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At his Wonder he had a small stack of pounded-linen papers, each with cryptic notes in the same handwriting, each with a bloody signet-stamp on the back. Whenever he found one, he would trudge up the long steps behind the throne and add it to the pile. They were tied together with a strip of black ribbon, acquired not from his Wonder but from a local Michael’s, and wedged into the back of the throne--his throne--between the cushion and the seat, which was not quite wood but more like a veined stone. Babylon said no one could come to his Wonder but him, but he’d once trusted another and see where it had got him. No, better safe than sorry.

Every visit--and he visited like clockwork, every other Sunday--he sat first on the throne, papers in his hand, and reviewed them. The collection was still small, only seven sheets, but it was growing each visit. Sometimes he found none. Sometimes he found four. It depended on how far he got every day in the exploration of the rooms within the dolmen, and sometimes he did not get very far.

It was a new day, and the forms had to be observed. Camlann stripped himself of his jacket and sat on the bone-and-stone throne, kicked his legs up over one of the arms and leaned into a cushion (not native to the Wonder, either: from a Pier One). Nimble fingers unwound the ribbon, held it around his knuckles, and he picked up the papers. First, as always: The shore is death.

Second: They are always breathing when they come, hooded in black and their hands manacled behind them. The sea-air is so cold, and it is the last thing they feel.

Third: My sister is come. She is gazing at a crust spreading on the water, on the horizon. Her stockings are torn, and she is beautiful.

Fourth was odd. It wasn’t a complete piece, but a fragment of paper, torn from a book and then further, highlighting a small section of words. Camlann tried, often, to read the torn lines, but it was impossible. He considered bringing it back to Earth, but something told him--the same something that had told him how to come here--that to bring these pieces of linen-paper to Earth would be to destroy them. So every time, he left it, and when he came he reviewed it. ...forgive you for dying, but they will be dead forever, and their Horror means nothing to you anymore. Especially she is no longer yours to… It made as little sense as it ever did.

Fifth, then. We are above honor, but not above deceit. We honor no gods, but others must, or suffer our wrath. A rising tide lifts all ships, but the tide will only rise if we fill it.

The sixth and the seventh were two pieces of the same missive, torn at some time after their delivery, perhaps missing a large chunk which he would later find. A lot of them deserve to die. And the ones that don’t… Let their princess sort them out. We must do as we are ordered.

He tied them together again, seven sheets of paper, and tucked them back into the safety of the throne. Every time he reviewed them, the hope that he’d understand them, maybe trigger an ancestor or memories or something, would pick up its head, but every single time he met only failure. If these words were left behind by the last knight of Camlann, they meant nothing to him, little and less. They were tantalizing breadcrumbs, hints, but nothing more.

Levering himself out of the chair, he rounded the throne and descended the stairs. Every time he came, he expected the salt-streaked walls to be damn, but they stayed as dry as ever. The air had been musty, but every time he came it smelled sweeter, cleaner, less like the damp and more like the ocean outside. Four steps down and he hit the long, flat expanse of the hallway. He’d gone through just one room, a foyer, and of course the corridor before it, with its small nooks with stiff, painful-looking chairs. Last time, he had peeked into a truly expansive, domed room, for which he lacked a name, and he’d spotted a pair of double doors on the far side of the room.

Today, his destination was the room beneath the balcony. Perhaps it would hold the information he sought--what did it mean to be the knight of Camlann? For what purpose had he been saved from a life of darkness and horror?--but perhaps it wouldn’t, and it would only be more mysteries. Better these than the works of Metallia. Better these than the horrible fate that awaited Astrophyllite--

He banished her from his mind. He could no more force her to take his help than he could take back all the good she’d done him when they were Lieutenants together. It was miserable to think of her as a General, as cold and cruel as Revaillite or Laemmline, and so he simply did not think of her.

His footsteps echoed up to the cobweb-enshrined chandelier as he crossed the cavernous room. Exploring his wonder was something that he had to savor, since he’d really only get to do it once. He’d worry about where those stairs went later, once there was a little less urgency in the matter of finding his ancestor, or memories, or something. Through the doors he found another hallway, this one much less austere than the one that led down from the throne room. It reminded him, a little, of the communal space at Babylon’s apartment building--the little personal touches thrown about the couches, books left under chairs--and the first door he opened, on the right, only seemed to prove him right.

It was a small, cozy room, with a lower ceiling than any room he’d seen before it. Low benches surrounded square tables where oracle bones and ancient decks of cards were laid out. Let me find something here, he thought, gathering up the rune-etched bones. They were human, he thought, examining the length of them, the shapes. Nearby, he found a velvet sack that seemed about the right size. He tucked them away, and returned them to an empty shelf.

Somehow he didn’t think he’d be finding any mysterious missives here. This wasn’t a place his ancestor, or past self, or whoever, often went--none of this would be, he thought. Pointless. He might as well go upstairs, see what was there, for all the good exploring whatever was beyond this room would do him.

He needed to know about his Wonder, he told himself as he continued neatening the little room. (They’d called it the break room, he thought. Recreational areas.) Through an arch, he found more of the same. Low-slung tables held defunct pieces of tech. Someone had been knitting, he noted, spotting what he recognized as a half-made blanket. On instinct, he reached out and squeezed the yarn. It was still soft. (Whatever preserved this place, he wanted some. It was amazing.) Beyond the recreational area, he found another hallway, as personalized as the last. After about thirty feet, it branched, and he chose the right-hand side, since it seemed longer and more well-trodden.

As he opened the door to what he thought might be a dormitory, he heard footsteps--

“Melany,” he said, slowing to a stop. His black cape swirled around his calves, and settled with a delicate silver cord. He reached out to rest his gloved fingertips on Camlann’s forearm.

Camlann yanked himself away. “You are too bold,” he said, turning back to the doorway. “Too damn bold, it is a tragedy.” He sneaked a look over his shoulder, through his long dark hair. The man’s uniform was almost offensively pristine, yards of white cloth done up into something that might have been military, once. The black cape on his shoulders bore a complex design upon its breast in silver. “I am the Lady of Camlann, and you will not touch me, no matter who you think you are.”

The man squared his shoulders, crossed his arms over his chest. It hurt him to have their relationship denied, because he’d always assigned too much weight to things which were weightless. A pointless, noble pursuit. “Lady Melany,” he said. “They will find the body, you know. Someday.” Camlann heard the low laugh of the acolytes. Laundry, doubtless. Water splashed and there was a small shriek of outrage. “You hid the body?”

“I know they will look,” he said. “But there is nothing for you to worry about, Gethin.”

“They will find it,” said Gethin. “And what then? What happens when the Royal Family discovers that their Executioner has taken the law into her own hands? When they know exactly how little of your Code serves anyone but yourself?--Melany, what will you do once they find it?”

Camlann smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “You will be entertained. I promise.”

“Melany,” said Gethin. Camlann turned away.

--and he looked up into a room full of tall bookshelves, each resident chained into place. He mouthed the name. Melany. A woman’s name. He’d known an American girl with that name, at least, who knew what… what it was… The man, Gethin, he’d spoken as if… as if Camlann were Melany, as if…

A shudder raked down his back. Over his shoulder, the hallway stood empty, lit by the same violet sconces that marked the path to the dolmen-on-the-shore. Each shadow had its own resident, Gethin and acolytes and worshippers, lords and ladies and the dead. He took a deep breath, held it, released it. They were all dead now. He was all that remained. Gethin and Melany and Melany and Gethin. He wanted to step back into the memory, interrogate it, rip it to little shreds in the safety of his mind, and drink in every shred of meaning. Even now, the fine details were slipping away.

He thought--

he thought--

Camlann returned to the safety of the recreational room, and sat down at one of the tables. Four stacks of cards, face-down, and a deck in the middle. A card next to it, face-up. And there, on the corner of the table, a tablet, and a… whatever passed for a writing utensil on Saturn. It warmed at his touch as he dragged the whole mess towards him.

Iouri, he wrote, Cyrillic letters neat and flowing. Caught up on business. I won’t be home until after midnight. It’s only routine, so please don’t worry. - Your brother, Aleksy. He stamped that letter, and sent it on its way.

Now for the harder part. He needed to talk to someone who might know about memories, or ancestors. Maybe Gethin was his past self, and Melany was--was just something else. Or maybe not. He had to ask, and there was only one person to ask: Babylon. He probably knew just enough English to set up a meeting. Avalon could read Cyrillic, she’d taught herself enough to get by anyway, so he’d add a supplementary explanation just in case…

His handwriting in English was clumsy, and that irritated him. Still, it had to be done. He had no idea what Babylon was doing, and couldn’t call him if he was at work.



Yes, he thought, examining it. It said nothing that could be compromising, and--he wished he had a watch--and he’d picked a good place, of course. Camlann liked the cupcake ATM. It was close enough to the old town district that Babylon would have no excuse, but far enough away that Camlann wasn’t really worried about meeting anyone untoward. Like Astrophyllite.

He reached for one of the card stacks and spread it before him. Five cards. Two bore snakes, one bore a beautiful woman. It was the last two that interested him--one was a skull, and the other a plant he didn’t recognize.

That one he pocketed. He sent Babylon’s letter along, and shortly followed it back to Earth.

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