildings clustered around it.

  “Ja,” Gustave responded. “Some of it, in any case. The city proper is to the east, and huge. This here to the west is mostly the Leonine City, surrounded by the Leonine Wall.”