Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) by Adam Copeland Page B

unpleasant. Somebody was playing the bagpipes.
    Patrick went to the window, leaned out the stone portal, and looked about. From this vantage he could see the Avangarde Hall, the practice field, the Back Door, and a portion of the Hall for Ladies, yet he could not locate the source. He sat on the windowsill and listened.
    The sound was relaxing and comforting, much as the monastic chants at Mont St. Michel. He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the stone. The music moved through and into his soul; and he let it. He let it wrap around his tense muscles and stressed nerves and drown out the voices that teased him with doubts. Even the robed Apparition could not harm him. The bagpipes rose and fell in gentle, undulating pitches. The sound washed away everything, leaving only itself. Patrick's back fell against the windowsill, his chin fell to his chest, and he was riding a horse for an interminable amount of time. Thirsty, he trudged on. He saw armed and armored men chasing children. He saw green hills along a big, slow flowing river. Sword drawn, he dismounted and ran in his chain mail. His white surcoat with the red cross was smudged with soot and blood. He ran across a field, jumped a low-built stonewall, and raced up a path to a manor house. He entered a gate topped by the Holy Cross. Beyond the gate was a veiled woman in green and blue wool. He ran to her and embraced her, starting to cry.
    “Oh Kellie,” he sobbed. Patrick relaxed his embrace and looked into the face of the woman as she removed her veil.
    “I've missed you, too, Patrick. I've been waiting for you,” she replied. Her face was Aimeé’s.
    And he woke. There was a scuffing noise, and his neck ached.
    The noise from across the hall, he realized, had awakened him. Still rubbing his neck, he got up from the windowsill, went to the door to investigate, and poked his head outside. Across the hall and to the right, it sounded like someone was moving furniture in a room. A shadow moved back and forth across the wedge of light at the foot of the door, which was ajar.
    He knocked on the door, and it swung open.
    Inside in the doorway stood a heavy-looking man. His mane of shaggy blond hair crowned a beaming moon face.
    “Good afternoon,” Patrick said, extending a hand. “I am Patrick Gawain, and I am new. I guess we are neighbors.”
    The man took the Irishman's hand and pumped it, smiling all the while. “Most pleased to meet you. Jonathan of Northumbria, but you can just call me Jon. I am a Reservist.”
    Jonathan wore a simple tunic similar to Patrick’s. Had he not mentioned that he was a Reservist, Patrick would not have guessed him to be the knightly type. He seemed more like the happy baker type.
    “Sir Jon...” Patrick said, smiling.
    “Yes?”
    “You can stop shaking my hand now if you like.”
    Jon looked down and stopped pumping Patrick’s hand and withdrew his in a hurry, smiled even more broadly, and bobbed his head. “Sorry.”
    “That is all right,” Patrick said. “I am glad to know that you are happy to meet me.”
    Jon invited Patrick inside a room that was not all that different from his. They talked for a while, first about nothing in particular, then about what brought Jon to the Misty Isle. “My uncle was an Avangarde. He did not really tell anybody about it. He just kind of disappeared one year and was gone for a while. He came back a little bit richer and went on to be a guardsman for an earl in Manchester. It was then that he put in a good word for me with the Avangarde. A man named Marcus Ionus came to the family estate asking for me.”
    “How long ago was that?” Patrick asked.
    “About six months ago, but he told me that I was not to come to Avalon until later. I arrived about two weeks ago. I was one of the last to be picked. I guess there is you and then another who has not yet arrived.”
    Patrick nodded. “I remember Marcus Ionus saying something about going to London.”
    And so the conversation continued.