Crisanta Knight: To Death & Back

by Geanna Culbertson

  “This is my older sister Elaine,” Morgan explained. “Our father was Gorlois of Tintagel, the Duke of Cornwall—our mother’s first husband before he died and she married Uther Pendragon. Elaine has healing magic. She can help your friend.”

  The Gwenivere Brigade girls assisted Jason onto the bed. He immediately closed his eyes and his chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths. His shirt was turning red with blood again. SJ’s potion was wearing off. Blue held his hand and the rest of my friends and I crowded around him until Ormé shooed us away.

  “Come on. Elaine needs space and silence. Everyone out.”

  “But—” Blue started.

  “Don’t worry,” Elaine cut her off. “Everything will be fine. Your friend will be all right. You can trust me.”

  If Morgan hadn’t told us that Elaine had healing magic, I would have thought her power was hypnosis. Her voice was so calming and reassuring, I genuinely believed everything she was saying. My friends and I made our way out of the room. Blue was reluctant to leave, but as she stepped through the doorway, Elaine reached out and touched her arm.

  “I’ll take good care of him.”

  Ormé shut the golden door behind us, leaving Elaine and Jason alone in the healing room.

  “Elaine’s magic is not as strong as mine,” Morgan said. “Depending on the extent of the injury, it may take a few hours to heal your friend. Until then, I suggest we head for my study. There is much to discuss.”

  “I’ll say,” Daniel commented. “And given that you’re Arthur’s half-sister, I think I know where to start. Your brother’s not dead, Morgan. He’s alive.”

  Morgan stopped cold. She turned and stared at Daniel. After a moment, her eyes shone as she realized he was speaking the truth. Daniel had always had a confident earnestness in his eyes that let you know that when he said something—good or bad—he was being sincere.

  “Ormé,” Morgan said. “Go get Gwenivere. Now.”

  rthur’s wife was absolutely stunning.

  After attending a school for princesses for more than six years, you would think that I was used to regal, radiant girls. But Gwenivere Pendragon—formerly Queen Gwenivere of Camelot—was on another level.

  She had chocolate-colored skin, much like Liza’s. Despite being in her late thirties, not a wrinkle marred her face. Her eyes were a strange, entrancing shade of navy. High cheekbones made her look like the very definition of royalty. Her hair was a cascade of dark brown curls that fell to her lower back.

  Again, I felt the compulsion to curtsy. This time, on seeing the example Ormé and the Gwenivere Brigade girls set, I heeded it.

  My friends and I curtsied or bowed to Gwenivere as she entered Morgan’s study. Gwenivere’s dress was a lavender velvet, off-the-shoulder number with fitted sleeves covered in gold embroidery. The gold matched the headpiece nestled in her hair and the design at the bottom of her skirt. Her dress was trimmed with the same cross-and-star design I’d seen on the flags in Camelot’s citadel, and on Arthur’s arm.

  After sitting on the various armchairs and sofas in Morgan’s study, my friends and I dove into our very long story. We told Gwenivere, Morgan, Ormé, and the other present members of the Gwenivere Brigade about everything—what happened in the citadel, my magic, Paige, Alex, Arian, Ozma, and so on. We also explained about our current objective to recover Excalibur and how we’d found Arthur.

  When we recounted that the king was alive, Gwenivere gasped. When we told her that he was trapped in Neverland, the muscles in her face tightened.

  “Now we need to get to the Isle of Avalon before the Vicennalia Aurora,” Daniel said, finishing our tale. “Excalibur is our only way of piercing the stone that holds Paige’s memories.”

  “Paige used to be a Fairy Godmother,” Blue reminded them. “Before turning into a brainless scarecrow, she was the only one who knew where our realm’s genies were hidden. If the antagonists get that information first, it’s game over.”

  Midway through our tale I had migrated to the window to stare out at the mist-covered Poppy fields. I could not sit still. Retelling our story was an in-your-face reminder of how much we had done and how much we still had left to do. There were so many elements working against us, particularly time, and so many unknown variables, including Alex and his run at claiming Excalibur.

  “Crisa?”

  I turned when Blue spoke my name. “Yeah?”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Just something I’ve been wondering for a while,” I admitted. “Rampart reminded me of it when I was captured.” I stepped away from the window and met the collective gaze of my friends. “Why were Alex and Mauvrey already going after Excalibur before Arian knew they needed it to free Paige’s memories?”

  “They must have been retrieving it for Rampart,” SJ suggested.

  “Yes, but why?” I urged. “Arian and the others are trying to overthrow our realm. They’re hardly going to waste time and resources doing favors for villains in other realms unless they get something out of it. Mauvrey and Arian selected Alex for this task a long time ago. Rampart must have offered them something in return that has nothing to do with Paige or the genies.”

  “But what?” Ormé asked.

  “I don’t know, but it has to be important.” I sighed and crossed my arms, wincing slightly from the pain of my injuries and the new, weird burn marks on my forearms. My friends had definitely noticed the marks but had been circumspect enough not to mention them until now.

  “You need to go see Elaine,” SJ finally commented upon seeing my grimace.

  “She’s still working on Jason,” I replied.

  “Then allow me to help you,” Gwenivere said suddenly.

  I was taken aback by her commanding voice. She hadn’t said two words during our retelling—Morgan had been the one to direct the questions. I could understand why. Learning that your husband—long thought dead—was alive and trapped on a magical island was a lot to process.

  “Girls …” Gwenivere looked to Ormé and the rest of the Brigade. “Take Daniel, Blue, and SJ to our guest rooms so they can rest. They must be exhausted. And prepare them something to eat. Crisanta, you and I are going to spend some quality time together.”

  Gwenivere’s private workshop was located at the very top of one of the castle’s towers. It was lovely. A green glass ceiling cast everything in viridescence. Countless shelves of herbs and plants—fresh, dried, and infused in oils—surrounded a workstation at the center.

  Gesturing for me to sit on a cushioned windowsill, Gwenivere collected ingredients as I gazed out the window. I stretched my sore shoulders. One of the Gwenivere Brigade girls had offered to take my backpack to my guestroom while I went with the queen.

  “I do not have magic like Morgan or Elaine,” Gwenivere said as she worked. “But during Arthur’s reign, Merlin taught me the power of potions. I learned to create all sorts of concoctions, from low-grade healing brews to poisons. He may have been the most powerful wizard in our realm, but only one of his abilities came from his magic—invisibility. The rest of his powers were based on his mastery of potions. He was arguably the greatest potionist in all the realms, with the exception of the Wizard of Oz and his son.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, we’ve met Julian.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “I don’t trust him,” I replied. “I had my suspicions about Julian before, but Rampart verified my worst doubts when he was holding me prisoner in Camelot.” I sighed. “Despite what I’ve come to learn about people—and brothers—I hoped that maybe Julian wasn’t the scum I suspected. But finding Ozma and Dorothy’s enchanted slipper in Rampart’s dungeon totally confirmed it. Julian’s been letting his sister rot in Camelot so he can rule Oz in her place.”

  “That is a serious accusation,” Gwenivere commented as she searched a cabinet for ingredients. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. Family members stabbing each other in the back in pursuit of a throne is hardly a new narrative. Mor
dred was Arthur’s half-brother. Morgause is his aunt. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but the people closest to you can betray you if you stand in the way of what they want.”

  “Rampart more or less said the same thing,” I responded sadly. “I guess I was just hoping that people were better than that.”

  “I think they have the potential to be.” Gwenivere began lightly pounding ingredients in a mortar dish at her workstation. “But that would require truly caring about someone else’s wellbeing ahead of your own. That’s a rare thing, Crisanta. You know, I love Arthur more than anything.” She paused, her expression sorrowful. She’d been stoic since finding out about her husband, but I bet tons of emotion was boiling beneath the surface.

  “So given the option,” she continued, clearing her throat, “I would always put him first. Merlin was the same. He dedicated his entire life to serving Arthur and the realm to the best of his ability, no matter the personal cost. But loyalty like that is not commonplace. It is special.”

  Gwenivere took a copper blowtorch from a drawer and began smoking the ingredients in her mortar dish. “I think it’s wonderful that you want to believe in people, but I advise you to be careful with such faith. Games of crowns and thrones are never-ending. And most people play dirty. Look at me. I consider myself kindhearted, and I believe in ruling with benevolence, fairness, and compassion. But I will stop at nothing to reclaim what was stolen from Arthur and our family.

  “Since Rampart took the crown, I have been leading a rebellion from this castle. I established the Gwenivere Brigade to take the throne away from Rampart and restore it to me. We have countless followers throughout the land. We are organized and unyielding. And in the last few weeks, we have finally attained the numbers we need to attempt a full-scale assault on the citadel. When we enact our plan, do you really think I am going to concern myself with mercy? I might be related to a good number of people in Rampart’s court, either by marriage or by blood, but I will not hesitate to bring down anyone who stands in my way. Enemies should be destroyed and villains should be killed. Any ruler who doesn’t agree is foolish.”

  I was stunned. Her straight talk had the same chilling bluntness as Rampart’s words to me as we journeyed to the Mercy Pit. And Blue had addressed the same topic this morning in reference to my brother. Were they right? Was it foolish to show mercy to villains? Was it foolish to choose faith in humanity over pragmatism?

  Gwenivere extinguished her torch and picked up a flask filled with purple liquid. She poured it into the mortar. When the liquid made contact with the ingredients, a plume of smoke that smelled like nutmeg and cinnamon rose from the dish.

  “Come.” She gestured to me.

  I went over to the workstation and eyed the fizzling black concoction. How could something that smelled like pumpkin pie look so terrifying?

  Gwenivere placed a small washcloth in the dish. The washcloth took on the same black hue and steam started rising from it. Gwenivere wrung out the excess liquid and presented me with the washcloth.

  “Wipe this across your injuries,” she instructed.

  I took the washcloth with the intention of starting with those weird burn marks I’d received after my trek through the Poppy field, but I discovered they were gone. My eyes widened in surprise. I was already confused about how the marks had appeared. Now I was more curious about why they’d vanished.

  I began to wipe the washcloth over my skin wherever I saw scrapes and cuts. I cringed as the wounds began to sting then watched in amazement as every injury sewed itself closed until I was completely healed.

  “Wow,” I commented. “You’re good.”

  I handed the washcloth back to Gwenivere. She raised her eyebrows. “You missed a spot.” She signaled for me to turn and I felt her press the washcloth against my right shoulder blade. I must’ve had a large cut there, because the stinging was intense.

  “All right, you’re all finished,” Gwenivere said as she put down the washcloth and wiped her hands on a clean towel. She offered another towel to me, but I’d already wiped my hands on my dress. I felt a tad embarrassed. I probably should’ve taken a more ladylike approach in the presence of a queen.

  “Shall we return downstairs?” Gwenivere asked.

  I nodded and followed her out of the workshop. We descended the spiral staircase of the tower in silence. The queen didn’t speak again until we reached the main floor.

  “After you and your friends reclaim Excalibur and use it to acquire those memories you are after, will you return the blade to Arthur?” she asked solemnly.

  “That’s our intention. You can bet the rightful king mentioned in the Great Lights Prophecy isn’t Rampart. We would never let him have Excalibur.”

  “But right now, Rampart has Arthur,” Gwenivere said bitterly.

  “The antagonists who’ve been chasing us have him,” I corrected. “Rampart wants to keep him alive in Neverland so Arthur can witness the moment that Rampart claims Excalibur. But I promise you that the only thing he’ll witness is our victory. We will get Excalibur first, see our mission through, and then free Arthur. And once that’s done—”

  “My husband will still be trapped in Neverland,” Gwenivere finished.

  “We can take you to see him,” I replied earnestly. “You can even have my Hole Tracker if you want, so you can visit him regularly.”

  She shook her head sorrowfully. “Make no mistake, I am eternally grateful that you and your friends have informed me that he still lives. The idea of seeing him again has made me happier than you can imagine. But the thought that he can never return here …”

  The queen gazed at me with her mesmerizing eyes. They were both glassy from sadness and steely from determination. “I want to take back the throne because Rampart has done a great disservice to this land. Camelot needs a leader who can restore Arthur’s vision for an honorable and prosperous realm. But passionate as I am about the endeavor, I am not the rightful ruler of this world. Arthur is. The idea of ruling in his place while he is sentenced to live out his days on an island of immortal pirates and children … it is very difficult to accept.”

  We turned and entered an enormous corridor lined with twenty-foot-tall suits of armor.

  “Maybe there is a way he can return,” I said slowly.

  Gwenivere paused. “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I’m not promising anything. But the Boar’s Mouth said my quest wouldn’t be complete until I brought back the lost king and he sat on the throne. Which means I have to trust there is a way that Arthur can return here without his mortal wound killing him.”

  This was the first time I had actually spoken this idea out loud, but I believed it was the truth. I didn’t think the Boar’s Mouth would give me a task that was impossible to achieve. The mystical statue thought I could bring Arthur back, so I had to have faith in the same thing.

  “You’re giving me hope, Crisanta,” Gwenivere said steadily, eyeing me more like a threat than a friend. “That is a dangerous thing.”

  “So are explosives,” I replied. “Both just need to be planted in the right place.”

  The queen sighed wistfully. “I wish we could consult with Merlin.”

  We passed under a stone arch and entered a hall decorated with intricate, handwoven tapestries. They were so fine they would’ve made my sewing teacher at Lady Agnue’s reevaluate her life.

  “Rampart said Merlin went missing a long time ago,” I responded. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “I’m afraid not. A few months before Mordred killed—or tried to kill—Arthur, Merlin vanished. He was in love with a girl named Nyneve. She was his potions apprentice and many people think he ran off with her and left the realm. But I believe she did something to him. Arthur was like a son to Merlin; Merlin would never have left without saying something. And I never trusted Nyneve. She was half magic hunter on her mother’s side. And with Merlin being a carrier of Pure Magic, goodness knows what she could have done to him when he let his guard down.�
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  “So Rampart was telling the truth,” I thought aloud as we arrived at a grand oak door. “Merlin’s magic was Pure Magic.”

  “Indeed,” Gwenivere replied. “An incredibly powerful gift and curse, as I’m sure you’re well aware. A Fairy Godmother blessed him with a spark of power when he was young to thank him for saving her life from the Questor Beast. It fused to him and the rest is history. To this day, I still don’t know how he managed to avoid being corrupted by the disease. But whatever the miracle that saved him, we were all grateful for it. Having him on our side was the key to Arthur achieving everything that he did.”

  I felt a flare of warmth in my heart like someone had just added kindling to the hope that earnestly burned there.

  Merlin had evaded the curse of his Pure Magic Disease. It didn’t turn him dark. With him and Liza that makes two. Which means maybe I really can do this.

  I wasn’t comparing myself to Merlin—the most famous wizard of all time—or Liza—our realm’s all-knowing Author who’d had 150 years to learn to control her magic—but this improved my odds a little. And therefore it strengthened my resolve.

  “Merlin’s Pure Magic gave him psychic dreams that were often helpful in tumultuous times,” Gwenivere continued. “With him gone, perhaps you can fill that void. Your Pure Magic must be very powerful for you to be immune to the Poppy fields. I have never seen anything like it. We will make good use of you.”

  A slight shiver of wariness went through my body. If there was one thing I didn’t like, it was being controlled. With all the prophecies about me and my growing power, it was hard not to feel like people were always trying to use me. Arian, Rampart, Gwenivere—whether a friend or an enemy, they all had their own agendas. As our story progressed, I wondered if the players we met would continue to see me as a tool first and a person second.