“Believe you me, if they did, everyone would know about it, and it wouldn’t be locked away. Not when it can bring us victory against the Fey.” Keva pauses. “Well, as long as they have someone who can wield it,” she adds thoughtfully. “Some weapons are so powerful, that they become too dangerous for us to use, and the last person we know of who could use Excalibur was your father.”
“You mean not just anyone can use the sword?” I ask. That’s the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.
Keva shakes her head. “Obviously we won’t know until we get it back, but chances are it’ll end up in the vaults like the other ones.”
“The other ones?” I ask as the choir hits the first notes of the Gloria. “There are other Excaliburs?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Keva says. “There’s only one Excalibur, the one your father took away. But it’s not the only highly powerful weapon out there. From what I’ve heard, we’ve got quite a collection of them down in our vaults, like the Sword of Air, and Ascalon—”
“They’ve got Saint George’s spear?” I exclaim, and I see Lady Parcenet’s head swivel around on her spindly neck toward me.
Keva elbows me in the ribs and we both drop our heads, pretending to be avidly listening to Father Tristan’s sermon.
“Let us remember the fate the Lord reserved for the King of Tyre, the devil himself,” Sir Tristan says, and I clench my teeth together in apprehension—it’s never a good sign when the name of Satan’s mentioned in my presence.
“Lucifer, as everyone may recall, was made full of wisdom and beauty, and was treasured above all other angels as a guardian cherub in Eden,” Sir Tristan says, and I’m surprised to find that his fervent stare’s for once alighted upon the teachers’ section, where the Board delegation is seated. “Yet he allowed himself to sin, for his ‘heart became proud on account of his beauty and he corrupted his wisdom because of his splendor.’ And so the Lord cast him out of Paradise and into Hell, where he is to meet with a horrible end.
“I only bring this up to you today,” Father Tristan continues, “to remind you that no one is sheltered from corruption, no matter how much you may claim to be doing God’s work. Even those at the height of their power can be brought down”—he leans dangerously over his pulpit—“for no one is above God’s just retribution when it comes to striking down those who let their pride guide them.”
A long pause follows and I silently thank Father Tristan for giving me a break. But if he hoped this would endear the Board to his cause, then he’s certainly lost his marbles: Lady Parcenet’s face has turned a couple of shades pinker, the chinless woman’s drawn her lips over her protruding teeth, and even Sir Eric’s stopped his neurotic dipping-birdie movements. Only Sir Pelles, the High Judge, seems perfectly untroubled by the priest’s words.
When mass finally ends, everyone rushes to exit first in order to avoid the oppressing sense of hostility oozing inside the church’s walls.
Keva and I, unfortunately, have to wait for the Board and KORT members to clear before we can leave ourselves. As we finally fall into step behind them, I see Jennifer hasten to join Arthur and the Board delegation. At her sight, Lady Parcenet’s face clears and she shakes Jennifer’s hand heartily.
“They seem awfully chummy,” I tell Keva, making sure to stay well out of earshot of the group.
“She’s the Board President’s only daughter,” Keva says, “of course they’re going to want to be friendly with her.”
“I didn’t know the post was hereditary,” I say.
“Technically it’s not,” Bri says somberly, she and Jack joining us on our slow way out. “Makes people dream of achieving greater heights. Unfortunately, that’s not how things work in politics.”
“There are always exceptions,” Jack says, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
Bri rounds on him. “It takes money to make money, so unless you’re an exceptional knight, you’re fooling yourself if you think you’re going to get a seat on the Board, let alone become its President. We all know the last person to succeed despite his poor background was Sir Egbert, and that’s because he put an end to the little Ice Age caused by the Fey in their last Great Rebellion.”
She says this with so much bitterness that it takes us all three by surprise.
“Hey, cool it,” Keva says at last. “None of this is Jack’s fault.”
“Stuff it, Keva,” Bri retorts. “Considering you’re part of the problem, I don’t see how your point of view is relevant here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this commoner has to get ready for her grunt work.”
She storms off and, after giving us an apologetic smile, Jack runs after her. Keva shakes her head, tossing her braid back over her shoulder.
“It’s because of her dad,” I say in Bri’s defense, remembering a piece of conversation I caught between Sir Neil and his wife once. “He’s so focused on his goal of becoming a Board member he’s lost track of a number of other things, like—”
“You think they’re officially together?” Keva asks me, and I frown at the sudden change of topic. “She’s been cutting class a lot lately, and while his schedule’s all over the place, I somehow always find them together….”
I roll my eyes, finally catching on. “I doubt the thought’s even crossed their minds,” I say.
“Don’t underestimate the tremendous power of teenage hormones,” Keva says. “There’s definitely something going on between them.”
“If it were up to you, there’d be couples everywhere,” I retort.
“Who’s going out with whom?” Gauvain asks, pouncing on us the moment we step outside.
With a sigh, I point at Keva for her to give an explanation. When the cousins bite down on something, they certainly don’t let go. They’re almost as bad as—
“You?” Percy asks Keva, appearing from behind the cousins’ bulk with a mischievous smile. “Thought Hadrian was workin’ ya too hard for any spoonin’[65].”
“Not me,” Keva says, batting her eyelashes at Percy as if waiting for him to offer his services.
“Morgan?” Percy asks, oblivious to Keva’s eye-twitching. “Who’d ya happen to be sweet on?”
“Shh,” Gareth says, nudging us. “Arthur’s coming over.”
“And with a sour look that would pucker a hog’s butt,” Percy says, clapping my back before winking at me. “So better keep your love life under wraps, eh? Just till things smooth down some.”
And indeed, Arthur’s features appear frozen in an air of severe disapproval as he marches towards us, Lance and Hadrian at his heels. Before they even reach us, Arthur points at me.
“You’re to get yourself to Etiquette Class starting today,” he says.
“What did I do now?” I ask.
“Let’s just say the Board wasn’t too impressed with your attitude,” Arthur says.
“Call me surprised,” Keva says in an undertone with her usual sarcastic charm.
“Same with you, Kulkarni,” Hadrian says, matching Arthur’s reproving tone. “I can’t be seen at Camaaloth with a squire who doesn’t know how to hold herself properly.”
He gives Keva a very pointed lookover and I can practically hear her internal cry of outrage. I smirk. At least I won’t have to suffer alone.
“We need to be without reproach if we are to accomplish what we’ve set out to do,” Arthur says. “And that includes proper manners.”
“You can’t blame me for being impolite if people insult me first,” I say. “Besides, I don’t care about anything except my father’s file.”
“There are more pressing things than your father’s records,” Arthur points out, annoyed.
“Like getting the Board’s carte blanche regarding a little voyage of ours,” Gauvain says.
“No matter what proof we show them of this necessity, they’re more than likely going to balk at the idea,” Hadrian says.
Keva sucks in her breath. “You guys are planning on going to Avalon, aren’t you?” she says
, her eyes gleaming.
“Only if those old farts give us the green light,” Percy says. “But that’s why we’ve got Artie here”—he catches Arthur in a chokehold and knuckle-rubs his head—“ain’t that right, Mr. I’m-getting-hitched-to-the-Board-President’s-daughter?”
Arthur punches Percy in the ribs to get free, completely oblivious to Lance’s stiffer countenance at the mention of his sweetheart.
Despite Jennifer’s more than questionable personality traits, it’s clear that Lance really loves her. So why can’t they be together openly, instead of being torn apart by this stupid engagement of hers? Unless, I realize, she didn’t get a say in the matter, which would explain her constant pissed-off attitude.
And for the first time since knowing Jennifer, I catch myself feeling sorry for her.
“Get to class,” Arthur barks, startling me out of my reverie. “You know what will happen if your manners fall short when we’re at Camaaloth.”
◆◆◆
“Stop moping,” Keva says as we make our way to etiquette class after a dreadfully long lesson on Elemental Manipulation with Sir Boris. “It’s really not that bad, and I’ve heard Sir Nigel’s quite fun.”
“I just don’t see why we need to learn which fork to use with what when there are more important things at stake,” I say, dragging my feet.
“Etiquette class is much more than that,” Keva says. “It’s about learning the basics that will allow you to enter that thrilling and oh-so-dangerous game that is politics. It’ll teach you to analyze people and their interactions, what ticks them off and what’s likely to please them, without making a faux pas yourself. From there, you’ll be able to figure out what their strategies are, bargain with them, and manipulate their emotions without their knowing…all with the aim of getting what you want.”
“It sounds tiring,” I say, finding myself wishing for Sir Lincoln’s lore class instead.
“If you don’t fit in, you’ll be ostracized,” Keva says. “And if you’re ostracized, you’ll never get to have a say in anything of importance. See? It’s all very simple.”
We enter a spacious, well-lit room with a long line of tables set in its center, white tablecloths brushing the gleaming parquet floor. Students are already there, huddled by the French doors that look out onto the inner courtyard like a flock of honking geese.
I take one look at their apprehensive faces then head straight for the opposite end of the ballroom. A decision I immediately regret for the back walls are lined with tall, silver-framed mirrors, and everywhere I turn I can see the eerie glow of my golden eyes reflected back at me.
“I don’t want to play games,” I tell Keva, turning my back on the mirrors only to find my new classmates pointing at me while speaking behind their hands.
“If I were in your position,” Keva says, “I’d try not to offend anyone anymore, your life is complicated enough as it is. Besides, I need a break.”
The incessant giggling from across the room suddenly stops as a tall, spindly man struts in, an elaborate cane marking the beat of his footsteps. He halts beside the line of tables and snaps his fingers.
“Gather around, children,” Sir Nigel says as a long queue of servants trails in, carrying steaming dishes, and jugs of water and apple cider. “Our lesson today—”
“What is she doing here?” a nasally voice says from the entrance door.
Sir Nigel’s eyes bulge out at the rude interruption and he’s about to express his displeasure, when the sight of Jennifer and her squire Sophie deflates him entirely.
“I apologize for our tardiness,” Jennifer says, pushing past her squire. “We were detained longer than expected by our guests.”
“Of course,” Sir Nigel says, with much genuflection. “Please, we were just starting.”
The spindly man clears his throat before continuing, “As I was saying, our lesson today will be entirely dedicated to the art of eating in public.”
I give Keva a significant look—didn’t I say this was going to be a dumb lesson in table manners? And there she was, getting all fiery about games and politics and other such nonsense.
Sir Nigel raps his cane against the floor and the servants withdraw, leaving behind large dishes of smoking salmon, braised chicken, wild rice, roasted sweet potatoes, and vegetables of all kinds.
The rich, savory scents make my stomach grumble, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, and I grab the first chair I see. But before I can pounce on the food, Sir Nigel whacks my head with the butt of his cane.
“A squire will not sit until told to do so,” he says. “I suppose you’re that Morgan everyone keeps talking about. I have been forewarned of your attendance, but I was also under the impression you’d be accompanied by a guardian.”
I bridle at his words, but Keva steps forward before I can speak my mind and earn myself a big fat zero in my first etiquette class.
“I take it that would be me,” she says with a small curtsy.
Sir Nigel examines her closely but doesn’t seem to be all that impressed, and I distinctly hear Keva curse in Hindustani, Hadrian’s name added to the mix.
“Everyone pair up,” Sir Nigel finally calls out, striding around the tables to open one of the French doors. “One squire per knight.”
I stand off to the side with Keva, wishing I could just skip this stupid session, when I catch Jennifer smiling at me.
“Why don’t you practice with me?” she asks, and I feel my shackles raise. “Sophie, dear,” she adds to the offended girl, “you can team up with her friend. It’ll be good practice for when you’re a knight.”
Sophie seems to thaw a little at this suggestion but she doesn’t spare a moment to glare at me.
“Squires, pull out a chair for your knight,” Sir Nigel says. He eyes me disapprovingly as I help Jennifer sit. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, Squire Morgan. What did you do to your hands? Kill an octopus?”
I hide my hands behind my back self-consciously. “An accident, sir, and the stains won’t come off.”
The professor tuts. “You’ll have to wear gloves then, and make sure they reach your elbows.” He harrumphs before resuming his pacing. “Squires, you may serve the beverages. Gently now. That’s right…”—I lift a jugful of cider, my arm shaking with the effort to hold it one-handed—“And not to the top of the glass either”—Jennifer’s elbow smacks into mine and I miss her cup—“without slopping it all over the table, Squire Morgan!”
I jump at the sharpness of Sir Nigel’s voice and accidentally slam the heavy jug back onto the table, sloshing cider all over the white tablecloth.
“Service should be performed in utter silence,” Sir Nigel growls. “Squires shouldn’t have their presence felt and need to anticipate their knight’s needs at every moment so as not to distract the latter from his, or her”—he curtsies before Jennifer—“important conversations. As I’m sure you all know by now, many a critical decision has been struck over dinner in this manner.”
“This is so antiquated,” I mutter to myself, as I select a very bony, fatty chicken leg to serve Jennifer.
She frowns as I drop the meat onto her plate, and I smile innocently back at her, knowing it’s going to take her ages to finish her meal if she wants to remain the epitome of elegance.
Savoring my momentary reprieve, I withdraw by the open French doors, eyeing the courtyard with longing. A soft breeze ripples the heavy brocade drapes that frame the doors, bringing with it the heady scent of night jasmine.
I edge closer to the glass door, my eyes drawn towards a group of people standing restlessly by the giant apple tree. Don’t those people know the makeout hedge is off limits? But I quickly realize that the group consists of the four visiting Board members and Irene, and all of them seem to be waiting for something.
That something, I find out a minute later, is Lady Vivian.
“Well met,” the principal says, her soft voice carrying easily over to my ears.
“Well met
, indeed,” Lady Parcenet sniffs disdainfully. “You know very well why we’re here and you’re deliberately stalling us.”
“I simply wish to caution against the removal of the Sangraal,” Lady Vivian says, echoing my earlier talk with Keva.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Sir Eric says. “Tempting, isn’t it, to have that much power at your fingertips?”
“You know that is not the reason for my reservations,” Lady Vivian says.
“We wouldn’t have come if we didn’t feel the Sangraal’s security had been compromised,” Sir Pelles says in a conciliatory tone, and the chinless woman next to him nods in agreement.
“By taking the Sangraal to your headquarters you’re bound to draw the Dark Sidhe to you,” Lady Vivian says.
“We can handle the rabble,” Lady Parcenet says haughtily, “unlike your lot.”
“But we believe we’ve found a solution,” someone else says.
I hide further behind the drapes as Arthur appears from around the makeout hedge, Lance and Hadrian still at his sides.
Lady Parcenet looks annoyed at the unwelcome interruption. Her grimace turns into a scowl when Arthur hands Sir Pelles an opened book, and I recognize it as the thin volume Bri found in the library.
“If we rework the wards according to this diagram,” he says, “we believe we could put Carman back where she belongs.”
He hangs back in anticipation as the High Judge scrutinizes the page. Finally, Sir Pelles hands him back the volume.
“It appears to be a containment ward,” the man says carefully. “But it seems to me you’re missing two crucial things: Carman’s true name, and a power source strong enough to contain her.” The judge strokes his beard thoughtfully. “Perhaps if the best of our Order were to use their strongest oghams together…”
Lady Vivian shakes her head. “I’m afraid that even if you were to put all of your oghams together it wouldn’t be enough,” she says. “Carman will be able to sense your spell as soon as you start it, and she will lash out before you have a chance to finish, killing everyone involved.”
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