I drowned along with him, my soul sinking to depths of despair no anchor could reach. And every day, I stand on the shore, waiting for the tide of sorrow to wash over me.
Little Donnie had been like a son to Billy, and so much more. A cherished friend, a confidant, the right hand that he would be crippled without.
Billy’s four captains stood in solemn silence on the other side of their boss’s desk, waiting to be addressed, respectful of his loss. A day after the terrible news had reached the Cauldron, they had been summoned. Each man shared Billy’s North Verinese heritage, having the same strong roots in the Old Country. It was a bond that deepened the vow they had made to their leader, earning them territory and trust. Billy turned in his chair and set the book on the desk, his eyes meeting each of his captains, in turn.
“Ridley York o’ the lake shore. Docker Mike Burnaby. Tully Smith o’ the Lookout. And Foley Irwin, down from the canal. My thanks to all o’ you for comin’.
“You know why I’ve called you here,” continued Billy. “Little Donnie’s dead, along with seven other boys, includin’ one o’ Ridley’s.” He looked again at the man standing to his left. “My condolences to you and the lad’s family.” The East End captain nodded soberly, in reply.
“It ain’t exactly clear what happened,” said Big Billy. “I’ve heard say that it was a squad o’ Flames that done it; a black Destrier was seen rollin’ about.” He rubbed his chin. “It ain’t the first such report of Incendi on this side o’ the bridge o’ late.”
Billy stood, his tiny frame looming over the men. “But let me make it clear, my boys: if Morgan Fay wants a war, it’s a war she’ll be gettin’.
“I don’t speak lightly,” said Billy, “and I know it sounds dauntin’, to say the least. But if we don’t take the Witch on the Hill down now, we stand to lose the island. It ain’t gonna happen under my watch.”
Foley Irwin, Billy’s tall, wiry captain from the north of the island closest to Main asked the question the others were thinking: “What about the Incendi?”
“They got lighters,” added Tulley Smith. “Not to mention that captain o’ their’s.” Dark bags hung under The Lookout leader’s bright blue eyes. “Mordred’s his name. I’ve heard some say he did yesterday’s killin’ alone.”
“That’s dock slop and you know it,” barked Mike Burnaby. “Ain’t no man could take down Donnie and a boat load of Cauldron boys.”
“Butch wasn’t killed by no lighter, he was beaten,” said Ridley York. “I’ve heard things ‘bout that Mordred, too, and I’m startin’ to believe ‘em.”
“And so you should,” said Billy. The statement stunned the group into silence. “I’ve reliable reports that he’s unnatural strong and fast. Strength like that be the stuff o’ tall tales, but such tales often carry a grain o’ truth.” He tilted his head back in thought. “We’ll have to deal with Mordred; ain’t no way around it.”
“No disrespect, Boss,” said Foley Irwin, “but you ain’t said how. We ain’t got no weapons, the Deal don’t allow it.”
Big Billy’s lip curled into a sly smile. “I’ve got a little tip for you, boys. When you make a deal with someone you can’t trust, don’t trust ‘em.” He spun around and took a few small steps to the window. He gestured for his captains to join him and tapped on the glass. A moment later, light filled the warehouse below.
There, next to the ring platform in the middle of the cavernous arena, were two pallets stacked high with electroshock batons. Lighters.
“Well I’ll be beached!” blurted Tulley Smith. “How’d you get those?” Big Billy nodded at Burnaby to explain.
“I know the driver that takes ship cargo to the Corporation factory that makes ‘em.” He combed a hand through his bushy beard and winked under his wool watch cap. “Made a deal with him to slip one in every now and then for the return trip. Took a while to get ‘em all.”
“There’s enough to arm two hundred men,” said Big Billy. “You’ll split ‘em even amongst you. Put ‘em in the hands o’ your best, and make sure they know how to use ‘em.”
“Sounds like you got a plan,” said Ridley York, eager for revenge. “When are we crossin’?”
Big Billy continued to stare down at the ring. “The Witch is plannin’ a Lightin’ for Souls Eve—what the Mainsiders call ‘Corporation Night.’ She likes burnin’ books.” The little man turned and looked across the room at his library, his face red with rage. “But we’re gonna burn her.”
CHAPTER 19
Merl couldn’t hide his frustration. “Two days,” he grumbled to himself. “We only have two days.”
Arti sat across from the old librarian, leaning over the round table, exhausted by her efforts to get the pen to write again. The page Merl had given her to prepare her draft remained blank, and no matter how hard Arti tried, she couldn’t force a drop of ink from Excalibri.
“I can’t do it,” she said, defeated. “It just won’t work. I’ll never write a whole page; I can’t even make a mark.”
Her lament made Merl feel guilty. “I’m sorry for getting upset, Arti. I…I wish I knew how to help you.” He nodded at the words Siegea Perilisi written on the table’s edge. “Just remember that you have written with it; the pen has answered you. Take a break, and clear your head.” Squeezing out from behind the table, he added, “I’ll go see how Gwen’s model is coming along.”
Gwen. Arti still wasn’t sure she could ever trust someone who had worked for the Corporation. And even if she could, the way Gwen looked at Lance made Arti wonder if she’d be able to stay focused on the mission. She was going to be their guide, after all.
Still holding Excalibri in her hand, Arti pulled her hood up and lay her head down on the table, wishing the world away. She hadn’t realized just how tired she was, having barely slept for two days. She’d been riding an emotional roller coaster—the terrible pain and guilt at losing Gal, followed by the euphoria that accompanied her young friend’s miraculous return. It had taken a toll on her, and combined with the incredible weight of responsibility she now bore, Arti could feel her body shutting down. She was asleep just seconds after closing her eyes, and a dream began streaming like a vid in her mind…
She was sitting at the round table, Excalibri in hand. The dome light above the booth was off, the motorhome was dark, and she could barely see the page in front of her.
“I can’t do it,” she said, the words echoing through the cabin, driving away what little light remained. The black shroud of fear grew thicker and heavier.
Arti knew the others were depending on her, and she was sure she was going to let them down. Even if they managed to take the Grail Tome from Morgan Fay, it was up to her to write the final page of The History. The thought that Excalibri would refuse to work for her again was terrifying. If that happened, she would fail her quest mates, just as she had failed her parents. Morgan Fay would win, and the fear that cast its shadow over the Corporation would smother the whole world.
Arti never felt so alone, so helpless. “It’s over,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t do it.”
But the pen disagreed.
Excalibri’s nib started to glow. At first, its tip was a tiny ember, barely noticeable, a warm point of light piercing the inky gloom. But it got brighter and brighter until a halo of gold spread out from it, illuminating the round table and U-shaped bench like an arena.
Arti held the pen at arm’s length, alarmed by its transformation, watching as the light from it continued to expand, devouring more of the darkness around her, filling the cabin with a warm glow, pushing back the shadows, driving away the fear.
It was then that Arti noticed Merl sitting across from her, the fingers of his gloved hands forming a pyramid under his chin. Gone were the doubt and worry he had worn like a mask, his icy blue eyes revealing a depth of knowledge and confidence that was comforting.
Lance appeared next to the old librarian. The handsome young man smiled and nodded, his expression exuding dedic
ation and discipline. He was her fearless champion and would protect her with his life, a life that would not be given easily.
Sensing someone else at her side, Arti turned, and Gwen was there. The young woman’s beauty was matched by a righteous ferocity, driving away all doubt. She possessed a singular will, powerful and inspiring, something Arti knew she could draw upon to hold the darkness back.
There was one person missing from the dream. Arti held the pen high, searching for Gal, looking to the place Excalibri told her she should be. Gal wasn’t there, but Arti could hear her friend’s voice. It sounded distant and hollow.
“Arti,” she called. “Arti.” Her voice grew louder. “Arti!”
Arti awoke with a start. She lifted her head, suddenly aware that she was alone at the table. The weak dome light on the ceiling above her was on, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Gal squinting curiously at her.
“Who were you talkin’ to? And whadya write on the table?”
Arti didn’t remember saying or writing anything. She could only recall looking at the others sitting with her in the glow of Excalibri’s light.
But Gal was right; where Merl and Gwen and Lance had been, there were swirling black words inscribed on the edge of the round table. Puzzled, Arti looked at the sword-shaped pen in her hand, wondering how it had acted, again, without her knowledge.
The door to the motorhome flipped open, and Merl ascended the stairs. He could tell by the look on Arti’s face that something had happened.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, fearing the worst. Surprised to see Gal standing, he added, “Why are you up?”
“She wrote somethin’ on the table,” said Gal, propping herself against the narrow counter, opposite the booth.
In what was more a leap than a step, Merl crossed from the top of the stairs to the round table and bent low, his lips moving silently as he read what was inscribed there. Gwen and Lance had entered the motorhome and were now standing in back of him, trying to see what had the old librarian so entranced.
Merl was beaming. “Incredible!” he said. “Just incredible!”
“What is it?” demanded Arti, looking down at the inscriptions on the round table. “What do they say?”
Merl read each pair of words slowly, working his way around the circle: “Merlini Sagia. Lancea Coraggia. Gweneath Justea.” And just inches from Arti’s heart, “Artia Bendi.”
“Our names,” said Gwen, looking past Merl at the elegant characters. “I see Merl, Lance, Gwen, and Arti.”
“Yes. It is Old Ferencian, the language of my ancestors,” added Lance, “the language of the Grail Tomes. I think I can read it.”
“You are correct, young knight,” said Merl. He stepped back from the table, and with a sweep of his hand, invited Lance to translate.
Lance pointed to each title in turn, his hand tracing the curving edge of the table. “Merl the Wise. Gwen the Just. And Arti…hmmm…how do you say…the Blessed.”
“You forgot your name,” said Gwen. “What does it call you?”
Lance lowered his eyes, too modest to answer, so Merl read it for him.
“It says: Lance the Brave.” The old librarian chuckled. “It appears the pen has named us.”
A long discussion ensued about the titles, but no one was sure why the pen had produced the words.
“It confirms our allegiance in this quest,” said Merl, finally. “That is enough.” His brow wrinkled. “More importantly, your bond with Excalibri has strengthened, Arti. It should give you confidence that the words will come.”
Arti sat next to Gal on the rear bench, considering Merl’s conclusion, hoping he was right. What bothered her was the lack of control she felt in wielding the pen. It was as if Excalibri was the scribe and she the tool. If she was to write the final page of The History that would determine everyone’s future, including her own, Arti wanted to make sure it was her voice, her will that flowed from the pen. But what was her will? Not knowing that bothered her even more.
“It’s been a long day,” said Merl. “Gwen, Lance, get the garage cleaned up. I’m going for some air, then I’ll get supper started. A good meal will do us wonders. After we eat, we’ll study the model. We have a lot of planning to do.”
Merl followed Gwen and Lance out of the motorhome, and Arti remained with Gal, sitting on the edge of her bed. The injured girl had suffered more dizzy spells and a severe headache after witnessing Arti’s strange dream-writing episode. Her face was pale, and she looked exhausted.
“How are you feeling?” asked Arti.
Gal just shook her head, regretting the motion when a wave of pain followed it.
Arti could tell that more than a headache was bothering her friend. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Gal frowned and pressed her cheek against the pillow. “Nothin’.”
“I know you too well,” said Arti. “Something’s bothering you. Tell me.”
Gal puffed out a breath and looked up at Arti. “Why didn’t you write my name on the table?” she sulked. “Why can’t I be a knight like you guys?”
Arti smiled. “So that’s it; you feel left out?”
Gal was in a full pout now. “It’s just that…I thought I was your best friend. Why wouldn’t you ‘clude me?”
Arti leaned close to Gal. “You are my best friend. Never doubt that. And you’re as wise, brave, just, and blessed as all of us put together. In fact,” she smiled, teasingly, “you are such a handful, I doubt Excalibri could come up with a word for you.”
Gal stubbornly turned away. “But I ain’t no knight. Merl even said so.”
“Merl says a lot of things,” barked Arti, “but he doesn’t decide who my knights are.” She glanced at the narrow wooden box on the round table, hoping what she was about to say was true. “That’s up to me and Excalibri.”
Wishing to put Gal at ease, Arti added, “I’ll make you a promise. When you get better, I’ll write your name on the round table. And you’ll have the best of all titles.”
“Really?” said Gal. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course I would,” said Arti. “You saved my life—more than once. I owe you ‘big time,’ remember?”
“’Kay,” said Gal, appeased. She rested her head on the pillow, finding comfort in Arti’s vow. “Thanks.”
“But you have to get better, first,” insisted Arti. “That’s the deal.” She winked. “Take it or leave it.”
Gal smiled against the pain and closed her eyes. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 20
Arti couldn’t remember a meal tasting so good. After months of canned soup and stale bread, the stew and biscuits were exotic delicacies that sent her taste buds dancing. The stew was Merl’s concoction, beef and vegetables and who knows what else mingling together in a rich broth. Lance had provided the biscuits, fresh from his Aunt Vivian’s oven. She’d even included butter wrapped in foil that Arti applied in generous amounts to the tops of the warm, flaky pastries. The scents filling the motorhome elicited memories of her family’s kitchen on cold winter evenings, of laughter and warmth and love. Morgan Fay and her Incendi had taken that away from Arti, but in less than twenty-four hours, she would get her chance to strike back.
While the others washed their dishes using the hose in back of the garage—a convenient source of water Merl discovered when he first arrived at the Camel Lot—Arti made sure Gal was looked after, spoon-feeding her a bowl of the stew’s warm broth.
Arti pretended to be upbeat, trying to convince her friend that she’d be better in no time, her old self again. But the recurring chills and severe headaches were proof Gal still had a long road to recovery. Managing to keep down a few mouthfuls of the broth and a nibble of biscuit, she frowned and waved away any more.
Setting the bowl and spoon aside, Arti reached into the pocket of her hoodie and pulled out Gal’s tattered old wedge-shaped cap.
“Lance forgot to give you this,” said Arti. “I’ll put it here. You can wear it again
when the bandage comes off.” She placed the cap on the shelf behind Gal’s bed, next to her other precious belongings: the glossy ad of the happy family, and The King’s Errand.
“My lucky cap. Thanks,” said Gal, wincing as she lied back. “Musta fallen off when the Flame hit me. The last thing I remember was my fingers gettin’ smacked. Then everthin’ went black.”
“I don’t even want to think about it,” said Arti, shivering at the memory of Gal facing down Mordred in the street. “I’m just glad Lance got there when he did.”
Before the planning session began, Merl honored his promise to Lance, setting the Grail Tome down on the round table, carefully opening it to the chapter containing The Verses, reminding everyone that this was a very special privilege, and that the book should never be opened by anyone but him.
The young Ferencian couldn’t contain his excitement. His whole life, he had recited the words on the pages, training in the strike of words, perfecting his technique. But the artistry of the poems left him speechless, each verse beautifully decorated, elegant and rich with color. Arti and Gwen looked on, sharing in Lance’s appreciation of the ancient text.
“It is wonderful to see them with my own eyes,” said Lance, finding his voice. “Thank you.”
“The honor is mine,” said Merl. “The de Lacs and The Verses have been apart for a very long time. I’m glad to witness the reunion.”
After allowing Lance to leaf gently through the collection of poems, under his watchful eye, Merl closed the tome and lifted it to the counter. He knew the young knight could have lost himself in its pages for days, but time was a luxury they didn’t have.
“Let’s get that model together, Gwen. We need to start planning.”
With the others sitting at their places, Gwen erected the miniature castle, carefully connecting one section to another. At just over a foot high at its tower end and more than three times that long, it barely fit on the round table. As an added touch, Gwen included a border depicting the ancient building’s grounds. The flat pieces, drawn with contour lines to indicate the slope of the earth, were wedged into place under the miniature castle’s outer walls. Once the model was assembled, Gwen squeezed in next to Arti, sitting at the place where her name was inscribed.
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