Sword

by Realm Lovejoy

  I break through the water.

  I grab a towel to dry myself, then slip into a red dress that I bought a year ago but never wore. The cloth hugs the curves of my body a little too well, which makes me feel naked. I shrug to myself in the reflection. I’m a waste in this wardrobe. Someone else should wear it—someone wanting to get romantic attention. I’m still not interested in boys, and I wonder if I’ll die without ever having been in a relationship. I’m a red apple fallen… only to rot, never tasted. I laugh at my reflection. For a second, I look like my mother. Her song echoes in my head again. Thoughts sprawl through me. Foreign thoughts like shadows at night that I can’t recognize the shape of.

  Slowly, I drag a brush through my knotted, damp hair and sing Mother’s song.

  If I run away, what’s going to happen to Prince Arthur? I did my best to protect him, I argue with myself. He’s out of my hands now. I must let him go and disappear… right?

  Let it go, I remember Lancelot saying.

  What if…

  Maybe…

  Like smoke, the thoughts are faint. Suffocating.

  I run through the forest of my mind. Branches come at me with wicked fingers causing me to duck until one finally catches my head.

  Run away.

  But do something first. Something to save Arthur. I just have to figure out what that “something” is.

  I apply red lipstick on my lips and then brush eye shadow on my lids, more heavily than usual. I haven’t thought of how I’ll disappear. It’s tough to think of life without Father—my only family and the first friend I ever had.

  Somehow I suspect that I can find answers to my questions in the Grail Room tonight. Perhaps the sight of Merlin being celebrated as the new Maven will be enough to push me to get away from Camelot. Something has to guide my heart. The Henge failed me. My own ideas let me down. So…

  Show me my next step, I pray to the empty air around me, to the shadows, the deepest depth of my subconscious.

  I put on nail polish to match my dress and let it dry. Next, I slip on heels and then grab a small purse, which I slip into a bigger bag that hides my getaway backpack. I go downstairs and head to the kitchen. Rummaging through the junk drawer, I grab Father’s army knife and put it in my purse. As I’m looking to see if anything else will be handy, I hear footsteps.

  “Morgan!”

  I jolt and instinctively put my enormous bag behind my back, my heart hammering.

  Father’s jaw drops. “Well! I’ve never seen you so dressed up before. You look grown-up.”

  I smile. “Is it okay?”

  Father would normally throw a fit for me dressing in something so scandalous, but now he looks at me with relief as if my glamor is a sign of mental recovery.

  “You look great!” he exclaims with a conflicting mixture of relief and worry. “Just remember, be home by ten, all right?”

  I scratch my arm. “Uh, well, the party runs late. I won’t be home till you’re in bed, probably.”

  Father frowns. “Oh, really? Well, then, I’ll stay up and wait for you. This will be our last weekend together before you go back to Camelot.”

  “No, go to bed, Father. I’ll be home by ten. I promise. Don’t worry so much. It’s not our last weekend. I’ll visit every weekend that I can.”

  I smile again. Inside I feel strangled and hateful toward myself for being a liar. A liar to my own father who raised me to be honest.

  “Okay, sorry,” Father says. “You know your old man is a little protective of his daughter. Be safe out there.”

  He walks over and kisses me on the forehead. He smells of firewood as he always does, and tears threaten to overwhelm me. I can’t say good-bye and give away that I’m not coming back. He’ll plead for me to stay and possibly even call Camelot in a desperate attempt to prevent me from becoming a fugitive. Holding back my tears is harder than any magic test I’ve ever done. If I hug him, I’ll come undone.

  My mother refused to embrace me for the last time when I saw her in prison before her execution. Maybe she feared giving away her real emotions… that she was never going to see me again.

  I back away. “I better get going. I don’t want to get in even more trouble than I already am by being late.”

  Father waves me good-bye before looking at my purse. My heart skips a beat as if he has X-ray vision. “Hey, that’s a crazy purse for a party. Don’t you have something easier to carry?”

  “I’m supposed to bring books for Gwen,” I lie.

  “Oh, you talked to her? That’s great.” Father beams again. “I’m so glad you’re getting back into the swing of things.”

  I nod as I recall one more thing I need: a way to get around without being easily spotted.

  “Hey, Father, can I borrow the spare car? I’m too late for my train. Got carried away getting ready.”

  “Of course. Drive carefully and… no drinking alcohol, please.”

  “Don’t worry.” I laugh before cringing. He’s worried about such normal things. Alcohol. Boys. If only he knew…

  He digs for the keys in the bowl by the door and hands them to me. More guilt lashes out at me. Father genuinely seems to think I’m better now. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile so brightly in weeks. I try to remember that the pain of my absence will be nothing compared to the pain he’d feel if the Luminaries attacked. This is for the better.

  I sigh as I look down at the car keys in my hand. I’ll have to figure out a way to return the car to him somehow. Maybe I can call someone to pick it up for him.

  After my final “see you,” I close the door behind me and look back at the little seaside cottage through blurry eyes. My home. This will always be my home, no matter what. I study its walls and the vines growing around it. I want to imprint this into my memory. Every crack in the door. Every loose pebble on the doorstep. But like everything else, one day, this house will just be a prop my mind reassembles, and all the details will be made up like a dream.

  “Good-bye, Father,” I whisper to the door.

  Chapter 04

  Camelot’s dark towers seem to get taller as I approach. I feel like I’m driving toward a giant that will eat me whole.

  The closest lot to the Grail Room is already full so I park at the back of King’s Hall, the small exhibit adjoining the Grail Room. Taking a deep breath, I get out of the car and prepare to walk into my worst nightmare. As I approach the looming door, I hear music and chatter from inside the building where lights are pouring out of the stained glass windows. The knights on either side look at me strangely. I show them my ID, and they let me in.

  I feel like I just crawled out of a cave and am seeing light for the first time. The room is glowing gold from chandeliers and a million electric candles. The room smells heavily of wine and incense of myrrh and dragon’s blood resin. The Relic Keepers are singing in full force—the chorus crashing into me like a wave. Everyone in the room is chatting and drinking, clinking glasses together. Everything is so loud and bright that I don’t know how everybody else isn’t close to crumpling like I am. People turn to me when they see me. It’s enough to make me want to run right then and there. Eyes stay fixed on me as people talk. What’s worse, everyone is wearing light colors, making the room seem brighter, and making me look definitely out of place.

  Professor Fisher King Pelles is the first to smile at me. He looks just as he did in our Royal Relics class: kind and patient. Instead of the faded sweaters he often wore, tonight he is wearing a crumpled suit that looks a bit too big for him. His hair is still as unruly as it was before. He was my favorite teacher and the sight of him puts some relief in me. He wheels forward to greet me. “Morgan,” he says. “I’m so glad to finally see you. I was worried when I heard you were sick.”

  “I’m feeling okay now,” I lie.

  Fisher studies my face with a knowing look. He picks up my hand. “Don’t forget what I told you,” he says gently. “You are what you already are. Som
etimes it’s easy to keep chasing an idea of who we are supposed to be. It’s easy to miss what you can really become—which is greater than what we can imagine.”

  I nod trying to squelch the sadness welling up inside of me. Is it obvious to everyone that I’m upset about not being chosen as Maven?

  “You’re young,” Fisher continues. “Too young to be crowding your mind with limitations. Be patient and give yourself room to grow. You’re going to find your calling. I know it.”

  I wonder if my grandfather would say something similar to me if he were still alive. I squeeze Fisher’s hand, which is wrinkled but very soft. “Thank you, Mr. Pelles.” Once I let go, I casually smooth a crinkle in my dress. “Say, do you know a lot about Avalon?”

  Fisher’s eyes brighten and he laughs. “Already missing your Royal Relics class, Morgan? You remember me mentioning it in class, don’t you?”

  I smile sheepishly. “I remember some details. Since Merlin is taking Prince Arthur to Avalon soon, it got me curious.”

  “Avalon is where Pendragon the First died. The sword that took his life is called Excalibur and was placed in stone by Nacien. Infused with Pendragon’s blood magic, the sword passes on the king’s power to the next king. Prince Arthur must touch the sword in order to realize his abilities and become our king.”

  “And where is this Avalon?”

  “Ah, that is a mystery. Even to me. As former Relic Keeper, I went there a few times to set things up for Uther’s journey—before my leg was injured—but I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone how I got there or how I got out.”

  “Is it that complicated?” I ask.

  “I better not even speak of it,” Fisher admits, looking around the crowd. “I’m bound by contract, you see.”

  “I’m not trying to pry,” I insist. “Will Prince Arthur be very powerful after touching the sword?”

  “Oh yes, he could destroy anyone he wanted.”

  Hope lights in my heart. If only Arthur touches the sword before the Luminaries get to him, there is a chance he can fight them along with Merlin. The Luminaries must be aware of that though. They’d try to get him before he reaches Excalibur. Perhaps Merlin and Arthur could fake the quest to avoid the trap.

  “How would anyone know if the Prince really touched the sword, though?” I ask. “He could just lie that he found it.”

  Fisher makes the shape of wings with his old hands. The shadow of his fingers covers his face. “Pendragon’s Blessing appears on his back after he touches the sword. It looks like a tattoo of black dragon wings. It’s undeniable evidence that cannot be forged. The coloring isn’t made of ink, but some substance we’ve never seen before. Must be the work of blood magic.”

  Though disappointed that the journey can’t be faked, for the first time in a long time curiosity floods through me with childlike vigor. I imagine the Prince emerging out of Avalon with the Blessing on his back. For a brief period, I am transported back to being a girl completely enamored with magic and myth.

  Words pour out my mouth. “You must know the general location of Avalon. So is Avalon in the east? West? In a forest? The sea?”

  Fisher grins at me politely. “You’re so curious. You should have been assigned the role of Relic Keeper!” He then points toward the crowd. “I think your friends are waiting for you.”

  I want to keep pressing Fisher for answers, but it’s clear that he does not feel comfortable disclosing all he knows. I return his smile and give him a short bow of gratitude for our conversation.

  “I hope we’ll get to chat again,” I say.

  Fisher nods. “Anytime, Morgan. Come by my office for tea.”

  Tristan and Isolde are watching me, both wearing powder blue outfits—the kind of blue out of a romantic painting from the distant past. As I walk forward I notice they each wear a new badge with a wand symbol on the surface. So they were chosen as Black Knights too. Makes sense—after all, they were pretty good with their magic. They both wave at me and I sheepishly greet them.

  “Where have you been?” Isolde asks. “You’ve been missing training.”

  Tristan rolls his eyes. “So exhausting. Sir Lancelot has us working out like we’re supposed to be some kind of muscle gods.”

  “Yeah, but I’m going to look great because of it,” Isolde says, smiling with her hands on her hips.

  “I’ll be in the same pain soon enough,” I reply robotically, realizing that I can’t make small talk right now. I’ve got to escape them.

  Out of the group, Urien is checking me out. Some things don’t change.

  “Are you all right?” Isolde asks suddenly.

  I straighten up and wave my hand around as if I’m hot. “I feel light-headed. I need to get some air. I’ll be back.”

  I scurry toward the balcony doors by the buffet table. Opening them, I step out into the cool night air, shutting the noise out behind me. No one else is here. I take a breath and look back toward the crowd through the window. Urien is speaking to Tristan and Isolde. The two point toward where I am. I grimace as Urien walks toward the balcony. Deciding to do something completely inane, I hide behind a huge potted shrub that’s been trimmed into the shape of a grail. It’s so ridiculous that I don’t think anyone would suspect that someone would hide behind it. I hear the doors open, the music from inside getting louder. Through the shrub I see Urien looking around, then he shrugs and goes back in. Phew.

  Just as I’m about to come out of my pathetic hiding place, the doors open again. I shrink behind the hedge and peep out. But it’s not Urien.

  Vivian whirls onto the marble. She looks as perfect as I remember her from Arthur’s Round. Her smooth and straight hair looks like it came out of a conditioner commercial. Her makeup is as precise as that of a manufactured doll straight out of a factory. She is in a silky light blue dress that ripples in the faint breeze. A cell phone is in her hand. She glances back carefully. Perhaps a suitor is stalking her too? She places the phone to her lips.

  “Hey,” she says. “I’m alone. Ugh, it’s so noisy in there.”

  She fishes something out of her purse. A slender cigarette. She places it between her lips and lights it.

  “Oh,” she says between puffs of smoke. “I don’t smoke. Not really. Just once in a while. When I’m stressed.” Brief pause, then, “Yeah, I don’t appreciate the advice. Get to the point because I’m supposed to play the violin soon.”

  She smokes lazily as she listens. She is leaning against the balcony, her back facing me.

  “Uh-huh,” she says repeatedly.

  Her tone suggests she doesn’t enjoy speaking to whoever is on the other side. I shift my crouching position with discomfort, wondering if I can get up and leave without her noticing. I definitely don’t want to be caught in this embarrassing position, especially not by Vivian who will make fun of me to no end and will be sure to let everyone know how weird I am.

  “Yeah, I’m a junior Relic Keeper,” she says with irritation. “You understand the meaning of junior? Got no access, nada. No way around it.”

  I blink. So Vivian was assigned the role of a Relic Keeper. I’m shocked because she’s so talented with magic and I thought there was no doubt she’d be a Black Knight, but I also remember that she had brains for history. Maybe her academic talent outweighed her magical one.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Vivian says with less hostility. “I can copy the Scroll over to you tonight.”

  The Scroll? I purse my lips quizzically. Perhaps it’s something in a video game. She certainly doesn’t strike me as a gamer. More likely it’s a book.

  Vivian continues talking. “I’m supposed to hang out with Merlin after the party. Huh? No, Merlin won’t notice. You know how he is.” Pause. “Yes, I understand I have to hand deliver. I’m not stupid. But do you promise…” Vivian looks back toward the party. “I have to go.”

  She hangs up the phone and hurriedly rushes back inside, tossing the cigarette behind her. I seize th
e opportunity to finally get up and stretch my legs. I sigh with agitation not just at my silly action but also at her dialogue. She’s still hanging out with Merlin. It sounds like she’s trying to do something behind his back, and whatever it is, it’s none of my business. It did seem like a harmless thing to do, though, like she was either doing something video game related or going to copy a paper for someone.

  I go back to the dreaded party, eyeing the crowd warily. Then a girl walks toward me. Guinevere. Alarm bells ring in my head as my beautiful friend approaches me. I feel like she can see through my disguise of normalcy; that I’ve spent most nights staring into the darkness being torn by my own thoughts. She smiles her usual sweet smile at me. Her happiness looks like a fable—something too fabulous to be real. She is in a light teal dress, looking like a fresh bud in spring. Are pale hues the new trend or something?

  “You look amazing!” Guinevere embraces me and then inspects me some more. “I’m so glad to finally see you. I hear you were sick.”

  I nod. Guinevere knows that’s not the reason I’ve been away, but like many people in Camelot, Guinevere is polite.

  “You certainly don’t look sick anymore,” Guinevere continues. “You look so radiant in that dress! But why are you wearing red?”

  I blink and look around, noticing that everyone’s not just wearing light colors, but specifically blue-hued outfits.

  “Why is everyone wearing blue?” I ask.

  “Didn’t you see the invite? We’re supposed to wear blue to honor Merlin. It’s tradition. If a water user is Maven, we wear blue. For Mordred’s party back in the day, everyone wore red for his fire magic.”

  I never opened the invite in the mail. I just took Lancelot’s word for the party. Now I stick out like a bright, red sore-loser thumb.