by Julie Leung
“Then it is as I feared. Blood, smoke, and flame mean only one thing,” Guinevere said. Her lips were set in a grim line. “War is coming.”
CHAPTER
19
It felt like Calib had only just closed his eyes when a fully armored Devrin barged into the dorm, clanging a pair of salt spoons above her head.
“Rise up, cheeseheads! Everyone is to report to Goldenwood Hall immediately! No breakfast, no lollygagging!”
Calib groaned. He had gotten almost no sleep in the night. After he and Cecily snuck back to their beds, Calib had lain awake, half expecting his role in Valentina’s escape to be uncovered at any minute.
Devrin began shaking the shoe in which Warren was nestled.
“Go away!” Warren threw his pincushion pillow at her as he fell out of the shoe.
“Take it up with Sir Kensington yourself. All the knights are already there and armored up!”
“What for?” Barnaby grumbled. “Are we redoing the Harvest Tournament?”
Devrin rolled her eyes. “Fair warning, everyone, Kensington is in a foul mood this morning.” She left with a final crash of spoons.
Crankily, the pages got out of their beds. While the mice around him put on their colorful page uniforms, Calib put on a gray winter tunic instead. His demotion to kitchen mouse stung like a splash of ice water to the snout.
The Goldenwood Hall was drafty at dawn. Only a few sparse torches offered any warmth. Calib shivered as he filled everyone’s thimbles with elderflower tea. The knights sat in their seats on the grand stage, shifting uncomfortably as they adjusted their armor.
Other inhabitants from the castle began to trickle in. They milled around the stage, sleepy and disoriented. Farmer Chaff, head of the field mice, was in deep conversation with Signor Molé of the garden moles. The moat otter leader, Ergo Toggs, sauntered in, followed by other representatives. Calib also recognized the guild leader for the shrew seamstresses and the porcupine carpenters.
“Zut alors, why have we been called at such an early hour?” Cecily’s mother yawned widely.
“This was a call to arms,” a church mouse said, stroking long whiskers. “It hasn’t happened in at least ten years!”
“I don’t see why we larks have to be bothered by such nonsense,” said Flit, general of the bell-tower larks. “And without a proper Feather Offering!”
“A proper what?” asked Madame von Mandrake.
“To be granted a proper audience with a bird commander, one must present them with a feather from their own kind,” the bird said a little impatiently. “The custom applies to all birds, from the meekest sparrow to the fiercest owl.”
At the mention of owls, Calib scooted closer to listen more carefully.
“When Commander Yvers was in charge, he never forgot a feather. And we were never woken before dawn.”
“Precisely! The head cook needs her beauty sleep!” Madame von Mandrake said, and the conversation returned to the time of day.
Calib lightly tapped Flit’s wing. “I was just overhearing what you said, General,” he began, trying to sound casual. “So, in theory, if one wanted to talk to an owl leader, one would need an owl feather?”
The lark eyed him quizzically. “In theory, yes. If you can show them one, they will honor your right to speak with them. They should listen—but it won’t stop them from eating you after you’ve talked.”
Calib nodded, feeling queasy. His mind knotted with the problem of getting an owl feather, nevermind the prospect of getting eaten.
Everyone hushed as Sir Kensington entered the room. Kensington’s fur was washed and combed straight back, giving her a severe impression. The crosshatched scars along her snout were more noticeable than ever. Her armor, while not new, was recently oiled, and someone had hastily sewn commander stripes onto her cloak. Calib felt a hollow ache pulse in the back of his throat as he saw Commander Yvers’s crown sitting atop Kensington’s head.
Kensington walked to the Goldenwood Throne and sat in it for the first time. The energy in the room shifted visibly as all the knights sat up a little straighter. Calib’s insides bristled. Even though he knew the throne was meant for Camelot’s leader, it still felt like only Commander Yvers should sit there.
“We have not heard a call to arms in many years, Sir Kensington,” remarked Ergo Toggs.
“I’m afraid it is Commander Kensington now,” she replied. “Last night, our guards intercepted a Darkling crow raiding our stores. They discovered a cryptic message in her pouch and brought her back here for questioning.”
Scandalized whispers rippled through the audience.
“And where is the prisoner now?” asked one of the otters.
Calib threw a quick glance at Cecily, who was standing by the main door. He saw that her dark eyes were wide, mirroring, he was sure, his own expression.
Commander Kensington drew in a sharp breath. “Sometime in the night, the crow escaped.”
Cecily shrank back against the wall. Calib’s paws began to tremble. He tried to keep his face blank as an explosion of outrage sounded from the audience.
“How?” one of the porcupines asked over the hubbub. “How is that possible?”
“All we know is that she had assistance,” Commander Kensington said darkly. “Only a few of us were even aware of the crow’s capture. For that reason alone, I believe there is a spy among us.”
There were renewed shouts and protests.
“I have discussed the matter with my knights,” Commander Kensington said, raising her voice to be heard. “At this time, we have no choice but to declare open war against the Darklings.”
The hall went silent.
Shocked, Calib kept pouring Sir Percival’s tea even after the cup was full. He quickly mopped up the spillage with his sleeve.
“I will lead a force to confront Leftie himself,” Commander Kensington announced, her voice brittle and hard. “We depart at noon, after we’ve marshaled enough supplies for the journey.”
Calib wanted to scream. It was wrong, all wrong! If Commander Yvers were here, he would put a stop to it. But he wasn’t here, and Calib had no proof to prevent the inevitable bloodshed.
The guilt was unbearable. He couldn’t simply stay there, pouring tea, knowing that he and Cecily had ignited the war they had been trying to prevent.
As the knights began to discuss the details of their attack, Calib casually dumped out the rest of the tea into a nearby plant. When he returned to serve Sir Alric, he let out a squeak as though surprised to find the kettle empty.
“I guess I’ll need to get back to the kitchen for more tea!” Calib said loudly, hoping he sounded convincing.
He hopped down from the stage and rushed out of Goldenwood Hall, trying to ignore the panic worming through his insides. He knew he had no hope of outpacing the seasoned soldiers, no matter how big of a lead he got. His only chance now was to convince the owls to give him Merlin’s Crystal and then fly to Leftie’s mountain lair.
And in order to do that, he would need to get his paws on an owl feather.
“Wait for me!”
Calib turned to see Cecily running toward him.
“You aren’t going to see the owls without me, are you?” she asked breathlessly when she caught up to him.
“Wait a whisker, we are not going to see the owls,” Calib said, stopping in his tracks. “I’m going alone. You’re still a page. If you got in trouble, you’d lose your chance at becoming a knight! I have nothing left to lose.”
“What good is being a knight if I can’t do any good?” Cecily crossed her arms. Her neck fur bristled with annoyance. “Scared that a girl will show you up?”
“That’s not it at all!” Calib protested. His whiskers twitched irritably. “I just don’t want to worry about putting anyone else in danger. You saw what happened to Barnaby when he—”
“You’re comparing me to Barnaby?!” Cecily was visibly angry now. Her upper lip was pulled back slightly, revealing her teeth.
/> “Look, I’m bad luck!” Calib said. “I—I can’t be responsible for something terrible happening to you. I can’t be responsible for you, period.”
Cecily’s face hardened. “Fine,” she said coldly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” She spun around and bolted in the other direction.
Calib watched Cecily run away. An apology formed on his tongue, but he held it back. Better Cecily be angry at him than in danger with him.
CHAPTER
20
Time was working against Calib.
He knew he would not be able to find an owl feather simply lying around the courtyard—but he might be able to find one in the Two-Legger throne room. King Arthur himself signed many laws into being with the feather of a rare snowy owl. But retrieving it would not be easy. It sat smack-dab in the center of the Round Table.
Calib broke into a run toward the throne room. Quickly climbing up into a curving tunnel with colorful panels lining one side, Calib found a loose tile and moved it aside, emerging onto the stone ledge that circled the vaulted dome of the throne room.
From this vantage point, Calib could see the Two-Leggers gathering below. They milled about a circular table carved from rose-colored marble. Tall, high-backed wooden chairs surrounded it: the Round Table.
The table was more than just a table. It was a symbol of King Arthur’s philosophy: a king should not have absolute power. True power came from many unified voices. It was the same philosophy that the mice of Camelot shared: “Together in paw and tail, lest divided we fall and fail.”
Calib scanned the faces. Only a dwindling number of King Arthur’s advisers, servants, and squires still resided in the castle. A handful of old knights sat at their places at the Round Table, their adventuring days far behind them. The quill stand sat in front of King Arthur’s seat. Calib’s heart sank. The stand was too visible. He had no hope of sneaking past all the assembled knights.
He spotted a boy a few feet below him, his large ears poking out from a hideous velvet hat. It was the same boy who’d rescued Valentina—the same boy who’d actually addressed Calib as though expecting him to talk back. The Two-Legger was wearing a purple server’s uniform and looked bored. He held a plate full of dried dates. Every few seconds, he would slowly dip one in a large cup of sugar and hand it to frail Sir Edmund, who was seated at the Round Table.
Something white flashed in the boy’s hat as he turned to pass a sugared treat. Calib’s chest tightened. A barn owl feather poked out of the hat’s brim.
The quill was beyond his reach, but Calib was desperate enough to make do with what he could get right now.
A blare of trumpets startled everyone in the room to attention. A tall, willowy woman strode in. She was dressed in an emerald-green dress that matched her eyes. A delicate gold crown sat high on her head, with thin braids entwining it into place. Queen Guinevere was a sight to behold.
She stood in front of King Arthur’s seat at the table. The knights and advisers at the table stood and bowed, some more readily than others.
“Lord champions and knights, defenders of Camelot, thank you for meeting with me today,” she said in a clear voice that reminded Calib of Kensington. “I wish it were under better circumstances. I have reason to believe that Camelot is in grave danger.”
The crowd began to mutter. Calib’s ears perked up. Did Queen Guinevere know about the threat of another war with the Darklings?
“I have looked into Merlin’s Mirror and seen signs that trouble me greatly—”
“Bah, that old Merlin was a charlatan and a crook,” Sir Kay interrupted. “I never saw his so-called magic with my own eyes!”
Queen Guinevere ignored the interruption. “We need to bring Arthur home as soon as possible. We have been vulnerable for too long.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” said one adviser whose face sagged with wrinkles, “there has been peace for years. We have no reason to suspect that there is any danger at all.”
Suddenly, the door to the throne room burst open as though a violent gust of wind had blown in.
“I beg an audience with the Round Table!”
The loud cry turned every head. Calib tilted forward on the ledge to get a better look.
A Two-Legger in worn leathers and a knit cap stood in the doorway. His face glistened with sweat, and his eyes roved around wildly as he gasped for breath. The man was in such disarray that it took Calib a moment before he recognized him as the local woodcutter, Gareth. He delivered firewood to all of Camelot, but he was not usually expected at the castle until noonday.
Two guards grabbed and held him back from reaching the queen, for he was still clutching his ax in his hand. “I must speak with the queen!” The man struggled to push past his captors.
“Release him,” Queen Guinevere said, raising her hand for order in the throne room. “This man has kept us warm through many a winter. He may say whatever he wishes.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I bring news,” he gasped, still catching his breath. “The Sword in the Stone has reappeared. I came upon it in a vale near the sea, just standing there as if it had grown out of the ground overnight!”
Calib froze, wondering if he was about to learn more about the legendary sword. Judging from the astounded gasps, the Two-Leggers were just as bewildered as he had been.
Queen Guinevere was the first to recover.
“There are signs of trouble everywhere, it seems,” she said grimly. “The Sword in the Stone appears only in Britain’s greatest hour of need.”
One of the knights jeered. “Right. And whoever frees it next will be king!”
Angry murmurs rippled around the room.
“That’s treason you’re talking about!”
“Is it really? We haven’t heard from King Arthur in months. Perhaps it is he who has abandoned us.”
Arguments began to break out.
The big-eared boy stepped half a pace nearer to Calib’s spot on the ledge. This would be the perfect time to make his move, Calib thought, now that everyone was busy yelling.
Think like a Christopher. Think like a Christopher.
If the boy took one more step to the left, Calib might drop down neatly onto the boy’s hat from above. But if he missed, it would be a very long fall to the flagstones below.
The boy took a shuffling step to the left to avoid being elbowed by a knight who was waving his arms around as he spoke.
Calib closed his eyes, curled into a ball, and rolled off the ledge . . .
Hurtling down, down for what seemed like forever . . .
Before landing lightly on the soft brim of the hat.
Calib’s head spun as he righted himself. He could not tell if he had just been laughably stupid or startlingly brave.
Calib scooted over to the owl feather. He grabbed it and pulled hard, but it would not come free. He examined the feather closely and saw that it was secured to the boy’s hat with thread. Calib carefully placed his teeth around the thread and began to nibble. As he chewed, the entire hat began to tip. Calib clung to the fabric. He realized with horror that the boy was reaching for his hat.
Calib pulled the thread with all his might, but the feather was still too tightly sewn. Calib ducked behind the feather and prayed the boy’s hand wouldn’t stray too close to him.
“Galahad, why have you stopped serving?” snapped Sir Edmund.
“Sorry, sir,” Galahad said politely. “My hat is itchy.”
“I’d expect more fortitude from Lancelot’s son,” grumbled the old knight. “No wonder you ended up in the kitchen.”
This is Sir Lancelot’s son? I’m sitting on Lancelot’s son, Galahad? Calib was a little awestruck. No wonder the boy had arrived at the castle under Lancelot’s banners. Regaining his wits, Calib ducked out from beneath the feather and continued to gnaw at the troublesome thread. He didn’t see Galahad drop the date. He only felt a sudden vertigo as Galahad squatted down to retrieve it. He held on to the feather for dear life as it tilted forward
dangerously.
Calib felt a shadow fall over him. He looked up. A craggy Two-Legger’s nose almost brushed against Calib’s whiskers.
All the color drained out of Sir Edmund’s face. He began choking on his date. Alarmed, Galahad stood again and thumped the knight across the back. Sir Edmund coughed. The date shot from his mouth, catapulted across the Round Table, and hit a sleepy-eyed adviser on the forehead.
The old knight took a few ragged breaths, and his face turned rumpled and red.
“Are you all right, sir?” Galahad asked.
“Raaaaaaaaaaat!” Sir Edmund shouted, pointing a gnarled finger at Galahad.
Or rather, at Calib.
All eyes in the court zeroed in on him.
With a loud squeak, Calib leaped off Galahad’s hat and onto the table, kicking the plate of dates on his way down. The platter flipped and clattered to the ground violently. Dried dates fell around Calib like boulders. Sugar showered the table in a white cascade, covering him with it.
Calib dashed across the glittering surface, praying he wouldn’t be struck by a stray date. The air was filled with thunderous explosions of shouting. Blood pounded in his ears. He had never been so scared in his life.
Wrinkled hands reached out to snatch him, but he dodged them one by one. He ran toward the queen and skidded to a stop at the table’s edge. It was a long drop to the floor, and he was sure he wouldn’t make it without breaking something.
“What in the . . . ?”
Calib sat up and looked at Queen Guinevere’s surprised face. Confronted with Her Majesty, Calib did the only proper thing that came to mind: he stood on his hind legs and bowed deeply.
A nearby guard sprang forward, unsheathing his knife. He raised the blade high, ready to slam it down on Calib.
“Don’t!” shouted Galahad. He leaped forward to block the guard’s arm, but was only successful in pushing Sir Kay out of his seat.
There was a sudden flash of orange fur, and Calib found himself staring into the caramel eyes of a massive orange tabby cat. He caught a glimpse of white, needle-sharp teeth before the feline’s jaws snapped shut around him.
