by Julie Leung
“But there are whole tribes of squirrels out there,” Sir Alric said. “The tooth doesn’t necessarily belong to a Darkling.”
“The assassin could not have gotten into the arena without knowing the ins and outs of the castle,” Sir Percival continued. “It was Two-Bits!”
“Now, Sir Percival,” Sir Kensington said irritably. “Do not fan the flames of fear. There is still much we do not know. This tooth could belong to any squirrel.”
“If only it were just the tooth,” Sir Percival said, shaking his head sadly. “Warren, I believe you had something to say to the company gathered here?”
For the first time since Calib had known him, Warren looked afraid.
“Tell them what you saw, page,” Sir Percival urged.
“When the lights blew out at the Harvest Tournament, I saw a dark shadow come onto the stage,” Warren said, twisting his paws together. “It had a bushy tail that brushed past me. He blended in perfectly with the dark, just like a black squirrel would.”
Mutters broke out around the table, and Calib clenched his paws into fists. The black squirrels of the forest were Leftie the lynx’s most dangerous warriors. They hid well in the forest’s shadows and were nimble climbers, capable of scaling both the tallest of pines and high castle walls. It would make sense if the assassin were a black squirrel.
“You are absolutely sure?” asked Sir Kensington. “You know what a serious accusation you make and what consequences there will be.”
Warren nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.
“I told you, Kensington,” Sir Owen said, shaking his fist in the air. “The Darkling vermin have attacked. This means war!”
“Just because they live in the woods doesn’t make them vermin,” Macie interjected. “Their ways are just different from ours.”
Macie’s tail was puffing up, growing bigger with her agitation. Calib had always liked and admired Macie. But if the Darklings didn’t kill his grandfather, then who did?
“The Owls of Fellwater Swamps have been in flight for more than a month now,” Macie continued. “They’re flying during daylight, and in groups toward St. Gertrude’s ruins! I’ve told you: this is something we cannot ignore. Something bigger is at stake!”
“What could be bigger than an open declaration of war?” Sir Owen waved his thimble around dangerously to punctuate his point. Tea sloshed over the side, splashing onto the table. Sir Owen’s anger often got the better of him. Many remembered him being mild-mannered in his younger days. But after he saw his best friend, Sir Trenton Christopher, die at the Battle at Rickonback River, he’d become quick to want to strike first.
“I bet the last whisker on my snout that the Darklings assassinated Commander Yvers to nullify the treaty. I say we mount a full-out assault on those scum! An eye for an eye, a leader for a leader!”
The conversation fractured into individual arguments as the knights began yelling at one another all at once. Calib tried to focus on what they were saying, but one thought kept pushing everything else out: he would never see Grandfather again.
Finally, Sir Kensington slammed Sir Owen’s fighting staff on the table like a gavel.
“ENOUGH!” she roared. “Commander Yvers would be ashamed of us, yammering like a bunch of squawking hens.”
A shameful silence filled the air.
“Pages, please wait outside while we vote.”
Calib, Warren, Cecily, Devrin, Barnaby, and the rest of the younger mice filed out of the room glumly. Calib’s stomach felt like it was full of squirming eels. Already, the world had become a confusing and angry place.
“Now what?” Cecily said impatiently. The voices from the small council room reached a fevered pitch again. “I want to know what’s going to happen.”
“Don’t worry your little whiskers off,” Devrin said with a sly smile. “I’ve got my own ways of keeping tabs on the council.”
“What do you mean?” Warren asked, but Devrin merely gestured with a paw for them to follow.
Calib was torn. Half of him wanted to know what was happening in the council room. Another part wanted to bury himself in cotton fluff and pretend tonight had never happened.
But his paws, as if acting on their own, followed Devrin. One by one, the pages climbed on top of a wooden chest. There in the stone wall, hidden by a dusty cobweb, was a small, round tunnel just big enough for a small mouse to crawl into.
“The Two-Leggers drilled holes into the rock to anchor hooks for their weapons,” Devrin explained. “This one didn’t take. It goes in right above the council room.”
“How long have you been spying on council meetings?” Cecily asked.
“Curiosity killed the cat but didn’t say anything about the mouse,” Devrin said with a shrug. She dropped to her belly and disappeared down the tunnel, followed by Cecily and Barnaby. Calib quickly followed suit, shimmying into the tight space and trying to keep his nose away from Barnaby’s thin, whiplike tail.
The pages emerged into a small chamber. Calib patted dust from his fur as Devrin moved a stone to reveal a pebble-sized hole in the ceiling directly above the Round Table. The pages piled in close together, taking turns peering through the peephole. Calib stifled a squeak of pain as Cecily accidentally stepped on his footpaw.
“Sorry,” she whispered, turning slightly and sending the hilt of her practice rapier into Calib’s side.
“Oof—s’no worry,” Calib said, shuffling more to the left. “It’s fine.”
“Shh!” Warren hushed, glaring at them and gesturing to the opening, where Calib could just make out Sir Kensington’s strained voice.
“All those in favor of taking an aggressive measure on the matter of Commander Yvers’s death, raise your paw.”
Calib jostled his way to a better view, just in time to see Sir Owen raise his paw defiantly. About half of the other knights also did the same, including Sir Percival.
“Those in favor of taking covert measures, raise your paw,” Sir Kensington said.
Sir Alric, the engineer, raised his paw, along with the other half of the knights. The crowd began to stir.
“What’s going on?” Cecily whispered, “I can’t see anything.”
“It’s evenly split,” Calib began to say before Warren pushed him aside for his turn.
“As acting commander, I will break the tie,” Sir Kensington said. “After considering both your sides, I also vote against an attack.”
“But, Kensington, you can’t possibly—” Sir Owen began to protest.
“The Round Table has spoken,” Sir Kensington interrupted.
She unfurled a long scroll onto the table. Underneath the lengthy lines of script, penned by Commander Yvers himself, were two paw prints.
One belonged to Commander Yvers. Another, a much larger one, belonged to Leftie the lynx, the leader of the Darkling forces. Rumor had it that the lynx kept the tails of every foe he’d killed and used them as whips. Some believed his one good eye was actually magicked so it could see through to creatures’ hearts.
Calib inhaled. He had never seen the famous treaty before, although he’d heard about it nearly every day of his life.
“The treaty still holds,” Sir Kensington said. “Until we catch the assassin, we have no way of knowing if the Darklings are responsible. We will strengthen our defenses, and when ready, we will send out spies to uncover what the Darklings may be up to. Can we all be agreed?”
A smattering of ayes sounded around the table.
“We must prepare for the worst,” Sir Kensington continued. “And pray that war doesn’t come to us.”
CHAPTER
8
Galahad glanced at Sir Kay, seated in the balcony. The fat knight was nodding off in his chair, his helmet slipping low over his eyes.
Today, Galahad and his fellow pages were supposed to demonstrate their horsemanship skills to Sir Kay, in hopes of being chosen as his squire. Sir Kay was King Arthur’s elder foster brother, and now, he was keeper of the castle while the
king was away. Long ago, Arthur himself had been Kay’s squire. Even then, people could tell he was bound for great things. In no less than a year into his training, young Arthur had pulled out the Sword in the Stone and became a knight. These days, it was still a great honor to serve Sir Kay, even if he was cranky as a goat.
“Okay, Beatrice,” Galahad sighed, patting his pony on her nose. “Let’s wake that old dog up and show him some new tricks.”
But when he went to mount the saddle, the pony shied away and shook her head, as if to say no.
Puzzled, he tried again. Beatrice backed away farther.
The pages waiting for their turn began snickering under their breaths.
“Beatrice,” Galahad pleaded quietly, “not today.”
Galahad put his left foot firmly in the stirrup and grabbed the pommel, but as he tried to kick his right leg over, the saddle straps broke off with a snap. Galahad and saddle slid off the pony and fell straight into a puddle of mud with a squelching plop.
Laughter broke out among the pages, startling Sir Kay from his nap. Only one of the younger pages, a redheaded boy named Bors, looked sympathetic.
“Wh-what’s happenin’ here?” Sir Kay pulled up his helmet and then looked around.
Galahad tried to stand up before the knight saw anything, but half his uniform was already covered in stinky brown slime.
Sir Kay squinted down at the boy and then began to laugh with the others. His large stomach jiggled in time with his guffaws.
“Send this one to the kitchen,” he said, crossing a big line through Galahad’s name with a quill. “A sorry show, indeed. Next!”
Before Galahad squelched away, he examined the broken saddle. The straps holding it together were chewed nearly all the way through. Something—something very small—had just ruined his chances of being Sir Kay’s squire.
CHAPTER
9
“These rocks won’t fly at all and you know it.” Macie Cornwall kicked over a basket of round river pebbles. The stones spilled out at Sir Percival’s feet, and the clatter echoed in the empty Goldenwood Hall. Calib winced.
“The rocks on this island don’t make good arrowheads,” the red squirrel continued, snatching up a half-shaped arrowhead that Calib had been carving all morning. She thrust it under the vole’s nose. “They are too heavy and hard. We need clamshells from the beach.”
Sir Percival shrugged as he popped another candied seed into his mouth. “I’m afraid these are the best my apprentices could do, given the restrictions.”
It had been a week since Commander Yvers’s funeral, one of the saddest and dreariest days in Calib’s memory. The crowds had gathered on the riverbank to watch Commander Yvers’s body, laid out in a varnished canoe and surrounded by flowers, disappear over the waterfall. Just as the ceremony ended, the clouds had broken, drenching everybody. It was as if, Calib thought, even heaven was weeping for the loss.
Now, Camelot was on high alert. The Harvest Tournament was postponed indefinitely. No mouse was allowed outside the borders without permission from a high-ranking knight such as Sir Percival. Sir Kensington’s rules were ironclad. And Macie Cornwall wasn’t the only one feeling cooped up. All week, fights and arguments had been breaking out in the halls of the castle. Tension hung thick in the air like a storm cloud.
“I’m sorry,” Sir Percival said, his voice petal smooth and sounding not very sorry at all. “Only expeditions of a critical nature are approved. And these rocks look perfectly serviceable to me.”
Macie marched up to Sir Percival and stood toe-to-toe with him. Her bushy tail unfurled to its full length.
“We’re working with dried reeds for the shafts and donated feathers from the bell-tower larks for the fletching,” Macie said, and broke a reed between her fingers to illustrate. She cast the broken bits aside with disgust.
“Why, if I didn’t chew the leather off the Two-Legger saddles myself, we wouldn’t have any arm bracers to speak of! Archers are going to be the first line of defense if there’s an attack. We need arrows that actually reach the far side of the moat!”
“Careful how you talk to me, squirrel.” Sir Percival bared his rotted canines. “If I were you, I would be much more mindful of the tone you take with a knight.” He turned and walked away.
Macie waited until Sir Percival was out of earshot before she began her tirade. “Why, that stink-breathed, rat-whiskered piece of vermin!” she yelled, kicking the empty bucket.
“I’m sorry,” Calib said quietly. Although he tried to avoid it, his eyes were drawn as though by magnetic force back to the stage, where Commander Yvers had fallen. Even though Sir Percival had the area mopped up immediately, Calib was still haunted by visions of the pool of blood and the giant paw prints that had led away from the scene.
Macie sighed and patted Calib distractedly on the shoulder. “Tell you what—why don’t you collect more reeds? Give me a few minutes to cool off.”
Calib nodded and left the Goldenwood Hall. He was relieved to put some distance between himself and the scene of his grandfather’s assassination. Making his way toward the moat, his heart was as heavy as the stones he’d been carving all morning. While the other pages were running exciting errands, he’d been saddled with Barnaby as a partner and given the most menial tasks. It was as if the other mice knew how he had failed and wanted to punish him for it.
If only he could find some way to prove himself worthy of the Christopher name, Calib thought, and honor the memory of his grandfather. . . .
“Hey, Calib! Wait for me!”
Calib turned to see Barnaby coming toward him. He carried two empty rucksacks in his paws. Huffing and puffing, Barnaby handed one of them to Calib.
“Sir Owen’s asked us to collect crooked nails from the cobbler! Can you believe it? Our first task in town! There’s a farmer’s wagon in the courtyard—it could leave any minute. We need to catch it!”
An idea dawned on Calib. The cobbler’s hut was in the south of town, only a league from the beach. Macie had been talking for days about their desperate need for clamshells. If Calib was quick, he could gather some to bring to her.
For the first time in a long while, Calib’s spirits lifted just a little. It would mean disobeying the rules. But it would be worth it to provide the archers with the clamshells they desperately needed. He could come back a hero, at least to Macie and the archers.
After all, his own father had done plenty of dangerous missions on behalf of Camelot. Once, Sir Trenton even went to the owls and convinced them to help in the Battle at Rickonback River, the turning point in the Great War. If Calib wanted to be more like a Christopher, he would need to start taking some risks—and breaking some rules.
Less than an hour later, Calib and Barnaby were tucked under a canvas bag full of turnips, passing over the drawbridge in a farmer’s wagon and heading down the southern road to town.
“And then there was the porridge and gingerbread, and a piping hot cup of cider to go with it.” For the past ten minutes, Barnaby had been regaling Calib with stories of all the treats he’d eaten in the previous week.
“Y’know, I think Ginny the kitchen mouse might be sweet on me.” Barnaby chuckled. “Get it, sweet?”
“That’s very interesting, Barnaby,” Calib said, although he hadn’t been listening. Now that he was out of the castle, he was too nervous to make conversation. He kept telling himself that breaking the rules for a good reason wasn’t really breaking the rules—but he knew the knights would feel differently if they found out what he was planning to do.
He could see the cobbler’s hut coming up around the bend. He maneuvered to the edge of the cart, clutching the railings as they bumped along the muddy dirt road.
“Get ready to jump!” Calib called over his shoulder. “We’re almost at the haystacks!”
“I hate this part,” Barnaby grumbled. He got up and positioned himself next to Calib.
The cart rolled to a stop to let some cows cross the path.
&nbs
p; “You first!” Calib said, and took a quick step backward to let Barnaby barrel past him.
Barnaby landed softly on the bale of hay and scampered to the ground.
“Hey!” When he saw that Calib hadn’t followed, he gestured to him frantically. “Quick! Before you miss your chance!”
“Oh, I forgot, I have to, er, m-make another stop,” Calib stuttered. “Just go on without me, okay?”
“Wait—” Barnaby began, but by then the clatter of the wheels drowned out the rest of his protests.
Calib slumped back against a turnip, exhaling. He felt bad about abandoning his partner, but Calib knew Barnaby had no stomach for danger. To be honest, Calib wasn’t sure if he did either.
The cart had reached the outskirts of town and was now picking up speed. Calib could see a sliver of the beach in the west, peeking over the next hill. Beyond that, there was nothing but the open sky.
The farmer driving the cart showed no sign of stopping, and Calib hadn’t exactly thought through how he would disembark. Any faster and he’d never make the landing. If Calib was going to go, he needed to do it now, before he lost his courage—and his chance.
He eyed a nearby hillock covered in clover. With a running start, Calib leaped from the cart and flew through the air. He opened his rucksack like a parachute and tried to use it to slow his fall.
But he had miscalculated the distance! Instead of landing in the clover, he landed on the far side of the hillock, tumbling into a muddy rut and rolling down the slope before coming to a stop with a small “oof.”
Slowly, Calib sat up, his head spinning as fast as if he had twirled on a frozen pond. He took stock of his limbs as Sir Owen had taught them to do. He wiggled his footpaws, patted his ribs, and checked for scratches. Everything seemed to be in order. Tossing his sack over his shoulder, he began his journey.