“Simpler . . . but not nearly as poetic!”
He took me by the elbow and led me toward the back of the cave. Our shadows stretched out in front of us and twisted up the back wall.
He didn’t have to lead me; I knew the way. I had gone down this path before. We reached the fissure in the stone, the opening to the passageway that descended to the hidden chamber where I had first used Bennacio’s sword in defense of the world.
Vosch stopped at the opening. “And now I must say goodbye, Alfred. You won’t be seeing me again.”
I looked over his shoulder at the skulls on the wall. I wouldn’t be seeing him, but he would be seeing me.
He followed my gaze. “Can you think of a more fitting resting place, Alfred? Here, beneath the symbol of all they held dear, in the last refuge of the wizard who seduced a farm boy into believing he could create perfection on earth. And, tonight, the circle comes round: Lancelot brought down the walls there above and now his last son pays for their fall here below. Of course you belong here. Of course you do!”
I stepped into the passageway. Vosch called softly behind me, “Adieu, adieu, Alfred Kropp! ‘An orphan’s curse would drag to hell/A spirit from on high;/But oh! more horrible than that/ Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!’ ”
Rock crunched beneath my feet. The way down was very narrow in places, forcing me to turn sideways and shuffle carefully between outcropping of razor-sharp stone. The walls wept with moisture and the wind whistling from the entrance chamber became a high-pitched wail: the cries of Merlin’s ghost for the kingdom love had lost. I touched the sharp stones with my fingertips and thought of dragons’ teeth. The opening behind me was the lips and I was in its mouth, heading for its gullet.
I reached the opening to the main chamber. A year ago I had died in there, the belly of the dragon. But, like a year ago, I didn’t see what choice I had. None of it was going to stop unless I did something to stop it. I didn’t ask for it, but I had it and, like Nueve said, what I had was a gift, not a treasure. Treasures you hoard away. Gifts you don’t.
I had gifts to give. A gift for Mr. Needlemier and a gift for Sam and, in a really weird way, a gift for Jourdain Garmot.
I stepped into the chamber.
THE WIZARD’S CAVE
00:05:25:19
There were no points of reference inside the belly of the dragon. The walls and ceiling were wrapped in shadow, and once you walked a little ways into it, you couldn’t tell if you were in the middle or more toward one edge or the other. Wherever you stood, that was the middle.
And that’s where Jourdain was standing, holding a black sword identical to mine, ghostlike in the ambient light streaming through hidden fissures in the ceiling.
I walked toward him. When I got within ten feet of him, he said, “Stop.”
I stopped.
He said, “Do you know who I am?”
I didn’t answer. Of course I knew who he was and of course he knew I knew who he was. I had the feeling he had been practicing for this moment, had rehearsed it over and over in his mind ever since our meeting in Knoxville. He was following a script he had written and rewritten until he knew every line by heart.
“I am the son of the man you murdered here.”
“And I’m the son of the man he murdered in Játiva,” I said.
“Yes, the last son of the house of Lancelot. Tell me something, Alfred Kropp, do you know from which house I descend?”
I didn’t. No one had ever told me which knight Mogart had come from.
“From the house of Mordred,” Jourdain said. “Mordred, the only son of Arthur. I am the true heir to the king, the true heir to the throne of Camelot. Do you understand now why my father sought to claim the Sword? It was rightfully his.”
“Mordred killed Arthur,” I pointed out.
“He took his mortal life. It was your ancestor who betrayed him, killed his spirit and sent him into the arms of Mordred’s mother. If not for Lancelot, Camelot would not have fallen.”
He raised his sword in both hands, bringing the blade against his chest.
“In a dream the Lady came to me,” he said. “Your blood will bring an end to the curse upon Arthur’s house, Camelot will rise again, and the Archangel shall return the Sword—to me, the last son of Arthur.
“Let us end, Alfred Kropp, what a thousand years ago our forebears began.”
Jourdain Garmot rushed toward me. I brought my sword up just in time, as his came whistling down toward the top of my head. The black blades met with a ringing crash and my knees quivered with the impact. Little shards of glittering metal exploded from our blades, spinning away into the shadows.
He forced his sword downward. I reached between us with my left hand and grabbed the wrist of his blade hand. I yanked his arm across his body, freeing my sword, and then plunged it into his side. The blade hit something hard: his rib, which turned it away from his chest and sent it down, toward his stomach. His eyes went wide.
He stepped back. I stayed put. He stood panting in front of me, his white shirt glimmering with blood.
“That’s it, okay?” I asked. “We don’t owe our fathers anything, Jourdain. They’re dead. All the knights are dead. The castle is just a bunch of rocks and in another thousand years even those rocks will be gone. The Sword isn’t coming back. Let it go.”
He switched his sword to his left hand and came at me again. I slapped the blade away and slashed back to the right. The tip of my sword ripped through his shirt, opening up a two-inch-deep gash in his exposed stomach.
And I heard his father’s voice echoing inside my head:
Did noble Bennacio tell you how your father met his fate? . . . I tortured him. I cut him a thousand times, until upon his knees he begged me to finish it, to end his miserable life . . .
Jourdain’s mouth came open, as if he had something to say. He staggered backward, but I didn’t follow.
“I don’t want to kill you,” I said. “I never wanted anyone to die—not even your dad, but I didn’t have a choice. But I have one now and so do you, Jourdain. You can let it go. We can both let it go.”
He still didn’t say anything. We were off script. This wasn’t the way he imagined it, the way it was supposed to go.
“Let me save you,” I whispered to Jourdain Garmot.
He came at me a final time, right arm dangling uselessly by his bloody side, his left swinging the sword crazily back and forth. I sidestepped to his right, pivoted, slung my left arm around his neck, pulled his head back against my chest, and rammed my sword into him, all the way to the hilt.