Grail

by Realm Lovejoy

  I go to the farthest corner away from the memory and begin mopping. Sunlight comes in from the window behind me as I mop, warming my back. Away from people, it feels much more relaxing. I take a breath, taking in the smell of old books. Tilting my head, I admire the book spines, the longing to study growing within me. Perhaps I could sneak a reading break in. I reach out to touch one of the clothbound spines, dragging my fingers across the texture and embossed golden letters. If I can’t use magic, perhaps I could dedicate myself to knowledge.

  Footsteps sound across the marble. I swallow and get back to mopping, watching the marble and wood patterns beneath become shiny with the cleanser. It’s a small relief to be surrounded by beauty after being locked in my closet room. I study the depth of the wood grains, the slices of gold and sparkling black marbles.

  The steps stop in front of me. A clearing of the throat.

  I grab the handle of the bucket, preparing my leave. “I will be out of your way,” I say briskly.

  “Morgan?” the voice says.

  I halt, meeting eyes with Lancelot.

  He looks a bit older too. The grays in his eyes more somber like the ancient temple rocks I saw in Avalon, stained with mist and forgotten by man. There’s a welt over his left brow that wasn’t there earlier.

  The space between us seems defined as the light rays slice past me, toward him. We stand there with dust glinting in front of us for what seems like minutes.

  “Sir Lancelot,” I say, straightening. “I’m in your way. Excuse me.”

  “Morgan,” he repeats.

  I tighten my grasp on the handle, worried as to where this is going. I push away the memories of him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, not taking his eyes off mine. “I didn’t know what to do. I saw you in the cafeteria serving the food and I… well, I froze up with shock. I heard about the parole thing. I didn’t know you’d be… doing work like this.” He shakes his head. “What am I saying? I’m glad you’re alive.”

  “Thank you,” I reply stiffly.

  “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  Having someone want to “see” me seems worse than being invisible.

  “This is how I’m doing,” I say, motioning to the mop and my work—the shiny floor.

  The glossiness ends at the halfway point between us, like a dividing line. He moves his foot, the boot coming a smidgen closer.

  “This is… not acceptable,” he says.

  I tense even more, afraid to know what he means.

  “This,” he says again, pointing to the mop, the bands, and my terrible jumpsuit. “You are so much more than this. The Cabinet is crazy to have someone so gifted waste away.”

  “Lancelot,” I blurt out, terrified by his care and where it has led to before. “Don’t pity me. Just move on. Forget about everything—about me. That’s what everyone else is doing.”

  “Nobody will ever forget about you. Right now everyone is desperate to feel safe and normal. I admit even I’m desperate and tempted to jump into denial. And you. I’ve never seen you like this, not even in prison.”

  I snort. “Jumpsuits weren’t my thing, exactly.”

  He points at my face. “I mean, your eyes. You have dead eyes. It’s not like you to meekly mop and serve food quietly while keeping your head down. What happened to your inner fire?”

  I open my palm to observe my burn wounds with a bitter smile. “I’m a little burnt out, I guess.”

  “At least you still have your morbid sense of humor,” Lancelot comments.

  More like lack of humor. I swallow, looking up at his brow. “What happened to your head?” I ask to change the subject.

  Lancelot sighs touching his bruise. “I went into Arthur’s office to resign my position as the High Knight. He didn’t take it so well.”

  “He struck you?”

  “He went blank after I told him, and then the next thing I knew he was throwing books and stuff at my head and screaming at the top of his lungs. Totally berserk. The knights had to restrain him.” Lancelot glances at my face and then shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  My heart aches for Arthur. “He’s under a lot of stress.”

  “Arthur called me into his office again once he calmed down,” Lancelot continues. “I bent down on my knee, and he told me to stand. He said he was sorry for losing his temper. That he couldn’t stand to lose another man he looked up to as he did with the loss of his father. He cried in my arms. I felt guilty for thinking of leaving him. I forget that he thinks of me as an older brother after all those years I took care of him.”

  “Poor Arthur,” I say. “You must mean the world to him. Did you decide to stay around as the High Knight?”

  He nods. “Yes, a knight can’t leave his responsibilities behind, no matter how desperate he is to get away from his mistakes.” His eyes grow heavier as he frowns and looks at me. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened between us. It was my fault, and I take full responsibility for it.”

  I return his frown and shake my head. “Nothing happened between us. I was about to die—I was desperate—not myself… I would have never…”

  Lancelot snorts. “Am I that repulsive?”

  “I don’t mean it like that! You’re handsome and you know it.”

  “Really?” He leans closer.

  “What I mean is. I was about to die. I clung onto you as if you were life. I would’ve never done that if…”

  “I would’ve never done it either,” Lancelot interjects. “I’ve flirted with you, but I would’ve never taken it so far. I’m a High Knight, and I don’t sleep around with…”

  “Will you be quiet?” I whisper-shout, nearly brandishing the mop to strike him across the face and give him a new bruise. “That’s what I’m saying! Leave it behind us.”

  “I intend to,” Lancelot whisper-shouts back. “It was all a mistake!”

  “Okay, so let’s go our separate ways,” I say, eagerly storming past him.

  “Wait! Don’t misunderstand,” Lancelot calls behind me. “I care about you. You know that. I was just trying to say we were in an unusual circumstance.”

  I don’t look back. “Lancelot, it’s you who shouldn’t misunderstand. I don’t want your care. I don’t want us to speak again.”

  “Lady Fay, don’t say that.”

  I grimace, worried he’s speaking loud enough for the whole building to hear. Worse yet, his attention makes me feel worse by the minute. I pause midstride and whip around to face him. “Can’t you see, Lancelot? I’m banded. I’m in a hideous jumpsuit the color of a fire truck. I’m cleaning the toilets of my former colleagues. I’ve been burnt. I’ve been shamed. I have nothing. If you were kind, even a bit, you’d pretend not to see me! You wouldn’t shove my humiliation in my face. I don’t need to be reminded of how bad things were and how much worse it is now!”

  Lancelot stares in shock. “Lady Fay. I only see greatness in you, as I always have and always will.”

  I point at him. “That. What you just said there. That’s not kind. That’s mean. It’s not a nice thing to say while I’m a damn servant. Greatness?” My lips pull in tight as the sadness and anger overwhelm my senses. I turn to walk away.

  “Greatness,” I repeat with bitter grandness.

  Chapter 4

  Work continues the following day. Brysen hears about my interaction with Lancelot and orders me to work outside in hopes that I won’t be speaking with him again. If my memory from Arthur’s Round serves me right however, Lancelot jogs outside Study Tower every morning.

  Behind tall bushes and walls, I pull out weeds and pick up any garbage I find. I move to a bush by the Study Tower to look for trash under the foliage. Buttercups are blooming on the lawn. I bend over to touch the silky, shiny petals. Such beautiful flowers, but Brysen told me they’re weeds to be pulled. A shadow looms over the sunny flowers. I glance up.

  Mordred stands ove
r me, appearing suddenly as if an apparition.

  My breath gets trapped in my throat. Off balance, I lose my footing and catch my fall, crushing the buttercups under my palm.

  Mordred looks less ornate and majestic than he used to. He now wears a plain black suit with no flourishes. His role as Maven died along with King Uther’s death. Mordred is now a Cabinet member, still powerful but less influential with the King. It’s a dream come true for me to see him lose his place, yet the core of his evil is still burning bright enough for me to see. The same cold fire glitters in his eyes. Ambition ripples across his whole posture and expression. He still has the calm face, the satisfied, small smile. The familiar smell of smoke and wine wafts my way by a breeze. A scent that reminds me of a claustrophobic room, dimly lit, where incense and tobacco burn.

  Mordred bends down and offers a pale hand. I don’t take it. He straightens up, fixing his suit.

  “Still too proud?” Mordred asks.

  His smile is still serene. My nerves tingle, afraid of the meaning of his good mood. He should be devastated to lose King Uther and his place as Maven.

  “You shouldn’t be,” he continues. “Camelot reduced you to nothing. They trampled over you, and now you’re just dung at the bottom of people’s shoes. Everyone’s already starting to forget you.”

  “I’m working,” I reply coldly. “Leave me alone.”

  I turn back to the dirt, pulling out the crushed buttercups. Mordred leans down again, this time crouching on the grass, facing me. I’m surprised that he’d risk getting his suit dirty. Tensing, I prepare for what he’s planning.

  “Is this what you want to do?” he asks. “Pull weeds for the rest of your life?”

  I shake my head, sighing with agitation as I scan for more weeds, but it’s hard to pay attention.

  “What if you could get out of Camelot and use magic again?” he asks. “I could help you.”

  It takes a moment for his words to sink in. I cock my brow at him, angered by his suggestion. “You want to use me, Mordred? I’m not that desperate.”

  “I wouldn’t be using you,” he says. “You’d do everything of your own will. You can turn your back on the people who imprisoned you and made you a slave. The people who wanted you dead. If you join me, you’d be free to use any powerful magic you wanted at any time. We are aiming to create a world where magic users are respected, just like the old days, just as you always wanted.”

  I finally turn to Mordred so that he can see the disgust on my face. “I’m not a vain psychopath, Mordred. I don’t want magic through the means you people want it. I won’t take part in the murder of Camelot members and citizens who fight against your ideals. This is where you and I differ.”

  Mordred snorts and shakes his head at me. “Surely you’re aware that casualties are an inevitable part of every change. The Pendragons and knights have killed more people than any other ruler in history. You hold your chin up proud, weeding the grounds that are soaked in innocent blood.”

  “That’s the past,” I say. “Right now we have peace, and that peace should be protected.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a comfort-loving dullard,” Mordred says. He pushes himself up and stands. “Let me know if you change your mind, Le Fay. Enjoy your work.” He smirks at me before walking away.

  My face heats with anger as I watch him get farther away. Before I can calm myself, I punch the soft dirt repeatedly. I must seem really pathetic if he thinks he can seduce me into becoming a Luminary. What has become of me? I’ve got to do something to get out of this situation. It comes down to this: I refuse to accept that being a slave is my fate.

  In the distance, I hear jogging. Pausing in my abuse of the ground, I sit up and peer around the bush to see Lancelot coming toward me. Forget Mordred, I’ve got to speak to him even though it may be difficult for me, especially after our last conversation. He is my ally, not the Luminaries.

  When he is near, I jump out.

  “Lancelot!” I say.

  Lancelot nearly loses his footing. He was closer than I thought and almost collides into me. “Whoa,” he says, grabbing my shoulders and dragging me behind the bush. “What the hell? You scared me!”

  “I’ve got to speak to you,” I say.

  Lancelot wipes the perspiration from his forehead with his arm. “Hold on. I need a breather.” He takes a breath. He gets a cigarette from his pocket and brings it to his lips. Next he pulls out his lighter. He flicks it on. I stare into the flame, remembering how it felt floating over my palm. The warmth—comforting and dangerous at the same time, radiating over my skin. Lancelot doesn’t light his cigarette; instead, he holds the lighter still.

  “You want it?” he asks and hands me the lighter.

  I’m not allowed to have anything that can start a fire. I take it anyway, staring into the blue core of the fire. It blurs in my eyes. I blink away the mistiness, clicking the lighter off.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You have to light my cigarette though.”

  I crinkle my nose. “You really ought to quit.”

  Lancelot sighs, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and putting it back into his pocket. “Always the killjoy, aren’t you. Anyway, I thought you never wanted to speak to me again.”

  “I need your help,” I say.

  He raises his brows in surprise. “What do you need?”

  “I need to get out of this,” I say, pulling at my hideous jumpsuit.

  “I can help you take those off,” he says slyly, leaning toward me.

  I slap him across the chest. “I’m talking about my enslavement to Camelot!”

  “I was just kidding. Why can’t you take a joke?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Lancelot’s eyes loses some of their mirth. I glimpse a tinge of sadness in his face. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I begin. “But I can’t live like this. I need to do something else with my life besides cleaning toilets and picking up garbage. This can’t be all there is for me… can it?”

  Lancelot slumps for a second, and I wonder if he’s going to tell me: of course it’s all there is for you. He brings his hand to my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. As much I hate to admit it, his touch is still grounding and comforting to me.

  “Of course not, Lady Fay,” he says. “You’re destined for greatness.”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “I can’t promise much.”

  I take a breath of relief. “Thank you. I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. You’re still the only one who believes in me.”

  “You’re wrong. A lot of people believe in you.” Lancelot smiles at me and then waves me good-bye.

  He continues his jog. I watch him until he turns the corner, noticing the smell of spring and rain in the air as birds chirp. For the first time in a while, I feel a little lighter.

  I don’t hear from Lancelot for a week, though I still spot him jogging at his usual time. I do my routine of scrubbing, picking up trash, polishing, and sweeping. The highlight of my day is when I go to bed at night. In my dark room, I click on the lighter Lancelot gave me. I stare into the flame until my mind becomes a void and spots swim in my eyes.

  I want to use fire again.

  The next day I’m scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees in the servant hall. My hands are dry and cracked from the constant exposure to liquids and chemicals. I focus on the dirt coming off the marble floor and can almost pretend I’m scrubbing at my mind—the past, all the shadows that perpetually darken it. I’ve asked myself before, where does the shadow come from? Who stands there, blocking the sun within me? Deep inside, I believe it’s Mother. But I barely knew her. She died while I was so young. Yet when I think of her, there’s tightness in my chest that won’t go away.

  “Morgan,” Brysen calls out sharply.

  I look up abruptly at her. She looms over me with a knight
behind her. She clears her throat. “You are summoned to the Round Table.”

  I tilt my head in confusion. “I’m scrubbing the floor. I can polish the table after.”

  “What are you blabbering about?” Brysen snaps. “The Round Table is in King’s Tower, and you better hurry.”

  The knight behind her steps toward me. “Stand up.”

  My feet turn cold as I ponder what kind of trouble I’m in now. Hesitantly, I drop the rag in the bucket and stand. The knight grabs on to my arm and pulls me forward. Maids in the hall stare as I let the knight direct me to the elevator.

  The Round Table, as it turns out, is the royal meeting room in King’s Tower. My palms immediately start sweating as I enter the ornate hall with gilded moldings and scarlet carpeting. It smells different from the rest of the buildings. There’s a tinge of myrrh in the air, similar to the Grail Room.

  “I’m not allowed to be in here,” I say.

  “It’s an order for you to meet with the Cabinet,” the knight explains.

  He guides me through a door that is carved with the images of many knights of ancient times. Inside is a dimly lit room, the velvet curtains drawn over the windows. Around a large wooden table, men in suits are seated. Slowly I register some faces: Arthur, Merlin, and Lancelot. The rest are Cabinet members, including Mordred, who looks at me blankly before he raises one brow and gives me a slight shake of the head. Next to him, Pellinore, the head of the Cabinet, is seated. He looks the same as he did in Arthur’s Round: short and bald. There’s not an open seat for me to sit in, so I keep standing by the door.

  My eyes immediately gravitate to Merlin, but he looks down, his hands knitted. My stomach sinks as I can only gather that he’s unhappy with whatever was being discussed. Quickly I remember my manners and turn toward Arthur and bow deeply.