3MA

3MA | Chapter 12

12
HALL OF HEIRS

I huddle in the shadows of the chamber outside the Round Table room, and listen to Amaris field question after question from the Court:

Where did you find him?

Why is he so shabby looking?

Are you on drugs?

Why are you smiling at us like that?

After Amaris brushes the questions aside with the tact of a sledgehammer, I listen to her engage in an intense shouting match with her parents, which ends with the sound of Lyon's fist crashing onto the table and Rayna releasing a stifled sob of frustration.

A few minutes later, a line of hunched Court members file out of the room, grumbling and huffing as they make their way past me and up the staircase toward the dining hall.

Amaris's mother doesn't even acknowledge me, and I watch her lovely silk gown slither up the stone steps and disappear around the bend.

Amaris comes out last, followed by the defeated, bone-weary form of her father. "Marlon, my father insists on giving you a tour of Camelot."

"Thanks. But I need to get home before my little brother burns down the apartment."

Lyon places both hands behind his back and nods. "Amaris also has a younger sibling—whom she should be attending to." He sends a meaningful glance at his daughter. Amaris nods, looking at the two of us with a mixture of humor and horror.

"I'll leave you two alone then," Amaris says. Then she bolts up the stairs. For a second she looks like an excited child ordered to go play outside while the adults have a talk.

"This way," Lyon says, gesturing away from the stairs and toward another passage I had overlooked; a thin doorway carved into the side of the staircase.

I follow Lyon through the opening and down a long, narrow corridor with oil lanterns hanging from chains from the pocked, low ceiling.

Every few feet, Lyon turns back to see if I've fallen behind. The flickering candlelight makes the dark circles under his eyes look like permanent bruises. I thought I understood the true weight of worry. But if Lyon's face is any indication, it appears Amaris's father is far more familiar with the pressure of responsibility.

After more lefts and rights than my memory can handle, we arrive in a nearly lightless chamber. The floors are nothing but dirt and loose gravel. Both sides of the room are lined with small windowless cells, each chamber sealed shut with a thick iron gate.

My stomach does a little flip when I realize where I've been led: Camelot's dungeons.

We walk down the length of the prison, each cell revealing grim artifacts that twist my stomach knots: dark smears of god-knows-what marring the cobblestone walls, shattered fragments of chains littering the floor, the occasional jawbone jutting from the earthen floor.

At the end, an arched iron door stands tall and impenetrable before us. Lyon reaches into his pocket, draws out a long, many-pronged key and twists it in the iron door's keyhole. He pulls the iron slab open and gestures for me to walk in first.

I make a silent prayer that Lyon doesn't slam the door shut behind me and lock me in there.

We walk into a cold, echo-filled room of smooth gray stone. It's similar to the Round Table room, except for one detail: this room has eight sides. The perfectly smooth walls cascade from vaulted ceiling to floor like a frozen waterfall. Lyon walks around the eight-sided chamber, lighting the lanterns secured to each wall. Then he grabs a lantern and holds it up high, casting a flickering pool of orange light across the entire room.