Chapter Three
Night fell and the moon shown overhead like a freshly minted coin. But Castle Town—as Barrod called it—was anything but sleepy. People bustled from shop-to-shop, gathered around food carts, and mingled outside taverns.
It was like they'd arrived during a night carnival.
But apparently, from Barrod's lack of enthusiasm, it was just an average weekend in Castle Town. Who knew Camelot would have such a nightlife?
They were forced to pause briefly as a man crossed the road, juggling five flaming balls. With thick gloves, he tossed them higher, higher, until they all hung suspended in the air. And then, with a theatrical flourish, he spun on his heel, whipped out a bag, and caught the balls, one after the other. Smoke billowed up from the bag, hiding his face, but he bowed toward the crowd that had gathered. Applause erupted followed quickly by the sound of coins striking stones.
Buffy frowned. Something about the man seemed familiar, but he was already gone, chasing after an errant coin that had rolled among the throng.
From her other side, music suddenly grew loud, then muffled, then loud again. Twisting around, Buffy saw a packed tavern. The carved sign swinging from a post above the door read The Gilded Goblet. People her own age poured from the entrance and again, the music grew loud then muffled when the door swung closed. As the sign had indicated, the teenagers were holding gaudy looking goblets filled with a frothy liquid. They laughed and jostled each other as they looked for empty seats among the outdoor tables. Some had simply chosen to lean against the building or stand in small groups, swaying in tune with the music.
Buffy felt a twinge of longing. The tavern looked more popular than the Bronze on a Friday night. Probably because there didn't appear to be a drinking age in Camelot. A guy that could've played quarterback for Sunnydale's football team leaned against a porch railing, a gold goblet dangling from his fingers. He watched Barrod and Buffy with curiosity, then when he caught her eye, gave her a lazy smile.
Buffy swallowed. "Hey, Barrod—"
"No."
"You didn't even hear me out," Buffy grumbled, casting a longing glance back at the tavern.
"Buffy, how old are you?"
She frowned. Was there a drinking age in Camelot? "Eighteen last week," she lied. Actually, her birthday was next week, but it wasn't really a lie. It was just a matter of rounding.
Barrod nodded. "That's what I thought. Which means I know exactly what you were going to ask. And the answer is still no."
Buffy stuck her tongue out at the back of his head then surveyed another row of shops selling everything from baskets to beauty potions. "You let Kent and the rest of the guys leave," she said after awhile. Her stomach growled at the smell coming from one of the food carts. The man wasn't serving tacos, but it was close enough that Buffy wanted one, desperately.
As before, Barrod's horse clopped on.
"Aye, they've been gone near a month. They've got families or women they want to see. In Trumbell's case, his mother. But you and I," he said pointedly, "have business with the king. Or have you forgotten?"
Of course she hadn't forgotten. A small knot of anxiety had been slowly building in the pit of her stomach, and she was desperate to distract herself. She picked at a loose thread on her dress. "Maybe next weekend," she hedged, "you could show me around." If she was still alive, that is. Or not rotting in the dungeons. Buffy didn't suffer from claustrophobia exactly, but she'd never liked small spaces. They felt too much like coffins.
Barrod's response was not as reassuring as she'd hoped. "Aye. Perhaps then."
They crossed a bridge over a gurgling stream and on the other side, stood two large dragons made from the same white stone as the castle. They stood like sentries on either side of the bridge, and into each base, a single word had been carved. On the left: Vivere. And on the right: Mori.
To live. To die.
Buffy wished Giles hadn't been so enthusiastic in his efforts to teach her Latin. Honestly, the whole thing had ended in complete disaster, and it was one of the few times she'd seen Giles drunk. In his defense, he'd claimed that it was the only logical response when educating the American youth. Needless to stay, the lessons hadn't continued.
Unfortunately, as the Chosen One, some words had a habit of sticking in her brain. Vivere and mori were two of them. And why? Because they summed up a Slayer's life fairly accurately. A Slayer lived . . . a Slayer died. And that was pretty much the end of it. Oh, yeah. And then the Slayer got replaced, like immediately, like before she was even cold. And it didn't matter how strong the Slayer had been, or fast, or smart. Dead was dead. (Unless you were a vampire, of course). They never spoke of it, but Buffy knew that was why Giles trained her so hard: he was trying to keep her alive.
But eventually her winning streak would have to end. Buffy had always known it.
A throat torn open. A snapped deck. Dismemberment. Crushed skull. Perhaps her own stake shoved through her heart . . . In the quiet moments of the night, while she waited in damp cemeteries or even curled up on her bed at home, Buffy would imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios.
It was the main reason why she never took school seriously. What was the point? Why study when she'd never go to college? Why dream when she could never have a career? Why bother with hope when she didn't have a future?
Buffy's chest ached with caged sorrow. She'd never shared her worries with anyone, not even Giles, but they haunted her like ghosts in the night. How could they not? She was young. She could have had so much—
She broke off the thought. No good came from thinking about such things. The only way to cope was to live in the now. And yet, since arriving in this world, even that comfort had been taken from her.
Fidgeting, she asked, "How much longer?"
"We're here."
They'd followed a narrow road to the east side of the castle where the stables were located. From the flickering torches that were fixed along the walls, Buffy saw hay littering the ground and the outline of horses sleeping beyond a fence.
A voice called out to them, and a few moments later several boys came scurrying from the stable. They were a mish-mash of dust-covered enthusiasm, and they quickly encircled Barrod's horse. One took the reins from Barrod while another began unfastening their baggage. The rest stood around gawking at Buffy.
"Welcome back, Sir Barrod." A tall, thin boy with a wisp of chin hair greeted the knight. "I hope your travels went well. Have you brought us any news?"
"I'm afraid the only news I have is for the king's ears. But it's good to be back." Barrod dismounted with a groan that suggested he, too, had been feeling the effects from the long ride. He slapped a hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled at him warmly. "Give my horse extra feed tonight, Charlie. She's carried the burden of two and deserves a good rub down, as well."
"I'll see to it myself, Sir."
"Good lad." Barrod turned to lower Buffy to the ground then faced the thin boy again. "Any word of my squire? Off sleeping, no doubt."
"No, Sir. He's—"
The sound of shoes striking stone interrupted him, and they turned to see a shape bustling toward them. It was a small boy. His bowed legs gave him an awkward gait, but it didn't seem to slow his pace. When he finally came into the torchlight, Buffy realized the boy had dwarfism.
"Ah! Tiny!" Despite the stiff way he'd been moving, Barrod dropped to a knee before the boy so that their faces were level. "'Tis good to see you, my squire. Have you been staying out of trouble or stealing biscuits from the kitchens again?"
The boy didn't speak but gave Barrod an innocent look that didn't quite reach his mischievous eyes.
"Hmm, that's what I thought," Barrod said, then looked up at Buffy. Though his skin sagged with exhaustion, the grin came easily to his lips. "Meet one of the best squires—and biscuit thieves—in all of Camelot, Buffy. This here is Tiny." He roughened the boy's sandy-colored hair with affection. "But don't tell him I said so or else he'll get too big for those britches."
The boy raised his hand and rubbed his fingers together in a universal gesture that Buffy recognized.
"A raise over praise, eh?" Barrod said, rubbing his chin. "We'll see about that after I talk with Gerdy in the kitchens; she'll give me an earful about what's been missing, I'm sure. But first"—Barrod's voice turned serious—"I need you to listen closely, Tiny."
The little boy straightened, instantly alert.
"I need you to take Buffy to your sister," Barrod said. "Have Frannie get her cleaned up, as quick as she can, and bring her to the Red Hall. Got it?"
The boy made a gesture.
"I don't know," Barrod admitted. "Maybe an hour?"
Tiny gave Buffy a doubtful look before arching an eyebrow at Barrod.
"I'm not asking for a miracle," Barrod said, reaching for Buffy's bag. He handed it to Tiny. "Just tell Frannie to do the best she can. Got it?"
Suddenly insecure, Buffy looked down at herself. She looked just like someone who'd spent five days on the back of a horse. She was wrinkled, sweaty, and covered in hair. There was also a faint odor, somewhat more personal than horse, wafting out from beneath her arms. Face burning, Buffy discretely tucked her elbows into her sides.
Tiny took his orders seriously and was already tugging at the front of Buffy's dress, urging her to follow him, but Buffy didn't move. She felt like she was standing on some sort of precipice. The castle was huge—how would she ever find Barrod again? "Barrod, I—"
The older knight gave her an encouraging look. "Don't worry—I'll see you soon. It's best that I speak to the king first while you get cleaned up. Just remember what I told you," he warned, "and always speak the truth."
The truth? How could she tell the king the truth? The king wouldn't believe her any more than Barrod would have. What was she going to do? she wondered, but allowed Tiny to pull her in the direction of the door. His frustration at their pace was clear—and she thought he might actually try pushing her—but Buffy was moving as fast as her despair-heavy limbs would allow.
Nearly a dozen turns later, through several hallways, and down two flights of stairs, Tiny stopped in front of a narrow, wood door. He gave it a few impatient kicks.
A girl, perhaps a year younger than Buffy, opened the door. Presumably this was his sister, Frannie. She was plump, short (but not dwarf-short), with large forearms. Freckles dotted every bit of her face, so much so that they bled into each other in patches along her cheeks and chin. Sandy-colored hair, which had gone frizzy with humidity, framed her round face.
Before Frannie could speak, Tiny made several rapid gestures.
"I'm s'posed to what-what now with who?" Frannie blinked at Buffy then back down at her brother who made an emphatic gesture. She made a face. "An hour?"
Mortified, Buffy pulled her leather bag from Tiny's grasp and began rummaging through it. "I have—uh—another dress in here. It's cleaner, I think." Finding it, she held the wadded material out to Frannie. It was the brown dress she'd worn that first day. The girl took it between two fingers, her gaze shifting between the dress Buffy wore now and the thing dangling between her fingers. "It smells of horse and has nearly as many wrinkles as my grandma's ass!" Frannie exclaimed, then turned quickly to Tiny. "She can't wear this mess to meet the king. Go find Claire and ask to borrow her blue dress. Or the green one, if it's clean. Bring it to the eastern washroom. Tell her I'll explain later. Now go! And for love of the king, hurry!"
Like all younger brothers, Tiny made an exaggerated expression of annoyance, but without further gesture, he turned and began trundling back down the hallway.
Frannie turned confident eyes back to Buffy. "Don't worry; he'll get the dress in time." She waited a beat then pushed by Buffy. "AND NO STOPPING AT THE BLOODY KITCHENS, TINY!"
Buffy remained frozen as Frannie stepped back into her room. She was shaking her head, muttering. "I swear—he eats and I'm the one that gains weight. Anyway"—she inhaled deeply then wrinkled her nose. She gave Buffy a sidelong look. "Let's get you to that washroom, yeah?"
At the end of the hall, behind a wide door, was a surprisingly modern bathroom. If having several sized holes cut into a board could be called modern. Still, Buffy hadn't expected a gravity-fed water system.
"Sorry about the cold water," Frannie apologized again while Buffy worked a soapy lather through her hair. The girl stood facing the middle of the room, giving Buffy some privacy. "The western washroom is warmer but, trust me, you don't want to use that one. Lavonia and her 'ladies-in-waiting' use it." Frannie gave a soft snort, then asked, "Ready?"
Buffy stopped scrubbing and grimaced. "Ready!"
Frannie yanked on the rope in her hand and a moment later, a deluge of chilly water came crashing down on Buffy. "It's all right," she said to Frannie, teeth chattering. "It just feels good to be clean."
"Again?"
"No! No, I'm good. Thanks."
Shivering, Buffy wrapped a thick towel around herself and stepped from the shower area made of flat stones onto pale yellow tiles. She distracted herself from the cold by keeping up their chatter. "So . . . who's this Lavonia?"
"Someone you don't want to meet," Frannie said, rummaging through the basket she'd brought with her. She pulled out a brush and several pins.
Buffy nodded, picking up on the other girl's tones. "The popular girl, huh? Let me guess: she's not very nice."
"That would be putting it mildly," Frannie said. "Acts like she's queen bee, stinger and all. And really, she's just a servant like the rest of us." A sharp knock came low on the washroom door, like someone had kicked it. "That'll be Tiny."
A few moments later, Frannie hurried back to Buffy with a mint-green dress in her hands. "We have to hurry! I lost track of the time."
In a flurry of movements, Buffy found herself dressed and her hair put up in a twisted braid around the crown of her head. Buffy stole a glance at the mirror as she headed for the door and couldn't help but stop and admire her hair. "Frannie, this is absolutely beautiful! I've never worn it like this before."
"It's no big." Frannie waved the compliment away but her face had turned bright pink with pleasure. "It's your hair that makes it so lovely. Anyway, I'm happy to do it for a friend of Barrod's.
Buffy wrinkled her nose, remembering all her whining these last five days. "I don't know if Barrod would call me a friend exactly—"
Frannie rolled her eyes. "Pish! Course he does! He wouldn't have had you cleaned up otherwise. I've seen him drag grown men before the king, crying and pissing themselves. Not you though. I can tell he thinks you're all right."
Buffy gulped and glanced at the board with all the holes in it. Perhaps she should use one before she saw the king . . . Too late, there was another knock at the door, this one more urgent.
"It's time!" Frannie bustled her from the room and out the door. "I'll watch your things for you. Try not to worry, Buffy. I'm sure the king isn't nearly as short-tempered as they say!"
Buffy had to hurry this time to keep up with Tiny's pace. By the time they climbed several flights of stairs and crossed to the other side of the castle, Buffy was perspiring. Tiny brought her to a stop halfway down a wide, highly-decorated hallway. Oil paintings hung in ornate frames and a thick woven carpet covered the stone floor.
Buffy stood panting before a pair of heavy doors covered with intricate metal filigree. Two men, clearly guards, stood silently on either side of the entrance. Tiny motioned for her to stay still but couldn't seem to do so himself. He pranced nervously around her, digging into his pockets to fiddle with a piece of string before abruptly shoving it back inside when the doors swung open.
A narrow-faced man with limp, salt and pepper hair stood between the doors. He wore a long, heavy-looking robe that, with his arms outstretched to hold the doors open, gave him a vulture-like appearance.
Tiny, who'd hopped behind her at the sight of the man, trembled slightly against her legs.
Oh, God . . . was this the king? She was so screwed! He looked as though he wanted her dead for merely standing there. What should she do? Beg? Plead? Was there a difference? She didn't know!
"Buffy of Sunnydale?" The man's voice was as hard and brittle as flint.
"Ye-E—!" Buffy's voice squeaked unexpectedly, and her mouth snapped shut with an audible click. She tried again, giving him a strained smile. "Yes. I'm Buffy. Of Sunnydale. Not that I'm at risk of being confused with the other Buffys here." Her smile wobbled then slipped entirely from her face at his cold gaze. "I like your hallway. It has paintings."
The man's thin lips had flattened into a slashed line. "Are you quite finished?"
Buffy looked mournfully at the floor. "Yeah, I imagine so."
"Good. My name is Crumbley. I am the king's manservant. Listen well: you will keep your eyes down. You will not speak until you are spoken to. You will speak clearly and you will be brief." The tone of his voice suggested that he didn't have high hopes for this last part. "Do you understand?"
"Yep. I mean, yes. Yes, Sir."
Crumbley stared at her for a long moment then turned. She watched him take a few steps then pause. She heard him sigh. "You're supposed to follow me."
"Oh, right!" Dead woman walking, she thought glumly.
Crumbley took another two steps and stopped again. He didn't bother to look at Buffy. He'd clearly heard her soft exclamation at the rows of armor lining the walls. "Eyes down!" he hissed.
"Oops. Got it."
Buffy kept wiping her hands against the borrowed dress. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had sweaty palms. Her heart was beating fast, too, and Buffy swore that the air was somehow thicker inside the hall. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Her eyes bore into the back of Crumbley's boots as she followed him. She stopped when he stopped. He spoke but she couldn't understand him from the blood thrumming in her ears. Crumbely stepped sharply to the side and then . . . she could feel them. The king's eyes. He was looking at her. Studying her. Perhaps forming an opinion of her already.
Inside her stained shoes, Buffy's toes curled. The room was heavy with expectation. She felt like a teacher was about to call on her, and she hadn't read the assigned chapter. Hadn't even cracked the book. Worse than humiliation, Buffy expected imminent catastrophe.
Some moments later, boots stepped into her peripheral vision. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized them.
"Shh. It's all right," Barrod murmured close to her ear. "I've spoken with the king—explained everything—but he has some questions for you. All right?"
Buffy gave a shaky nod but made sure to keep her eyes glued to the floor.
Silence.
If there had been a clock, Buffy could have counted twenty ticks before a pair of leather boots stepped into her vision. They were black, well-oiled, and fit for a king. The boots shifted and even that small movement made her flinch. And then the king spoke—
"Buffy . . . "
At the sound of her name, Buffy's self-control shattered. She had never thought to hear—couldn't believe it until—! Her head snapped up, confirming what her ears and her heart had already told her.
"Oh, my God—Giles!"