A/N—I don't own The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel; it belongs, in its entirety, to Mr. Michael Scott.

My chosen location for Camelot is, as I mentioned in the last chapter, Malory's Winchester location; it is located in Winchester, in the Great Hall. For the sake of story continuity, I've continued to call it Camelot (as that's what Palamedes would have known it as); I've also chosen to keep the layout of the castle fictional.

Palamedes unfolded the paper with trembling fingers; the edges tore with his shaking, and Aude reached out to steady his wrists. When he finally managed to unfurl the paper, his own handwriting stared up at him—smeared, but legible.

"'He that is thy friend…'" Hercules read over Palamedes' shoulder. "Sounds like Shakespeare."

"It is," Oliver murmured from somewhere off to Palamedes' right. "At least many people attribute it to Shakespeare."

Hercules muttered something about an authorship issue, and the sound of the ensuing argument that occurred between the two immortals made Palamedes' head throb.

He scanned the note, searching for anything that might comprise a message; there was nothing—the ditty he had scribbled on the paper was completely unchanged. He moaned, and tossed the note aside.

"Pally!" Aude gasped in horror, and he looked at her. She was pointing toward his hand, her eyes wide and her mouth open. He looked down. Blood stained his fingers.

Aude took his hand in her smaller one, searching for cuts. Roland, however, stooped immediately and scooped up the paper that Palamedes had thrown away. He unfolded it again and turned it over, holding it out to Palamedes.

Blood had been smeared on the back of the paper.

Hercules and Oliver fell quiet, and all four immortals gathered around Palamedes, staring in horror at the bloody smear: it was still wet, and formed only one word.

Palamedes

The handwriting was shaky and nearly illegible, but even written in blood Palamedes could see the distinctive Edwardian strokes; he recognized the handwriting.

It was Will's.

The train was crowded for holidays, vacations, and whatnot; the small group of five was forced to squeeze into one row of seats.

"You know, this is far closer to you than I really wanted to be," Hercules quipped at Roland, who was pressed so closely against Hercules side that they looked as if they'd been glued together.

Charlemagne's nephew turned around as well as he could, his eyes narrowing. "Well, I never wanted to be this close to you!" he snapped. "So think about how unpleasant this is for me!"

"You're on my foot, Pally," Aude murmured, from where she was sandwiched between the knight and her brother. Palamedes shifted his leg as well as he could, with the result that he bumped into Oliver, who gave a shout of indignation as his volume of Shakespeare dropped from his hand and fell to the ground.

"Page one thousand, six hundred and sixteen," Roland told him as he stooped and retrieved the book, handing it back to Oliver. In the small row, the action meant touching every other person.

"Thank you," Oliver said, flipping open the book and finding his page.

"May I see?" Palamedes asked. Oliver tilted the book toward Palamedes, and the knight could see that page 1616 was, in that volume, right in the center of Othello. He smiled, remembering how Will had told him that the part of Othello had been written for him: "Not that I'd ever accuse you of smothering anybody, but I'll keep the correlation in mind in case I ever make you mad before going to bed."

"Did you ever finish Hamlet?" Palamedes asked, trying to engage in light conversation.

Oliver shook his head. "No; I gave up."

Thanks to the small space, everybody could hear the conversation. Hercules laughed loudly and attempted to reach across the row to elbow Oliver in the ribs. He failed, and ended up elbowing Roland instead. The French immortal was clearly reaching the end of his patience with the mythical hero, because his aura ignited and Hercules backed away with a blistered elbow.

"Okay, I get it. You know, you're not a pleasant traveler."

Oliver laughed. "I forgot how testy you get, Roland." He pronounced the word in a strange way, and it came out sounding like Roh-lahnd. "But we have a long ride—try to contain it."

"Great," Hercules groaned, slumping in his seat as well as he was able. "A long ride with Sir Grumps-A-Lot."

Palamedes closed his eyes, trying to block out the incessant bickering that followed. The ride from Roncevaux to Winchester was nearly fourteen hours, and he just wanted to think.

All he wanted to do was to find Will.

To do that, however, he had to get to Camelot.

After an incredibly long ride, the final bus pulled up to the stop nearest to Camelot. To Palamedes' relief, the only problem they had encountered in the past 14 hours was a medium-sized spat between Hercules and Roland, which had been caused by Hercules' sitting closer to Aude (who had been forced to move into Roland's spot to avoid the two immortals' killing each other) than even the small space required. Both Oliver and Roland had delivered punishment, and when they stepped out into the colder England air, Hercules still looked uncomfortable and Oliver was still smirking.

"Camelot's right there," Oliver said, pointing to the large building nearby. "It's going to be busy; we really ought to wait until evening."

"We should scope it out, though," Aude said sweetly. The only sign of her embarrassment from earlier was the faint pink on her cheeks. Her disposition, which was very similar to Joan's in its sweetness, had never altered. "But that can be done in the evening, when it's a bit less busy. Perhaps we ought to drive around."

Palamedes let them decide; driving was decided on, and a car was quickly rented. Oliver insisted upon taking the driver's seat, as Palamedes "was in no way whatsoever to be qualified to drive, and they couldn't afford to get arrested just now." Palamedes didn't argue, as he knew that if he were just to look in a mirror he would see what Oliver meant; he hadn't slept since Will had been taken—was it really more than 48 hours ago?—and he slipped into the passenger seat in a stupor, trying to sort through his thoughts and emotions.

Seeing Roland and Oliver reunited had been difficult for Palamedes; they reminded him too much of himself and Will. Both he and Roland had the same approach to battle: if it had to be done, do it quickly and efficiently; they were both wildly loyal, intensely attached to their relationships with others. Both Will and Oliver were quieter, more intelligent people; they preferred to avoid fighting, though that was no indication of their fighting prowess, and their loyalty and affection were given in softer manners. Seeing how inseparable Roland and Oliver were reminded him of Will, and of how much he missed him—it seemed to have been far longer than three days since he had last heard Will's bright voice, with its sharp British accent.

As they drove he flipped absent-mindedly through Oliver's volume of Shakespeare, haphazardly reading the lines that Oliver had highlighted. When he ran out of the emotional reserves to do that, he simply stared at the picture on the cover, comparing it with the small photograph that he had tucked into his pocket mere seconds before Francis' house exploded.

"Nice picture," Oliver said softly. "May I see it?"

Palamedes handed it over wordlessly, and Oliver propped it up against the steering wheel so that he could still keep both hands on the wheel as he drove.

"Who took it?" he asked.

"Saint-Germain."

"Which one? The old one, or the rockstar?"

"They're the same person."

"Oh. I didn't know that." Oliver took one hand off the steering wheel so that he could look more closely at the photograph. "He looks nice, Shakespeare. Very nice."

Palamedes nodded. Oliver handed the photograph back, and focused on the road again before he continued speaking.

"He doesn't look like the old pictures. But I guess none of us do. I always enjoyed flipping through the internet and seeing the pictures of me…they never did me justice. But thank you, by the way, for bringing Roland and Aude with you. I wanted so badly to see them, and I hoped that they weren't dead. But there was no way to search for them—I mean, how do you look for a couple from a book? If I'd asked anyone to help me locate Roland and Aude from La Chanson de Roland, even the most eccentric academic would have laughed at me."

"I know," Palamedes said. "You're quite welcome. If I'd know you, I would have mentioned you to them. It's a sad coincidence that you and Hercules knew each other for so long without something coming of it."

Oliver smiled, and his eyes flitted back to the photograph, which Palamedes was still holding in his hand. "We'll find him, Palamedes. And her."

"Do you know her?" Palamedes asked.

"Oh yes! By a different name, but I've read enough to know who she is."

"Ah." Palamedes sighed, and rubbed his face with his hand. "It seems the only person who didn't know her was Will. It was…it was stupid of me, to think it would work. But I just wanted him to be safe. I thought—I hoped—that if he didn't know about her, he'd be safe from her."

"Who?" Roland asked, leaning forward between the two front seats. "I don't know this woman. But apparently everybody else does."

"Annette." It hurt to speak her name, but he did. "I destroyed her Shadowrealm a long time ago as revenge for—for something she did. She never forgave me."

"She's also known," Oliver said, swerving to avoid a reckless driver, "as Morgan le Fay."

The time passed quickly, and they soon deemed it close enough to evening to visit Camelot they pulled into the parking lot and entered the building. Despite the fact that it was nearing closing hours, it was still full of tourists flocking around in the halls, milling about with their brochures, pamphlets, and memorabilia.

"We'll have to wait," Hercules said, laying a hand on Palamedes' shoulder.

"Or not," Oliver said pertly. It's not long until closing hours: I can get us in and keep us in, I believe." His sienna hued aura shimmered around him, and soon he was clothed in the simple clothing of a Camelot tour guide. "This way, ladies and gentlemen. Please stay close, and no touching."

Roland bent his aura as well, mimicking Oliver's clothing; once they were inside, they split into two groups—Roland, Aude, and Hercules took one route, while Oliver and Palamedes took another.

"Keep a low profile," Roland warned as they parted. "No theatrics, Oliver, s'il vous plait. They're not stupid—they know their workers, and they won't buy the disguise for long. Palamedes, try to find your friend. We'll try to find Annette."

Oliver nodded, with a quick "Oui," and yanked Palamedes down the hall. He made a good tour guide: even in disguise, he pointed out the major aspect of each room—"Tapestries are centuries old, though not the originals; they were destroyed by a looting army in the 800s and were only replaced when the castle was renovated in the late 19th century"—in a professional voice that still retained its warmth and friendliness. Although Palamedes knew everything there was to know about Camelot, he found relief in being able to listen to Oliver's voice.

"Find the Round Table," he muttered, when Oliver stopped and gave him a questioning look. Oliver nodded with a quick bob of his head, and the action sent memories of Will and his bright "ta!" rising to Palamedes' mind. He sighed heavily.

"Are you alright?" Oliver asked, keeping his voice casual as they walked down the hall, Oliver poking his head into the rooms as they passed.

"No," Palamedes admitted. "You rather remind of Will."

"I'm sorry," Oliver almost whispered. "What's he like, Shakespeare? I mean…what exactly do I do that reminds you of him?"

Palamedes shrugged his shoulders, but eventually spoke. "You're both very intelligent. You're both enthusiastic. There's just something about the way you act that makes me think of him." Words failed him, and they lapsed into silence, save for Oliver's "no, no" as they passed by a room that failed to produce the Round Table.

Finally, stopping beside a velvet rope, Oliver bowed dramatically and motioned into the large, round room beyond. "The Round Table, Sir Knight."

It was different from what Annette had shown him—so different. Everything was in pristine condition—the table was polished, and the chairs had been recently upholstered.

"I could see myself eating a table like that," Oliver said jokingly for the benefit of the nearby crowds. His aura shimmered faintly around him, returning him to his casual clothing, and he now looked like a tourist.

A speaker crackled above their heads, and a cool, male voice proclaimed that "Camelot would be closed to the public in fifteen minutes." It reminded both immortals of the age they lived in, and both instantly starting looking for security. A glint in the corner caught Palamedes' eye.

"Security camera," he muttered.

"Un, du, trios, quart, cinq…five," Oliver counted. "Yikes, that's a lot of cameras."

Palamedes' summoned his dark green aura, preparing to short circuit the wires. But Oliver beat him to a solution, and with a blast of ylang ylang, something formed over the cameras.

"Fake picture," Oliver said happily, and as he slipped beneath the velvet rope he turned around and mouthed the words we're invisible. Palamedes began to see why Roland had warned against theatrics.

"You should have been a movie producer," Palamedes muttered as they took their hiding places in the large room.

Oliver shrugged. "It didn't appeal to me. Too many people."

Palamedes snorted. "You work as a tour guide!"

"Yes, but I can ridicule those people. They come once, maybe twice if they're hardcore fans (and believe me, no one is). If I work with the same people every day, I have to be nice. And let's face it: that's no fun."

Palamedes nodded. "You would be correct."

"You were an actor, weren't you?" Oliver asked, switching the topic onto Palamedes with a fluidity of conversation that must have been what won him so much favor with Charlemagne and the Peers. "I believe someone once told me that you acted."

"I used to."

"Did you specialize in anything?" Oliver whispered, wincing and motioning for Palamedes to stay silent as a bored tour guide poked her head into the room and then switched off the light.

"Shakespearean monologues," Palamedes said as soon as the girl was gone. Outside the room, lights were being flicked off, and the halls were going deadly silent.

"Before or after you met Shakespeare?"

"It depends on what you mean by met. We had a brief run in early in 1603. He was writing a play, but didn't say much about it. We barely talked—a few words."

"Like what?" Oliver laughed, and he snorted as he did so. "William Shakespeare, Palamedes the Saracen Knight; Palamedes, the Bard of London?"

"No. More along the lines of 'Mr. Shakespeare, one of my men.' I worked as a guard back then."

"When did you officially meet?"

"1820, in a small, cramped building in a rundown alleyway. We were both on the run from the police."

"What for?"

"Will for running an illicit business, me for using too much violent physical contact in teaching a man not to speak of Shakespeare too lightly."

Oliver snorted again, smothering his laughter in his hand. "That's fantastic."

"What about you and Roland?" Palamedes asked, switching the conversation on Oliver. They needed to wait only a few more minutes; they might as well get to know each other since it was quiet.

"Haven't you heard the story?"

"Of course I have. But they're often wrong, and I'd like the truth."

"Well, for once the official version is right. I laughed at Roland's clothing. He whipped my backside for it. We became best pals, et cetera, et cetera."

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and one last security guard poked his head into the room. He was obviously tired, because he waved his flashlight around the room once or twice in an erratic fashion before announcing the all clear into his Bluetooth. Within a few minutes he was gone, and the castle was completely still.

No sooner was everybody gone than the castle changed.

A warm, cinnamon scented wind blew throughout the room, making them gag. It left dust and destruction in its wake: the chairs rotted, and the cushions disintegrated; the large table lost its shine, and scratches etched themselves onto the now dusty surface; the tapestries faded, and dirt pooled in the cracks in the stone floor. In a matter of seconds the room they stood in had been transformed.

Oliver swore in French. "That was cool." He went up to the table and swiped his hand across it, picking up a handful of dust. "You'd never guess that it was clean less than a minute ago."

Palamedes ignored him, searching the wall for the small crest that Arthur had placed there millennia ago.

"So, where does my Aether come in?" Oliver asked.

"There's a crest on the wall. If we can find it, you'll have to use Aether to activate it and open up the way to the dungeons."

"The dungeons? Those are down the hall?"

"The official ones. We never used those."

"Oh…"

As they were speaking, a segment of wall gave way, and a dusty Hercules staggered out coughing.

"Not there," he hacked out, motioning back where he had come from (and where Roland and Aude were emerging as well). "Nothing but a tower."

Roland and Aude rejoined Oliver, murmuring in French as Palamedes returned his attention to the wall. He cursed. There was no crest; he searched again and again, but still nothing.

"Maybe she moved it," Hercules suggested as Palamedes pushed a heavy bookcase aside.

"How would you move a crest?" Aude asked skeptically.

Oliver positively guffawed. "You don't. Imbecile," he shot at Hercules.

"My uncle always used to say that the best place to look for something is where is should be," Roland offered as he inspected the table for any deformities.

"So look in the clichéd places?" Aude suggested.

They did, to no avail. Time was ticking, and Palamedes growled in frustration as a second, third, and eventually fourth examination of the entire room came up fruitless. He slammed his hand down on the table, and drew it back with a curse. It was bleeding; the dark liquid spattered on the floor.

Hercules lifted the object that Palamedes had cut himself on. It was a blade, like the one which had appeared in his hands in the car. "Excalibur."

"No," Palamedes said, taking it from him. "Clarent; another illusion," he added, as he saw the now familiar cinnamon red working its way along the edges of the blade.

He held it up, waiting for it to reveal Annette's newest hint. Nothing happened, and they stood there for nearly thirty second staring at the unresponsive metal before Aude gave a cry.

"Is that it?" she asked, pointing at the hilt. They all peered at it.

"I don't think so," Hercules said as they stared.

"Do you even know what we're looking for?" Roland snapped irately.

"What does it matter?" Hercules retorted. "We already know it's supposed to be on the wall!"

But Palamedes shook his head. "She's moved it. Aude's right; this is it."

"DANG IT!" Hercules yelled. "I hate it when others are right! I'm NEVER right!"

"Shut up!" Roland and Oliver hissed. Aude put a finger to her lips, and Palamedes glared; once Hercules was silenced, Palamedes handed the sword to Oliver.

"What do I do?" the French immortal asked, waving the sword as he spoke and narrowly missing Hercules, who shouted a curse and was silenced again by Aude and Roland.

"Let some of your power leak into it."

"Oh, wonderful." Oliver made a face as he turned the blade over in his hands. "Great. I really like that idea. Surrender my power to a sword that's not even real and is under the spell of a tyrannical lunatic. Love it."

Despite his arguments, however, he allowed a little sienna colored power to drip from his hands onto the blade, and the sword flew from his hands as if from a catapult.

"Follow it!" Hercules yelled, but the sword stayed in the room, merely attaching itself to a portion of the wall, where it shimmered and disappeared. The wall soon followed, revealing a passageway. "Or follow the passage," Hercules muttered. "Whatever works."