by Julie Leung
The wildcat looked at Cecily. “I’m sorry.” The flickering red flames threw shadows across Leftie’s face, but even the shadows couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Calib was supposed to find Cecily and bring both her and the Grail back to Camelot triumphantly. He wasn’t supposed to be stuck in the Iron Mountains for the rest of his days.
“What can we do?” Calib asked, feeling helpless as he looked at the older and wiser creatures around him.
Lylas handed him a shovel. “We keep digging. We keep exploring. We keep holding faith that one day, we will see the sun and sky again.”
CHAPTER
23
“Healing has two sides: life and death,” Morgan had told Galahad as she’d ushered him into an underground garden nearly a week ago. This deep into the mountains, there was no sunlight, yet a large yellow crystal embedded in the rock ceiling gave off a warm glow that seemed to be enough for the potted saplings and rosebushes that grew in the stuffy garden. For the past week, Galahad had toiled under its dim light.
“The line between both is thin,” Morgan had continued, “which is why you must work hard to be able to reach out and grasp the spirit of a living thing. Life is potential. Potential is magic.”
She’d then set a potted oak sapling in front of Galahad. “When you can draw this sapling’s potential into Excalibur, we can move on to the next lesson. Do you understand?”
At first Galahad hadn’t. But now, as he pointed Excalibur at an oak sapling in a pot of sandy soil, he thought he heard a quiet whisper from the plant. Stunted and frail, the sapling had lived all its brief life in the caves. But it still dreamed of the forest. For a moment, Galahad could feel the essence of it through the sword: a wispy hint of moss and loam and sunlight. But then it was gone. Excalibur felt heavy in his hands.
“You are too passive,” Morgan observed from her high-backed chair situated among the wild rosebushes. “The sword is only a tool. It cannot do the work for you. You must bend it to your will, or magic will always escape you. If it helps, imagine that the sapling has within it what you most want. Direct that want down your sword, and take.”
Though tired and exhausted, Galahad nodded. Taking a deep breath, he wiped sweat off his brow. What he most wanted was easy: the Grail.
Galahad had not seen the Grail since Morgan had first made him sip from it, but he knew Britta—who was crushed that her theory had proven incorrect—was still hard at work trying to unlock its secrets. Occasionally, in the evenings, if he was still awake after training sessions with Morgan, he’d join Britta and pretend to assist her. All the while, he tried to slow down the Saxon researcher’s progress and glean new hints for himself on how to work the Grail.
As Galahad adjusted his grip on Excalibur and fixed his mind’s eye on the Grail, another image replaced it. A memory from long ago, of a young Galahad situated between Sir Lancelot and Lady Elaine. Each held one of his chubby hands, and they swung him by the arms as they walked by the river, singing a silly ditty with him. It was one of the few memories Galahad had of his family together, a rare moment when Sir Lancelot wasn’t out on Arthur’s orders. It was a rare memory of peace.
Suddenly, Galahad was again aware of the sapling’s yearning for the sun on its leaves, its dreams of rich dirt in its roots. And this time, instead of letting the sapling’s thoughts slip away, Galahad gripped them. Excalibur’s hilt grew warm in his hand.
“Good,” Morgan said softly from behind him. “Now, tug, pulling the sapling’s potential into Excalibur.”
Barely breathing, Galahad tugged at the sapling’s essence, as if it were a loose thread from his tunic. The sapling shrieked!
Startled, Galahad let go of Excalibur, and the sword clattered to the ground, breaking his concentration and his connection to the little tree.
“I can’t,” Galahad said, looking toward Morgan. “The sapling said it hurt!”
“Sometimes, to heal, you have to hurt first. To grow something, you have to burn something.” Morgan frowned, an expression halfway between impatience and disappointment. Galahad was becoming very familiar with that look. “Galahad, you lack conviction. This should be easier for you.”
She gestured toward the sapling with a casual flick of her wrist. Through Excalibur, Galahad felt a surge of magic, and a moment later, he saw the sapling writhe like a snake as its leaves turned brown and withered. He caught a sense of dry heat and pain, a forest on fire. Then the skinny branches crumbled into a fine gray dust. In Morgan’s hand, a ball of blue flame danced and crackled.
“Remember, all living things have power. A skilled magician can harness that power and do with it as she pleases.”
Morgan closed her hand into a fist and walked over to a stout little tree. When she touched the blue flames to its trunk, the ball extinguished, leaving a curl of smoke and the scent of rosemary and iron that lingered in the air. A second later, the leaves of the tree rustled as large plums, dusky purple and fragrant, hung heavy on the formerly bare branches. Morgan plucked a fruit from a branch and gently tossed it to Galahad, who caught it.
“Anyone—even Red—can accomplish this task. But you, Galahad, are barely trying.”
“Why bother with me, then?” Galahad asked. Resentment swept through him, and he was surprised at how hurt he was at her words. But then, Morgan smiled
“Because you are special. Anyone, with some studying, can channel power, just as any skilled forester can walk through the forest and identify the birds by their song, or the trees by their leaves. They may even learn to interpret the behavior of the birds or to determine which trees are healthy and which are sick. But they will never be able to understand the emotions of a rowan tree, nor translate the language of the larks.
“Excalibur chose you, and once you have mastered Excalibur’s magic, you will find that you can move a forest as easily as you can listen to it.”
Galahad shivered. She knew so much about Excalibur, and he remembered again what she had said on the first night he’d arrived: that the sword in the stone had been meant for her.
“Why did Merlin not let you pull the sword?” Galahad blurted out before he could stop himself. Immediately, he winced, preparing for the sorceress to punish him for his impudence. But instead, she sighed.
“I don’t know why,” she said sadly. “But I never quite fit in with the others of Camelot. My thirst for knowledge proved a nuisance to the court after they realized I was no longer going to be queen. They whispered about me in the castle, plotted to marry me off to some lesser noble.”
Again, Galahad felt uncomfortable. Morgan’s experience in the castle had some similarities to his own. Awkwardly, he tossed the plum from one palm to the other.
“Arthur,” Morgan continued, “for all his weaknesses, tried to be understanding. And when he realized that Merlin had stolen my inheritance away from me, he personally requested that the Sisters on Avalon take me onto their island and teach me their ways. He hoped that if I could not have the throne, perhaps I would be placated by knowledge.”
She shook her head, and her auburn hair shimmered down the length of her back.
“Avalon was home for me—for a little while, at least. The Sisters, despite their powers of foresight, did not understand their role in the world. Why cultivate all this magic and knowledge, only to hoard it away on an island? In this, Merlin and I agreed. Where we differed is how we proposed to use it. Merlin wanted to use his magic to prop up weak kings like Arthur. But I believe that only those with power belong in power. Only the people who can make difficult decisions should lead. In order to survive, Camelot needs a strong ruler.”
Galahad’s mind flashed back to all the bickering at the Round Table during those hours at court. What if King Arthur had simply gone with his gut?
“Enough of this,” Morgan said, and then she plucked the plum from his hand. She took a bite from it and swallowed, the plum’s sweet juice so fragrant that Galahad could smell it fro
m feet away.
“Pick up Excalibur. Try again.”
CHAPTER
24
For days, Calib had been looking down his snout at only rock and darkness and more rock. The rebellion had found several passageways that had been dug out long ago by some other creatures, but many had caved in or led to nowhere. None led to the surface.
That evening, around the campfire, there was somber news. One of the more promising tunnels had collapsed, nearly killing two moles.
“We have to start over!” Lylas said, his jaw set with frustration. “This is the fifth time this has happened!”
“What is causing these cave-ins?” Calib asked.
“No idea,” Lylas said. “Everything seems to be going well when we leave to sleep, but then our supports come loose in the night. If I had to guess, I feel as if someone or something is purposefully sabotaging our efforts.”
“Badger,” Leftie growled warningly, “heed your words. Who among us wants to stay here forever? We must continue to trust one another, or else all is truly lost.”
Lylas looked into the embers. “I’m sorry, Leftie. Of course I don’t think any creature within our ranks is hindering our efforts.”
“I think those tunnels are cursed,” Ginny said softly, wringing her apron with her paws. “I hear spooky noises coming from them at night.”
“There’s no such thing,” Cecily said. “It’s just bad luck.”
Leftie the wildcat fixed his single yellow eye on Cecily. “You haven’t seen any other creatures when you go exploring, have you, Von Mandrake?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Cecily asked in the same tone Calib recognized from when Commander Kensington used to ask who had used the Hurler without adult supervision.
“I know when you go to collect food, it takes twenty times longer than when Ginny here does,” Leftie said, his voice gruff, though there was amusement in his eyes. “So I ask you: Have you seen anything in your explorations?”
“No,” Cecily said. “Not anything.”
Leftie nodded, but something in Calib’s stomach wiggled. He wasn’t so sure he believed her.
When Cecily next went to forage for food, Calib asked if he could come along.
“I haven’t been yet, and I think I’ll go mad if I just keep digging the entire day,” he said truthfully.
“As long as you can keep up—you never could in Camelot!” she said with a smile, and Calib smiled back at the memory of them and the other pages scurrying to the Two-Legger kitchens to help scrounge food for the castle feasts.
They raced through the different tunnels, until Cecily gestured to what looked like another dead end. But she leaned against one side of the stone and began to push.
“Come on, help me,” she grunted.
Bracing his shoulder against the stone, he pushed. Slowly, the wall revolved, and the sour smell of rancid food filled Calib’s nostrils and lungs. The stench made him cough and his eyes water. In the darkness, Calib could see bits of eggshells, peels, and rotten bones strewn across the ledge on the other side.
“Blech, what are we doing here?” said Calib, breathing through his mouth to dampen the smell.
“Waiting on our food delivery from Jasper,” Cecily said, also holding her nose.
“Food delivery . . . from Jasper . . .” Calib was beginning to put the pieces together.
“He’s the one who has been secretly sending us food this whole time,” Cecily continued. “He pretends it’s gone bad and—”
“Sends it down the garbage chute,” Calib finished as the last puzzle piece clicked into place. Jasper didn’t hate his cooking—he’d been feeding the rebellion! They were standing on a small ledge overlooking a large mining shaft of untold depths. If the drop was positioned properly, it would land right here where they were waiting, making it easy pickings for an intrepid mouse.
Calib’s admiration for the brave hare grew tenfold.
“This is how Leftie has kept his rebellion fed the entire time,” Cecily said. “But, well, there have been hiccups. Hopefully, Jasper won’t be late this time. He’s missed his previous two deliveries, and as you heard Ginny say, we’re running low.”
“Incoming,” a hushed voice from somewhere high above echoed down.
Cecily pushed Calib close to the wall. Four parcels, bound multiple times in cheesecloth, crash-landed on the ledge with loud splotching sounds.
Calib and Cecily ran forward to grab the satchels and pull them back to the other side of the door, where things were not so smelly.
Unwrapping one of the packages, Cecily revealed a perfectly serviceable pile of vegetable pastries. They were still steaming, despite being a bit crumbly and smashed from the fall. The smell of one sent Calib’s stomach into a growling frenzy.
Cecily took a bite. “Mmmm, absolute perfection,” she murmured, her ears flat against her head and her grin unmistakable.
Calib sampled one for himself. The flaky piecrust gave way to a comforting mush of broccoli, onion, and carrot. He closed his eyes to appreciate the flavor of the gravy-like broth mingling with the buttery potatoes.
“This is as good as Madame von Mandrake’s,” Calib said. But as soon as the words left Calib’s mouth, he regretted them.
Cecily looked like someone had smacked her on the snout. Her eyes filled with sudden tears. She swallowed her bite slowly and turned to Calib.
“Is Maman beside herself?” Cecily’s whiskers trembled. “Does she think I’m dead?”
Calib patted Cecily’s shaking shoulders, at a loss for what else to do in the moment. “Of course not. She’s worried, but she knows you’re smart and quick on your paws.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “It’s just been so long since we’ve had a good, peaceful day. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like not to be scared of what the next day will bring.”
Inwardly, Calib cringed. It was true; Camelot always seemed to be in danger these days. He wondered if the Saxons would ever give up their onslaught, or if this would be their new reality for decades to come.
He handed Cecily his pastry. “Go on, eat some more,” he said. “You’ll feel . . . Maybe not better, but stronger if you’re not hungry.”
Cecily nodded and bit into the soft vegetable pastry.
“Ow!” she exclaimed.
“What’s wrong?” Calib looked around, wondering if he’d missed a hidden attacker. But Cecily was staring at her pastry. In the dim light, Calib could see something gleam inside the pie. A glass vial.
Quickly, Cecily extracted it and held it up to the torchlight. Inside was a note.
“What is this?” Calib asked.
“A message from Jasper,” Cecily said, wedging her tail into the narrow opening and wrapping it around the parchment. “This is how he communicates with us sometimes. Last time, Lylas nearly choked on it.”
There was a soft pop as the message came free. Huddling next to Cecily, Calib began to read the hare’s skittish handwriting:
A Two-Legger has joined Morgan’s ranks.
Judging by his sword, he’s even more powerful than her.
“That’s just Galahad,” Calib said, a wave of worry for his friend crashing down on him. “He’s pretending to be on Morgan’s side so that he can find the Grail.”
“If you say so,” Cecily said. At Calib’s glare, she hastily added, “We better get going. Ginny’s going to cry with delight over these pastries.”
Calib nodded, and they scurried back up the passageways that led to the friendly campfires. But as he handed out the fresh food from the kitchens, he noticed that a few of the pastries seemed to have gone missing . . . and that Cecily was no longer near the glowing red embers.
CHAPTER
25
In the moments when Galahad didn’t have to deal with Morgan’s odd tests or confrontations with Red, he found refuge in the library. There, he worked with Britta, helping her translate and, in some cases, preventing her from getting too close to the truth.
Even though the Saxon girl was working against them, he couldn’t help being impressed at how far she’d already gotten by herself. She was a dangerous ally for Morgan to have. Part of him hoped he could convince her to join Camelot’s side instead.
Today, Galahad was looking at a scroll that detailed an eyewitness account of the Grail at work. It recounted the final battle between King Arthur’s forces and the last Saxon army to be driven from Britain:
Great drops of golden light fell upon the battlefield. Where they touched, the dead and injured arose anew, unscathed by arrows or swords. Afterward a great wolf stood where the wizard had been. And he bore the treasure away.
Galahad paused. He had nearly forgotten about his dream of the white wolf.
“I’m starving. Do you want any food from the kitchens?” Britta asked. “I can bring some back.”
“Some bread and cheese does sound nice,” Galahad said.
“That’s it?” Britta asked. “I’ll do us one better. I saw there were some dried figs in the larder this morning.”
“Figs?” Galahad asked. He’d never heard of figs.
“You’ve never had figs?” Britta’s brown eyes grew wide. “Not a fresh one?”
Galahad shook his head.
“Are you in for a treat! Back before Papa’s land dried up, we had entire orchards full of fig trees, and oranges and grapes.” Britta closed her eyes, as if savoring an imaginary delicacy. “Maybe when this is all over, we can try growing some in Britain.”
“When did this drought begin?” Galahad needed to understand exactly what had happened in Saxony. Perhaps that would explain why they were always attacking Camelot.
“It wasn’t a drought, though,” Britta replied, shoving her hands into her pockets. She looked down. “It rained just as much as it had any other year, but the ground would not take it. Everything green was dying, withering away into dust and ash.”
