The Indigo King - James A. Owen [58]
“You’re related to Alexander?” John said in surprise.
“A cousin,” replied Meridian. “We descendants of the Argonauts are an ambitious lot, it seems. World conquest is in our blood. At least,” he added quickly, “for some of us.”
“You’re not interested in conquering the world, Myrddyn?” John asked, remembering more about the twin they were facing as they conversed.
The mapmaker raised a hand. “Please. I have not gone by that name in almost two hundred years. Meridian suits me better, I think.”
“And your brother?” John asked, noting that Meridian hadn’t actually answered his question. “Has he changed as well?”
“Madoc is still Madoc, in name and temperament,” said Meridian. “He has chosen his path, and it differs from mine. Why do you ask?”
John looked first at Jack, who nodded his assent, then at Chaz, who chewed his lip for a few seconds, looking hard at Meridian, before he also agreed.
“We have some things we need to tell you,” he began slowly, “things that may seem impossible to believe. But believe them you must. And when we have finished, we’re hoping that you can help us find a way to solve our problem …
“… without killing your brother.”
PART FOUR
The Iron Crown
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Betrayal
By early afternoon, Hugo Dyson and King Pellinor had arrived at the place Pellinor called “Camelot.” Whatever Hugo had initially envisioned on hearing the name vanished as the cart crested the hill overlooking the shallow valley that was their destination.
Camelot was not a city, or even the castle Hugo had been half hoping to see. Instead they looked out over a broad valley ringed about with low hills and a scattering of scrubby trees. In the center stood a number of upraised stones and a granite stairway that wound its way up a grassy mound, ending at a great stone table.
Throughout the valley were camped the various travelers Hugo had observed from a distance as they rode south. There were mud-and-wattle huts and silken tents, along with a more common scattering of simpler tents and enclosures. But in front of each encampment was a banner representing the champion who had come to compete in the tournament.
To the right, Hugo saw a flag emblazoned with a scarlet roc; and beside that, one bearing a golden griffin. To their left, he saw an immense banner crested with ships and an embroidered fish. In the distance, he could even make out one that seemed simpler, as if it had been sewn for a blanket rather than a war banner; it bore the image of a white pig.
“So,” Hugo said jovially, “uh, have we got a banner to fly?”
Pellinor raised an eyebrow at him, then lifted his foot and booted Hugo out of the cart.
The scholar rolled clumsily for a moment before righting himself, spitting and brushing dirt off his clothes. “I say,” Hugo said indignantly. “What’s that all about?”
Pellinor shrugged and tossed the crumpled photograph at him. “I was asked to pick you up and then deliver you here. I’ve done that, done. And now I’ve my own business to attend to.”
Without another word, Pellinor clicked his tongue at the old horse and wheeled it around. In minutes he’d disappeared amongst the other carts and horses and tents filling the small valley.
Hugo blinked a few times, then began to assess his situation through clear eyes for the first time. This was no joke, no illusion. And he was far out of his depth in whatever it was that was happening around him.
As if to compound his concern, a knight dressed in armor and a green-gold tunic noticed him sitting on the hillside and began walking directly toward him.
The knight stopped, towering over the scholar, who was growing more anxiety-ridden by the second. “You look as out of place as I feel,” he whispered to Hugo in perfect, unaccented American English. “And that’s saying a lot.”
“Wh-wh-what?” Hugo stammered. This was unexpected, even after the ride with Pellinor.
“Hank Morgan,” the knight said, removing his helmet. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Are—are you here to fight in the tournament?”