Quests for Glory

by Soman Chainani

  “And yet . . . ?” Tedros said.

  “They don’t add up. You didn’t know your father when he was young. When he came to the School for Good, he was shy, anxious, and a newly crowned king. No matter how popular he became or how much muscle he built or how cocky he might have acted, he was always that same Arthur inside, asking why he was chosen to pull Excalibur over everyone else in the Woods. It was Arthur’s greatest strength: he relentlessly questioned himself and wanted the brutal Truth. It’s why he chose me as a best friend, a greasy, pockmarked lout who would tell him that Truth instead of all the refined Everboys who’d lie and say whatever he wanted to hear. And it’s why he chose Gwen over all the other girls who just wanted him for his crown.”

  “But Mother said Lady Gremlaine was in love with him—” Tedros argued.

  “Doesn’t matter. Arthur followed his heart,” the knight returned, pawing at his unruly curls. “He was too faithful to the Truth to sneak around with this Gremlaine creature. Gwen and I were the ones who traded in Lies. Not Arthur. Whoever this Snake is . . . he’s not your father’s son.”

  “I want to make sure of it,” Tedros pressed. “I want to hear it from her mouth—”

  Lancelot put down his food. “Sometimes the last person you should ask for the Truth is the one who knows it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just because Lady Gremlaine knows the Truth doesn’t mean she’ll tell the Truth. Look at your own father. Every girl at school was in love with Arthur. Every single one. They all wanted to be his queen. But not Guinevere. That didn’t stop him from loving her, of course. Still, he knew she didn’t love him, even if she never revealed this Truth to him herself. But I did: I told Arthur that Gwen didn’t love him, because it was obvious to both of us that she was in love with me. Yet, no matter how much Arthur valued the Truth, in this one case, the Truth wasn’t good enough for him. He thought Camelot needed Guinevere. He thought having her as queen would make him a better king. It didn’t matter that she didn’t love him. If he could bend this Truth through sheer force of will . . . it would mean all his doubts about his being chosen king were wrong. That he deserved to be Good’s leader because he knew how to put Good first.” The knight gazed squarely at Tedros. “That’s how I know for sure there was nothing between your father and Lady Gremlaine. Because King Arthur staked everything on his love for Guinevere. Everything. And it’s why he lost everything when she left.”

  Tedros shook his head, riling up. “But that’s your side of the story. It’s the side you tell yourself to feel better about taking my mother away from my father. It’s the side that makes my father look like the villain. But what if there’s another side? What if Arthur knew you and my mother were secretly seeing each other and so he took revenge with Lady Gremlaine? Or what if my father sensed my mother didn’t love him and began to fall in love with his steward instead? Or what if my father made one bad decision . . . had one bad night—”

  “All of these are possible,” said the knight. “But beware trying to bend the Truth to fit your story instead of facing it head-on. That was your father’s mistake. And that’s how a Snake becomes a Lion and a Lion becomes a Snake. Because the more you bend the Truth to fit a story, the more it turns into Lies without you even realizing it.”

  “Says the one who traded in Lies,” Tedros replied.

  Lancelot went quiet.

  “After a successful battle or war, it is tradition for a king to exchange gifts with his best knight in front of the kingdom,” he said. “Arthur and I always gave each other the same gifts. I kneeled before Arthur’s queen and kissed her hand in tribute. And in return, Arthur offered me anything on earth a king could provide a man.”

  “What did you ask for?” Tedros said.

  “Always the same. Nothing at all,” said Lancelot. “I’d already taken from him everything a man could take. My gift was meant to tell him that.”

  He looked at Arthur’s son. “Is it really a Lie if someone is unwilling to see the Truth?”

  Now it was Tedros who fell silent.

  Lancelot cleaned up the remains of their food and drank from his water jug. “I spoke to a few of the leaders in the castle as the guards took them to their rooms. They mentioned something about the Snake having a powerful suit of armor made out of living eels—‘scims,’ he calls them. They think that there’s a connection between these scims and the Snake’s life force. That there’s magic in his blood. But they also say the scims can be killed. Kill enough of them and you can penetrate the Snake’s flesh.”

  “So he’s just as mortal as you and me, then,” said Tedros, looking Lance in the eye. “See, he’s someone’s son after all.”

  “Well, then seeing as this Snake and his minions are still on the loose, if anyone asks who you are while we’re in Nottingham, you’re someone’s son too,” said the knight, pulling the young king to his feet.

  “Whose?” Tedros asked, confused.

  Lancelot grinned as he walked towards the horses. “Mine.”

  Soon they reached the entrance point to Nottingham: an imposing, sooty, black-brick jail at the top of a hill and a gleaming bronze statue of the Sheriff in front of it.

  “The Land of Law and Order,” Lancelot muttered, eyeing the WELCOME sign down the slope, with a cartoon of the Sheriff chasing Robin Hood. “Any kingdom that promises Law and Order surely has neither.”

  From the hillcrest, Lancelot could see the lush outskirts of Sherwood Forest a mile north and steered his horse towards it—

  “This way,” Tedros corrected, riding his horse away from the Forest and towards the center of town.

  “Don’t be a fool. The second we cross into Sherwood Forest, we’ll be safe for the night,” Lancelot scolded, nosing his horse next to the king’s. “We left Camelot so that you could meet the Lion boy. And that’s the only reason we left.”

  “We still have two hours until I have to be at Marian’s Arrow.”

  “Do you even know where Gremlaine lives?”

  “I’ll ask someone.”

  “We haven’t seen a soul.”

  “I’ll figure it out—”

  “It’s an unnecessary risk, Tedros.”

  “It’s something I have to do.” Tedros held firm.

  Lancelot exhaled.

  It was midafternoon in Nottingham, but there wasn’t a person to be found in the square, the only sound the out-of-rhythm clop of the two men’s horses. Lancelot peered around at the closed shops and empty streets.

  “No animals,” he said. “First sign of trouble.”

  Tedros wasn’t listening. He’d spotted something in the window of the Sheriff’s Blotter: a copy of the latest Royal Rot, with a headline about Lady Gremlaine above the fold. He couldn’t read the full article from outside the window, so he punched in the corner of the glass pane and pulled the paper out.

  “So much for Law and Order,” mumbled Lancelot.

  Tedros scanned the story—

  Has Lady Gremlaine been fired from Camelot for a second time? Fifteen years ago, King Arthur’s once-steward was exiled from the castle by Guinevere (rumor has it for being too chummy with the king, which both Lady Gremlaine and Guinevere have vehemently denied). But in an ironic twist, Guinevere’s son Tedros—our so-called new “King”—latched on to Lady Gremlaine as his own steward, just like his father once did. However, the last two nights, Lady Gremlaine has been seen in her hometown of Nottingham by numerous observers. Said Bertie, an attendant at the Nottingham Prison: “No one’s been in the house at 246 Morgause Street for several years now, but neighbors sayin’ that haughty woman’s back.”

  We asked Bertie: Could she be in Nottingham to visit family?

  “She ain’t got no family here,” Bertie replied.

  What about a vacation?

  “No one vacations in Nottingham except stupid tourists thinking they might see Robin Hood.”

  So what’s Bertie’s conclusion?

  “She ran afoul of the king and came back
to lick her wounds. Good place to hide your face, Nottingham. No one’s gonna find ya here except nosy neighbors.”

  And the Royal Rot, of course. Stay tuned as we pursue an exclusive interview with the “King’s” (disgraced?) steward.

  Tedros folded up the newspaper, thrust it back through the window, and used his fingerglow to repair the glass. “Come on,” he said, hopping onto his horse. “We need to find Morgause Street.”

  A booming crash echoed in the distance.

  King and knight swiveled to see a plume of smoke and dust rising at the top of the hill near the jail, though they couldn’t see what had caused it.

  “Something’s wrong. . . . Let’s get to the Forest,” Lance urged.

  “Ten minutes. That’s all I need. Then you can feast at Marian’s Arrow while I meet this ‘Lion’ fellow and tell him in no uncertain terms that I already have a knight,” said Tedros, riding towards the cottage lanes.

  “Happy to let him have the job if he wants it,” Lancelot growled, following him.

  But Tedros was already amongst the houses, shifting and squinting in his saddle to make out the streets around him: Oldherde Court . . . Magpie Grove . . . Marian Mews. . . . He could see people peeping through curtains from inside their cottages; they all had the same spooked expressions, their eyes tracking him. He pulled his hood farther over his head.

  “They think we’re the Snake’s men,” said Tedros. “They’re waiting for us to attack them.”

  “Or waiting for something to attack us,” said his knight. “Something they know is out here that we don’t.”

  Tedros met his eyes, a flicker of doubt passing over the king’s face. “Look! There it is!” he exclaimed suddenly, spying the sign for Morgause Street over Lance’s shoulder. “Gremlaine’s house is that wa—”

  A gleaming black blur flew under Lance’s horse, and the animal bucked in surprise, neighing wildly, almost throwing the knight off. Tedros whirled around, following the gleam . . . but it was gone.

  “What was it?” Lance panted, trying to soothe his horse.

  Tedros scanned the clear crossroads. “Must have been a bat or a crow. Come on,” he said, pulling his horse towards the lane ahead. But his horse wouldn’t move, tugging his head in the other direction. Lancelot’s horse oriented the same way.

  “They want us to get to the Forest,” the knight said.

  Tedros dismounted and jogged towards Morgause Street, leaving Lancelot and the horses behind.

  Rounding the corner, he tracked the street numbers: 232 . . . 240 . . . 244 . . . until he found a two-floor white cottage with “246” above the door in peeling red paint.

  This is Gremlaine’s?

  The front garden was dead and overgrown with bristly weeds. The cottage’s white panels were spotted with mildew and bird droppings. Both windows were cracked, with tiny holes in them, as if they’d been shot through with marbles. In leaving Camelot, Lady Gremlaine had traded a ramshackle castle for an even more run-down house.

  As Tedros approached the front door, he noticed the welcome mat: an embroidered needlepoint of young King Arthur with a halo over his head and the words stitched beneath him in golden thread—

  THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING

  He’d seen these before, sold cheaply in Camelot’s street markets. They were popular with the poorest citizens of the kingdom, who’d lionized the lofty king, and with zealots who saw Tedros’ father not as a man, but as an immortal saint who would one day return from death to reclaim his kingdom. But Lady Gremlaine? She didn’t fit into either category. She worked for his father. She was Arthur’s friend. Even if she did secretly love him, having this in front of her house felt like something other than love. Something creepier. It made Tedros’ stomach lurch.

  He caught a whiff of powdered rose at the door. Quickly he put his hand on the knocker, but then he smelled the rosy scent overtaken by a hot, sweaty musk. Tedros turned, frowning.

  “Where you go, I go,” groused Lancelot, sword gleaming on his belt.

  Tedros turned back and knocked hard on the door.

  No one answered.

  “Glad that’s settled,” said the knight, starting to drag him away—

  Tedros unsheathed his sword, aimed the hilt against the door lock, and smashed it.

  “Few months as king and you’ve gone vigilante,” Lancelot marveled.

  Tedros shoved the door open and went inside the house, Lancelot hewing close to him.

  “Did you stalk my father like this too?” Tedros sniped.

  “Mmmhm. Didn’t smell as nice as you, though. You know, with the number of baths you take, it’s a wonder you get any work as king done at all—”

  Tedros stopped in front of him. “Lance . . .”

  The knight looked up and stiffened.

  Lady Gremlaine’s house had been ravaged: the furniture upended and slashed open; closet doors splintered and rugs frayed; lampshades ripped apart, their glass bases shattered; books shredded, pages showered around like confetti.

  “Who would do this?” Tedros asked, stupefied. “It’s like an army shot the place through with arrows.”

  Lancelot studied a pillow speared with holes, the stuffing spilling out, then squinted around the room. “Only there aren’t any arrows here.”

  Glancing inside a closet, Tedros found a safebox, broken open and dumped on the floor. He sifted through the wreckage: first, some old clippings from the Camelot Courier, the top one announcing his father’s coronation, with a portrait of Arthur accepting the crown and a young Lady Gremlaine smiling to the side of the stage, while another clipping featured a picture of a young Arthur and young Gremlaine sitting together, with the caption: “King and his steward hard at work in the early days of his reign.” There was also a copy of the Royal Rot, with the headline: “GUINEVERE WHO? How Lady Gremlaine Is the Real Secret to King Arthur’s Success!” Tedros flung it aside, noticing a ledger beneath it with a handwritten label:

  Camelot Beautiful

  Tedros opened the ledger, only to see all its pages blank . . . except for a business card clipped to the last one:

  But there was something stuck to the back of the ledger, Tedros realized—a stack of letters, banded together, addressed to Lady Gremlaine. He peeled them off the ledger and flipped through the stack, his eyes widening.

  All of the letters were in his father’s handwriting.

  “Tedros, look at this,” Lancelot’s voice said.

  Tedros shoved the letters in his coat along with the business card and moved out of the closet to find his knight inspecting the wall. Black marks streaked across it, with a strange wet sheen. Tedros scraped his hand across the marks, then peered closely at his fingertips. Shiny black debris like sequins had embedded in his skin.

  “Snake scales . . . ,” said Lancelot ominously.

  Tedros thought of that black blur he saw in the street. . . .

  Something rustled upstairs.

  The two men stared at each other.

  “Lady Gremlaine?” Tedros called out.

  No answer.

  Warily, Tedros ascended the staircase, Lancelot behind him.

  On the second floor, they found more of the scaly black marks on the hallway walls and on a square hatch built into the ceiling, presumably a portal to the attic.

  More rustling came from the room at the end of the hall.

  “Lady Gremlaine, are you here?’ Tedros called again, inching forward. Lancelot drew his sword behind him.

  Together, they turned the corner into a bedchamber that had been pulverized as ruthlessly as the downstairs rooms. The mattress had been flung off its frame, the white sheets sliced to ribbons, the pillows gutted of feathers.

  A blue-green butterfly rustled feverishly against the window, trying to find a way out.

  Tedros’ shoulders relaxed. He looked at Lancelot, hunching over the bed.

  “What is it?” Tedros asked.

  His knight held up a torn strip of white sheet.

  A big splotc
h of blood had soaked it through.

  Fresh blood.

  “Lady Gremlaine?” Tedros hollered.

  Lancelot checked closets; Tedros searched under the bed and behind furniture. But there were no other bloodstains or signs that his steward was in this house—

  Tedros’ boot caught on something sticky.

  He looked down at a glob of black goo, beaten to a pulp.

  A shadow came over him and he swiveled to see Lance looming over his shoulder.

  “It’s one of those ‘scims,’ isn’t it? The things the Snake is made of,” Tedros asked. “It’s why all the villagers must be hiding. The Snake was here.”

  “And from the looks of it, Lady Gremlaine had her way with the the scim he sent for her,” said Lancelot, before glancing back at the bed. “Though judging from that blood, it may have had its way with her first.”

  “But her body isn’t here. That means she’s still alive, wherever she is.”

  “Or lying in a ditch with her throat cut,” said Lancelot. He nudged at the dead scim with his boot. “Doubt this thing came alone. If the Snake wants to kill Lady Gremlaine, he’ll find her.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense,” Tedros said, shaking his head. “If Lady Gremlaine is the Snake’s mother, why would he want to kill her?”

  A sharp squeal came from the first floor, like a teakettle at full steam.

  Lancelot pulled his sword, eyeing Tedros. “Stay here.”

  The knight crept back down the stairs.

  Blade at the ready, Tedros waited at the top of the twisting steps. He couldn’t see where the knight had gone.

  “Lance?” he said.

  No answer.

  Tedros had a bad feeling in his gut . . . a feeling that told him to follow Lancelot. . . .

  Gripping his sword harder, he started to descend—

  Something wet dripped on his face.

  Tedros smeared it off and looked at his hand.

  Blood.

  He craned up and saw more droplets of blood leaking from the edges of the hatch built into the ceiling.