by Julie Leung
“Do not stray from the path,” Red said. “And remember: the pikes are always hungry.” And then he pushed Galahad. The Two-Legger hit the magicked waters, disappearing beneath the ripples.
A second later, there was another splash as Red dove after.
“Galahad!” Calib shouted. “GALAHAD!” His words echoed around the cave’s walls, but there was no one to hear him. The top of the lake remained even and unbroken.
Neither Red nor Galahad resurfaced.
CHAPTER
11
Galahad instinctively gasped for air as the ice-cold water of the subterranean lake poured into his mouth. To his surprise, he did not choke.
There was a sharp prod in his side, and he looked over to see Red treading water, his hair fanned out around his head. Catching Galahad’s eye, he pointed down.
Below, Galahad could see a glowing spiral staircase emerge, step by step, reaching all the way down the depths of the lake. There seemed to be some kind of mirror at the bottom, making the steps look inverted, as if they kept going beyond the ground. Near the bottommost stair, a door marked with the carvings of mermaids and sea monsters stood upside down.
Red kicked toward the steps. With one last look back at the surface, Galahad followed. He had lost track of Calib after the Saxon had thrown him. He hoped his friend was all right. The water was shockingly cold, a stabbing sensation prickling up Galahad’s body. He resisted the urge to splash back out. If Red could do this, so could he.
As he swam toward the steps, Galahad noticed something strange. He could have sworn he had started by diving down . . . now, it looked as though the whole world had been inverted.
Ahead, he saw that Red had placed his feet onto the stairs and was walking toward the door, as if he were climbing a normal set of steps. Galahad moved to do the same. As soon as his feet touched the stairs, the water warmed, and he discovered he could breathe the water. Instead of floating, his body weight readjusted. It felt like he was no longer underwater.
Morgan le Fay must be very strong indeed to maintain such an enchantment in her lair. When he’d seen Red in front of him, he hadn’t had time to plan, and so he’d blurted out the first thing he could think of: I need to see Morgan le Fay. But what would he say to her? Please stop attacking Camelot, stealing our friends, and taking our treasures, thank you very much? Or was Red not even taking him to her?
A school of fish swam by close to the staircase—close enough that Galahad could see the razor-sharp teeth lining one fish’s mouth. Pikes. But though Galahad braced himself for an attack, one never came. The pikes swarmed by with teeth chomping, but they stopped about five feet short of the staircase itself.
Distracted by their swirling patterns, Galahad suddenly slipped on the steps.
Instead of falling down, he felt himself falling up, toward the surface. Galahad tried to place his foot down on the next step, but he was already floating away. Galahad saw the school of pikes take notice and turn around as one cloud of ravenous fish. They were coming for him now, moving with the speed of a war horde.
“Red, help!” he shouted.
Or tried to. All that came out were bubbles.
Far below him—or was it above him?—Red had already reached the door and opened it. On the other side of the door was what looked like a long hallway lined with torches. The ruddy glow was a stark contrast to the glowing blue of the water.
Red turned around and looked at Galahad with a small smirk.
Galahad swam desperately toward the door, diving straight down, clawing the water with his hands and feet. He could feel the teeth nipping at his heels. He kicked a few of the fish in the face.
The opening was finally within reach!
Galahad launched himself through with a final burst of effort. He flew through the door and fell face-forward onto the dry, stone ground of a fortress.
Red slammed the door shut.
“Thanks for nothing,” Galahad gasped. To his surprise, he was completely dry. He hoped Calib would find an easier way than that into Morgan’s lair.
“You’re in my house now,” Red said. “Nothing is going to come easy for you from this point on.”
The unassuming castle-like conditions of Morgan’s underground fortress took Galahad by surprise. For an evil sorceress’s lair, it lacked any skulls or spiderwebs like in the stories his mother used to tell. Rather, the stone floors and tapestried walls reminded Galahad of Camelot. He hoped Calib was all right and that he had understood his message.
Thinking of his little friend made his chest feel tight. Galahad took some deep, soothing breaths. On the first inhale, the smell of dusty relics and moldy paper reminded him distinctly of the castle library.
But as Galahad exhaled, the scent changed in his lungs. He caught a hint of rosemary and something burned and metallic, almost like fresh blood. He wondered how much magic must have been used to create a staircase like that in the underground lake.
Galahad kept his mouth shut, pulling back a biting retort. He tried to memorize their path from room to room, but Red seemed to intentionally pick a confusing path around the drafty, cavernous halls. After so many twists and turns, staircases and sharply sloping tunnels, Galahad lost track of where they were and how they had gotten there.
Morgan’s lair was a maze, each hall branching off one another in a network of caves tunneling into the mountains. They seemed to walk past countless armories and strange-looking libraries. Rows of Saxon guards marched in tight formations down the corridors. A few of them gave Galahad a curious glance in passing. The mountain fortress reminded Galahad of a busy anthill, with a queen ant at the very center, commanding her workers.
Finally, the hall grew as wide as two horse carts, and they arrived at a pair of doors made from a wood stained so red, it gave the unsettling impression that it was covered in blood. Galahad held back a shiver. Red placed both his hands on the door handles, which were each carved into the shape of a sea creature not unlike the pikes. He glanced back at Galahad.
“Good luck,” Red said, then threw open the doors to reveal a long room lined with stone columns. At the other end, high on a dais, was a throne made of black onyx. It dominated the chamber, seeming to suck in all light, as if it were some great beast’s eye. Vines of thorny roses clung to the back of the throne. And at its center sat an elegant woman.
She was dressed in fine white silks, the color starkly contrasted against her seat, and her sheet of auburn hair fell past her shoulders. On her head, she wore a crown fashioned out of jewels that were as black as the throne. But despite her otherworldly beauty, there was something familiar about her . . . in the intensity of her gray eyes, in the color of her hair, in the lines of her features.
She was truly the king’s sister.
“Welcome, Galahad du Lac.” The enchantress’s voice was oddly sweet, like careful notes plucked on a lyre. “Step forward.”
Tentatively, Galahad began to walk down the aisle. The torches in the columns flickered as he passed. There was no one else in the chamber except for them. He stopped at the base of the dais, mere feet from Camelot’s greatest enemy.
Unnerved by the resemblance to the king he so admired, Galahad wasn’t sure whether or not to bow. Considering she was the enemy, he settled on a nod instead.
“I’ve heard much about you,” Morgan continued.
Red was easy to deceive, but judging from Morgan’s demeanor, she did not seem to take kindly to empty compliments. So Galahad responded with the simple truth: “I’ve heard many things about you, too.”
Morgan’s face steeled just a little bit, but she still let out a tinkling laugh. “Exaggerations from my brother no doubt.”
Standing up, Morgan walked down the steps from her throne. She circled him slowly, as if she were appraising a work of art. “Tell me, Galahad, why are you here?”
“I want to learn how to wield Excalibur,” Galahad said, and it was a version of the truth. He did want to learn how to use his sword properly to heal and pro
tect, but he didn’t want to learn from Morgan.
Morgan stepped closer to Galahad.
“You lie,” she said, no longer smiling. “Or rather, you’re half lying. Tell the truth!”
Suddenly, Galahad became dizzy from the strong smell of magic rolling off Morgan in thick waves. To his horror, his mouth opened against his will. His throat tightened, but he couldn’t stop the truth from flying out.
“I’m here to stop you!”
His words echoed in the vast throne room, repeating again and again, with no way to silence them. The scent of magic dissipated, and he braced for Morgan’s next attack, but instead, she simply smiled.
“There we are,” she said approvingly. “But why would you want to stop me? Arthur has spent the majority of his reign questing for personal glory, seeking out war and its trophies.”
She fluttered a hand. “My foolish brother is bored by peace—you recall how he left the kingdom when it grew calm, in order to seek more adventures. In order to steal more for himself.”
“King Arthur doesn’t steal!” Galahad shouted, knowing it was dangerous to confront the sorceress but not caring. If she could force him to speak the truth, what was the point of holding in what he really thought?
“No?” Morgan asked. “But he stole the throne of Britain.”
Trying to take full steadying breaths, Galahad said, “Arthur is our rightful king. He pulled the sword from the stone.”
“Funny how those in power get to assign themselves the role of the righteous,” Morgan commented as she trailed back up the steps. “Have you not considered why it is that I, the eldest child, was not crowned queen? It is not simply because I am a woman, no,” she continued. “Our father had more sense than that.”
With a graceful sweep of her skirts, she sat on her throne. “As the oldest, I was meant to pull the sword from the stone on my sixteenth birthday. I trained years for it . . . but Merlin saw to it that twelve-year-old Arthur got there first.” She tilted her head at Galahad. “And so, one man with magic on his side gets to flout the rules and pick whomever he wants? Does that seem like justice to you?”
Galahad had never heard this version of the story before. But if it were true, he could see how it might seem unfair to Morgan. But it was hard to trust the word of someone who’d sent her son to kill her brother or who had cursed the very castle she claimed belonged to her.
“I see you are thinking,” Morgan said with a nod. “Good. You are no fool. So let me ask you . . . What do you know of the Grail?”
The room again filled with the smell of dark magic, but this time, Galahad didn’t need Morgan’s prodding to tell the truth. “I know nothing,” he said.
Galahad knew the moment Morgan’s patience had ended. A slight wind swept through the windowless chamber, and the torchlights danced wildly.
“Very well, then,” Morgan said. “Perhaps you need more time to think.”
She pointed to the doors, and they flung open to reveal Red with a cohort of Saxon soldiers behind him.
“Take our guest to his room,” Morgan commanded. Once again, Galahad found himself surrounded by Saxons.
“And while you’re there,” she continued, her hard gaze falling on Galahad, “think on this: for Arthur, the world has always been black and white, good versus evil. It’s harder to figure out which side to fight for when all the world is gray.” Her eyes flashed. “I, on the other hand, don’t see the point of petty warfare, and I hate to see talent like yours wasted in it.”
As the Saxons led him out of the chamber, Galahad felt something uneasy bloom in his belly. What Morgan had said was not unreasonable. In fact . . . he had thought the exact same thing not too long ago.
What a strange feeling it was to agree with Morgan le Fay.
CHAPTER
12
In the hour since Galahad disappeared underwater, Calib felt as though he were the one holding his breath.
Neither Galahad nor Red had resurfaced. Perhaps an entrance lay below the lake. But anytime Calib so much as put a tail tip near the lake, a school of pikes swarmed to the surface, their terrible teeth gnashing every which way.
The mouse would have to find another way into the lair. Retreating deeper into the cave, Calib let his whiskers guide him.
To his dismay, Morgan had her lair well protected with not only magic wards but more conventional traps as well. As he ventured farther in, Calib saw that there were paths that led to false floors, giving way to pits full of sharp spikes. He tiptoed around stone columns where an accidental nudge might bring a pile of boulders onto unsuspecting heads.
Calib scampered on. Had Galahad not granted him his magical whiskers, he would have already walked into a trap. As ugly as they were, he had to admit they were a huge improvement over his previous ones.
Perhaps when they got back to Camelot, Galahad could heal Valentina as well. Calib thought how his crow friend might enjoy magical wings that could help her fly as fast as a storm worthy of her name, Valentina Stormbeak. Guilt lingered in his heart. Magical wings were the least he could do for his crow friend.
The mouse closed his eyes and tried to discern where to go next. He wanted to go where the sensation of magic was strongest, for that would most likely lead to the Grail—and to Cecily. He picked up his pace, following the undertow of magic deeper and deeper into the cave.
Gradually, Calib noticed that the height of the tunnel was shrinking, becoming as large as the opening leading to the Goldenwood Hall. The darkness seemed to retreat, and glowing blue lights began to dot the empty sconces on the corridor’s walls.
This was the same light Calib had seen in Merlin’s Cave near Camelot, and it was the same blue of the crystal that had freed Excalibur from the stone.
For a moment, his fear was pushed aside by a sense of wonder. Magic was rare—the Lady of the Lake had even said that it was seeping away from this world. So how could there be so much magic contained in one place?
The odious scent of weasel musk now mingled with the scent of earth and stone. Calib set his teeth. He’d taken on the Saxon weasels before, and he would do so again.
Suddenly, he hit a dead end. A stone wall blocked the tunnel, and a sculpture of a hissing ferret had been carved into it.
Calib was stumped. He’d been so sure this tunnel was leading somewhere big.
He studied the statue more closely. The detailing was incredible, as if every last strand of fur had been carefully carved. The statue also sported a pair of sparkling eyes—pieces of black onyx set into stone. Calib had the uncomfortable feeling that the statue was watching him.
Cautiously, he reached out a paw . . . and bopped the ferret on its nose.
Nothing happened. Maybe if he twisted its ear?
The feeling of being watched intensified. It was hard to think with the statue’s judgmental eyes glaring at him. He placed a paw over them—and suddenly, the right eye gave way.
Calib jumped back as the entire wall swiveled open about two inches, revealing a set of stone stairs that led down into the darkness. The scent of weasel musk was even stronger now. Though his eyes watered, Calib nearly cackled with delight. He had discovered a secret stairwell!
The steps were shallow and long, sloping down like ramps. They were low enough for a mouse to go down on four paws at a run. In the darkness, he could make out different doors and passageways sprawling away from this center path.
Doubt filled Calib’s chest like steam in a kettle. There was no way to know how big this place was, and any number of tunnels could lead to Cecily. How would he find her?
Not knowing what else to do, Calib kept to the main path. At least he’d be able to find his way out again if he needed to. That was less likely if he started to take turns. After some time, he heard the echoes of rushing water, accompanied by the sound of metal clinking and shouts. The smell of burning wood and sulfur filled the tunnel, and the air grew hot and humid.
Calib rounded the last step and suddenly found himself on a stone bal
cony. Slinking down in case anyone was watching, he scrambled toward the edge. For a moment, his head swam.
The balcony overlooked a cavern that was taller than the highest spires of Camelot. Heights had stopped bothering him after he’d ridden owls. What made him dizzy was the vast underground city that had been carved into all sides of the cavern.
Steep stairs receded into the cave walls, leading to rows on top of rows of roughly constructed huts, each one glowing red with fire inside. Calib noticed a rhythm to the constant clanging, like the banging of a thousand pots and pans. From his vantage point, it looked like a hedge maze in Camelot’s gardens—only at least three times as big, and vertical. Far below lay an underground lake with steam rising from its surface.
Warships crowded on the pebbled shore—hundreds of them, each sleeker and deadlier than the one before.
With growing horror, Calib realized he was looking at the might of the Saxon weasel army.
The Saxons had not left Britain after all. They had retreated here . . . and by the looks of it, they were preparing for another attack.
He went to flee back up the stairs. Camelot had to be warned before it was too late! But at that moment, the sound of approaching pawsteps blocked his escape route.
Panicked, Calib jumped behind a basket half full of firewood. As the pawsteps came closer, he quickly leaped into the container and covered himself with the branches. He peered through the loose netting, and a pair of burly weasels came into view on the balcony.
Each one wore the rank of a knight on their armor, as well as the Saxon emblem—a red dragon against white. By the looks of them, they’d seen many battles. The taller weasel had a wooden leg, while the shorter one wore an eye patch over his left eye.
“A Two-Legger from Camelot? Here?” the tall one asked, pausing to tie the laces on his boots by propping his footpaw on Calib’s basket. Inside, Calib held his breath.
“True as I’m standing here,” the other replied. “I just saw him through the water gate. He demanded to be trained in magic.”
