The Camelot Code

by Mari Mancusi

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “That makes two of us,” she told him. “I dreamed that the missing boy on TV—Stu Mallory—was my son. Strange, huh? I was frantically worried, searching the town, wondering where he could be. Somehow I knew he was in a lot of trouble and it was killing me that I couldn't reach him.” She gave a half-laugh, still looking a little disturbed. “Silly, now that I'm awake, I guess. But it felt so real. I can't imagine how his father is coping. Tomorrow I'm definitely going to sign up to be part of the search party they've got scheduled. I don't know if it'll do any good, but I'll feel better doing something.” She sighed. “What about your dream?”

  Arthur took a sip of his milk. It was warm, creamy, and delicious. “I can't really remember it all,” he lied. “But I was afraid if I fell back asleep the dream would return,” he added, a little embarrassed.

  “How about you stay up and keep me company then?” Mrs. Mallory suggested. “I don't think I can go back to sleep after my dream, either.”

  Relieved, Arthur set his mug down, looking up at her with grateful eyes. “That sounds wonderful,” he replied, bowled over by her kindness. People in the twenty-first century were far nicer than those back home, that was for sure. Not so eager to betray those who trust and love them the most.

  “Come on,” she said, rising to her feet, her own mug clasped in her hands. “Do you know how to play chess?”

  “Sort of.” Kay and Sir Ector played often, but neither had ever let him touch the expensive chessboard. Still, Arthur was pretty sure he had the basic idea down just from watching.

  “Well, then, I’m in luck,” Mrs. Mallory teased, a twinkle in her crinkled blue eyes. “Maybe I’ll win for once. Lucas and his father are always trampling me.”

  She led Arthur into the house’s living chambers and she pulled the chess box from a nearby shelf. Together, they set it up and began to play. When Arthur check-mated her king after only a few dozen moves, she laughed at her defeat. (Unlike Sir Kay, who would tip over the board in fury and storm away if he lost.)

  “Sort of?” she teased him. “You meant sort of amazing, didn’t you?”

  Arthur beamed at her compliment, his insides warming. “Another round?” he suggested. Distracted by the game he could keep thoughts of his future reality at bay.

  “What’s going on down here?” interrupted a sleepy voice. They looked up to see Lucas, decked out in plaid nightclothes, peeking down the stairs.

  “We couldn’t sleep,” his mother explained. “So Art here has decided to graciously kick my butt at chess instead.”

  “I think our cat could beat you at chess, Mom,” Lucas teased as he padded down the stairs.

  His mother rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “Well, since you’re both up, how about a game of Risk? I'll conquer all your continents and achieve world domination before you can even crawl across Europe!”

  “Oh you think so, do you?” Lucas crowed. “Well, then it’s on, Mom. It’s totally on.” He turned to Arthur. “What about you?”

  Arthur agreed happily, though he never heard of the game. And as Lucas returned with the board, he marveled to himself how a night that had started out so horribly had turned out to be so great. He guessed it made sense; everything in the twenty-first century was great.

  Forget going home. There was no reason anymore to return. He would stay here, in the twenty-first century, forever—and try to forget all about his best friend, Guinevere.

  Chapter 29

  The lights were low and cottony snow drifted down from the dark ceiling, lightly dusting the gymnasium floor below. Students, dressed in their wintry formal bests, swayed to the sounds of the DJ's selection, wafting from strategically placed speakers. A few friends waved in greeting, but the boy paid them no mind as he wove through the sea of dancers, a man on a mission.

  His palms sweated with anticipation. This was it. There was no going back now. He pushed through a circle of dancers and his eyes grew large as they fell upon their prize. There, under the illumination of a single spotlight, stood his heart's desire. Dressed in a gown of crimson, falling gently to her slippered feet, she looked like an angel. A perfect, beautiful, heaven-sent angel.

  He swallowed hard and forced his feet to take another step forward. His angel smiled sweetly at him, her golden curls tumbling prettily around her face. “I've been waiting for you,” she murmured as he took her into his arms. “I've been waiting for you for so long.”

  He smiled and gallantly escorted her onto the dance floor. “What about the other guy?” he asked as he spun her around gracefully. The crowd circled, eager to watch what was sure to be a dance to remember. “The cute one from your English class?”

  “Silly, Stu,” she whispered fondly. “You're the only boy for me.”

  She lifted her head, turning it ever so slightly, then closed her eyes and pursed her lips. Stu's heart began to pound. Finally he'd be able to get his true love's kiss at last.

  “Sophie,” he murmured, lowering his face to hers and—

  “Who ARE you?”

  Stu's eyes flew open, the dream tumbling away as reality reared its ugly head. He searched his large curtained canopy bed to see who had dared disturb what had been gearing up to be his best Sophie dream yet.

  It was then that he realized he had a knife to his throat. A sharp one, by the feel of it.

  “Who are you?” the girl he'd been introduced to as Princess Guinevere demanded again, pressing the blade firmly against his skin. Her expression was hostile and her eyes burned with self-righteous anger.

  “Hey—hey! Watch with the knife!” he protested.

  She glared down at him. “Not until you answer my question.”

  “I'm King Arthur, remember? We were introduced this afternoon.” Guinevere's father had practically forced his daughter on Stu earlier that day, as if she was some kind of prize cow being sold at market. He vividly remembered the greed in the old man's eyes as he bragged about what a good child-bearer the girl would be. At the time, he'd felt bad for her—what must it be like to be forced to marry a guy you didn't love just because he was king? No wonder she ended up falling in love with Sir Lancelot instead.

  “You're a liar,” she growled, pressing the blade tighter against his throat, nicking his skin in the process. Stu could feel a tiny drop of blood drip down his chest and his heart began to beat faster.

  “What—why do you say that?” he gurgled.

  “Arthur is my best friend in the world,” the warrior princess replied. “You may look like him, yes, but only through some kind of sorcery. I would swear on my mother's grave that you are not my friend.”

  Stu let out a breath, realizing he was totally busted. Sure, he could pretend to be Arthur in front of strangers, but if Arthur and Guin had been good friends, the gig was definitely up.

  “Take the knife away and I'll explain,” he said, trying to keep up his bravado so as not to get his throat slit.

  The princess narrowed her eyes, evidently thinking on his proposal, then reluctantly withdrew the blade, still keeping it close to her side and pointed in his direction.

  He struggled to sit up in bed, still groggy from his rude awakening. “How'd you even get in here?” he grumbled. “I thought I had guards at the door.” First Lot, now Guinevere. Medieval security was not all it was cracked up to be.

  “I flew in through the window. The real Arthur gave me some of his shape-shifting powder,” she explained. “Which you would have known, if you were him.” She frowned. “Now talk.”

  He let out a resigned breath. Here went nothing. “Fine. You're right,” he said. “I'm not really Arthur. I'm Stuart Mallory and I come from the twenty-first century. The future. Merlin turned me into an Arthur lookalike until the real Arthur came back from his . . . um . . . quest. Which has been quite an experience, let me tell you. I don't know if you saw that fight with King Lot but—”

  “Quest?” Guinevere interrupted, evidently not interested in Stu's personal medieval triumphs. �
��What quest?”

  Stu stared down at his hands. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he said. “Maybe if we go try to find Merlin—”

  But she wasn't having any of that. “Try me,” she said, hand still on the knife.

  And so Stu—against his better judgment—did. And Guinevere listened to the whole tale without interrupting. When Stu had finished, she sat quiet for a moment.

  “This is all my fault,” she said at last. “If I hadn't dropped the scabbard down into the Well of Dreams, none of this would have happened.”

  “Merlin sent Sophie to get him back,” Stu assured her. “And believe me, the second he returns, I'll be giving him back the throne. I mean, it's been interesting and all, but I miss my computer.” And Sophie, he thought,. He wondered for the thousandth time how she was doing. Was she still mad at him? Was that why she hadn't returned with Arthur? Had she decided to abandon him here forever?

  He shuddered. No. She wouldn't do that. Would she?

  He looked up, realizing that while he'd been thinking, the princess had vacated the canopy bed and was back on her feet, a determined expression on her face.

  “What now?” he asked, a little worried.

  “Your Sophie is taking too long,” she told him. “If she's unable to achieve her quest, then I will go retrieve Arthur myself.” She paused, then added, a little sorrowfully, “After all, it is my fault he is there to begin with.”

  “Oh I don't really think you should—” Stu began, trailing off as Guinevere raised her knife again. He exhaled. Seriously, did everyone in this freaking place have to have the undying urge to kill him? “Fine,” he relented. “Maybe that's a good idea, actually.” Especially if Sophie was planning on ditching him here. His heart panged at the thought. If only he could IM her or text her. Let her know he was sorry for whatever it was he did to make her mad . . .

  Guinevere turned to the window, a fistful of sparkling powder in hand.

  “Wait!” Stu cried, just before she shape-shifted. She turned to look at him expectantly. He drew in a breath. “If you see Sophie?” he started. “Tell her . . . tell her . . . ”

  Guinevere raised an eyebrow. “Tell her what?”

  “Tell her I miss her.”

  Chapter 30

  “Get out of the way!”

  Guinevere's eyes opened groggily, her head pounding as she looked around, not knowing where she was or how she'd gotten there. It appeared she'd awakened in some kind of large field, almost like a jousting field, but with strange white lines and numbers painted on the grass. She rubbed her eyes, trying to remember. Suddenly, it all came screaming back at her.

  Arthur. The Well of Dreams. The future.

  “You're going to get trampled!”

  Cocking her head at the voice, still dazed, she scanned the field to determine who was yelling and what they meant by their words. A moment later her eyes fell on a group of helmeted men, charging toward her at top speed.

  She struggled to her feet, but tripped over her long gown, splashing into the mud instead. The men didn't slow down. She tried to stand again—desperately looking from left to right—wondering which way she should run—

  SLAM! One of the men, who had been running backwards, not looking where he was going, crashed into her, knocking her down. She hit the ground with a thud and a moment later the man fell on top of her, crushing her with his weight.

  “Ow!” she cried, struggling to get out from under him.

  He rolled off of her and leapt to his feet. “Are you okay?” he asked, trailing off as Guinevere looked up at him. His body stiffened as he stared down at her from beneath his helmet. “Guinevere?” he asked in a voice no louder than a whisper. Her eyes widened. How did he—

  From behind them a whistle blew, but he ignored it. Instead, he pulled off his helmet. Guinevere's mouth dropped open as she realized the boy who had tackled her was none other than Arthur himself.

  Relieved beyond belief, she scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around him, not caring, for the first time in her life, if anyone saw her do it. After all, in a sense the two of them were practically betrothed, even if Arthur didn't know it yet.

  “Oh Arthur!” she cried, burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled the same—warm, woodsy—though he was dressed unlike anyone she'd ever seen. “I'm so glad I found you.”

  She waited for him to hug her back, but his hands remained at his side and his body felt stiff under her embrace. Unyielding. Surprised, she drew back. Her eyes searched his scowling face. “Aren't you happy to see me?” she asked. “I've traveled so far!”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by one of the other helmeted men, who had joined them on the field. “Hey, Art,” the man said, slapping Arthur's back. “How about you get your little girlfriend off the field so we can play some football?”

  “Yeah, Art. There's plenty of time for the ladies, post practice,” teased another.

  Guinevere watched in dismay as Arthur nodded to the men. “I'll be right back,” he said, grabbing Guin by the arm and dragging her to the side of the field. Behind her she could hear the other men laughing.

  When they reached the sidelines, Arthur turned to her, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to meet his eyes. He looked different than when she'd seen him last, but besides his strange clothes, she couldn't put her finger on why.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded angrily. “Did Merlin send you?”

  She shook her head, swallowing back the tears that rose to her throat. What was going on here? “I had to find you,” she protested. “Something's happened back home. Something big! You'll never guess.”

  He looked at her wryly. “They want to crown me king of England? After I pull a sword from a stone?”

  “Yes!” she cried, surprised. “How did you know?”

  He huffed. “Google told me. In fact, it told me everything that happens to me for the rest of my life.”

  Google? Was that some sort of oracle? “Then you know why I'm here,” she said. “We need to get you home so you can take the throne and we can get started. We have so much to do—there's no time to waste!”

  His eyes narrowed. “We?” he repeated.

  “We're to be married, Arthur,” she informed him happily. “Isn't that wonderful? It'll be just as we always talked about.” She tried to smile at him, holding back the frustrated tears that threatened her eyes. Why didn't he look happy? They'd dreamed about this day for years.

  “Hey, Arthur! You coming, man?” called one of the men on the field. Arthur turned and held up one finger, then turned back to Guinevere, looking distracted.

  “We can lower taxes,” she found herself babbling. “And free the serfs. And make sure everyone has enough to eat. And—”

  “And you'll be my sweet and devoted wife through it all?” Arthur interjected suddenly.

  She hesitated, sensing a trap. “Of course,” she replied, indignantly. “What else would I be?”

  “I don't know. How about a cheater? A liar? A betrayer of the worst kind? All of the above?”

  Her face fell. “But I would never—”

  “As they say in this century, 'yeah right,'“ he interrupted. “Trust me, Google told me all about you, too. You fall in love with Lancelot.”

  She looked at him, confused beyond belief. “But I don't even know a Lancelot!”

  “But don't you see? You will,” he snarled, his face twisted in anger. “And the love between the two of you will destroy everything.” He shook his head. “It would have been better if we had never met.”

  “The Google lies!” she cried, tears raining down from her cheeks now. “It has to! I would never do something like that!”

  “But you do!” he cried, and for a moment she saw the hurt emerge from beneath the hatred. “A thousand texts say you do!”

  She hung her head. “How can you blame me for something I haven't done? How can you deem me guilty of a crime I have not yet committed?” she asked, searching his face fo
r some kind of rationality. After all, she'd left everything behind—traveled through time itself—all to find him. Did that—if nothing else—not prove her devotion?

  “Go home, Guinevere,” Arthur said, turning away. “And tell Merlin I plan to stay here. He'll have to find someone else to be king.”

  And with that, he stalked back onto the field. Guin watched him go, tears streaming down her face. She sank down onto the metal bench, head in her hands. What was she going to do now?

  “Oh Arthur,” she whispered. “What happened to you?”

  “Are you okay?”

  She looked up, her vision blurred by her tears. Standing above her was a boy—tall, wavy black hair—very handsome. He plopped down beside her on the bench, his intense green eyes searching her own in concern.

  “I’m Lucas,” he said. “Wide receiver. Out with a busted knee. I know it’s probably none of my business, but I saw you crying and I just figured I’d come over to see if you needed any help.”

  She sighed. She needed more help than she could possibly even ask for. But what could she say? She was stuck in the future with no idea how to get back? That her betrothed had just accused her of betraying him with a boy she'd never met?

  Suddenly Stu’s words came barreling back to her.

  “Sophie,” she managed to squeak. “Do you know a girl named Sophie?” From what Stu said, Sophie was the only other person here in this millennium who would believe her wild tale.

  “Sophie Sawyer?” Lucas asked. “Sure. I know her.”

  “Can you…find her for me?”

  Lucas nodded. “I think I have her number in my cell.” Pulling out a strange rectangular device, he started pressing on the screen with his finger. A moment later, he nodded. “Yup. Here she is. You want me to call her?”

  Guinevere nodded thankfully.

  “I’ll do it,” Lucas said, with a teasing grin. “On one condition.”