Mice of the Round Table #3

by Julie Leung

  The hare surged to his hind legs and put his paws up in a boxer’s stance. “Come a little closer and say that to me again!”

  “Enough of your bickering!” Madame von Mandrake yelled at the top of her lungs. The entire hall hushed as Camelot’s head cook surged to her feet. “Need I remind you that my daughter is kidnapped? None of your grudges matter now. We need to bring her back!”

  Thropper lowered his front paws to the floor. “I apologize, General,” he said stiffly.

  The lark tucked his beak into his chest, preening angrily a moment before snapping out, “I beg your pardon, Ambassador.”

  The Darklings had fought Camelot for generations. They only recently became allies against the Saxons thanks to Calib and his friends’ efforts. Still, peace among the two factions was often a fragile thing.

  “Leftie has not been answering my letters, either,” Thropper said, sounding worried. He looked toward Commander Kensington. “I’m sure there’s a good reason.”

  Kensington nodded, her scarred snout wrinkling in worry. “That may be so, but I admit his absence in court is trouble— What in seven whiskers are you three doing here?!” she suddenly roared, striding through the scattering creatures to stop in front of the squires.

  “You’re supposed to be in the infirmary!” she thundered.

  Calib cringed.

  “It’s my fault, Commander,” Devrin said, quickly saluting.

  “I wanted to know how we could help,” Warren added.

  “You’ve already given testimony, Warren,” Commander Kensington said. “We know Percy took you by surprise, and you couldn’t do anything to help. Now please go back to bed!”

  “Hang on a moment,” General Fletcher chirped. He narrowed his eyes at Warren. “Didn’t this gray mousling once lie to everyone to cover up Percival’s deeds?”

  It was true. Warren had once lied for Sir Percival about what he saw the night of Commander Yvers’s murder. Suspicion spread through the crowd like a contagious yawn.

  Warren’s eyes widened, and his lower lip trembled. “No, I didn’t! I mean, I did. But that was different. I’m different now,” he babbled. His whiskers twitched nervously.

  “Warren wasn’t involved,” Calib said loudly. Even though the gray mouse could be a total snot sometimes, Warren had saved his life at the Battle of the Bear. And he had more than redeemed himself in the months that followed by helping rid the castle of white fever.

  Calib’s paws shook as he hoisted himself out of the wheelchair. “It was my fault.” The truth caught in his throat. Everyone would now know he was responsible for Cecily’s kidnapping, including Madame von Mandrake.

  “I know why Percival took the throne,” Calib continued, willing his voice steady. “It’s because the throne is Merlin’s Promise, the last great Two-Legger treasure.”

  A confused silence greeted this revelation. Years ago, the great wizard Merlin had entrusted three magical treasures to the woodland realms before disappearing shortly after. The first was Merlin’s Mirror, which had the power to see into the future. The wizard had given it to the Darklings, but it was broken many years ago during a raid by the Saxons.

  The second was Merlin’s Crystal, given to the owls for safekeeping. Calib and his friends had discovered last autumn that it could unlock Excalibur from its stone.

  Finally, the third treasure was called Merlin’s Promise. This treasure was supposedly entrusted to the Camelot mice, but no one knew exactly what it was, and it had been commonly believed that the castle itself was the treasure.

  Calib explained to the crowd how the Lady of the Lake had revealed to him and Cecily that Merlin had left the third treasure somewhere inside the castle. Calib had eventually figured out that Merlin’s third treasure was actually a wooden Two-Legger goblet—the Grail—that the mice had used as a throne for many, many years. He also recounted how he had accidentally given the final clue to Sir Percival Vole, who pieced it together and stole away the Goldenwood Throne before Calib could warn anyone.

  “And so, it’s my fault that Cecily got captured,” the mouse finished, a sob welling in his voice. The relief of admitting everything felt like releasing a dam. “I’m so sorry, Madame von Mandrake. I’ve failed you—I’ve failed you all.”

  He looked down at his footpaws, not wanting to see everyone’s stunned expressions. Now that the truth was out, he was terrified of what would happen next. No one said anything. The room remained silent. A warm tear wet the fur around Calib’s eye. Would they all despise him now?

  Suddenly, a pawkerchief was dabbed at his cheeks. Surprised, he looked up to see Madame von Mandrake.

  “There, there, mon cher,” she said. “Don’t carry it all on yourself. The only person to blame is that poisonous little vole.” She whipped back her paw and brandished her pawkerchief in the air. “If he harms one strand of my Cecily’s fur, I’ll cut off his tail with my cleaver!”

  Commander Kensington smiled slightly, but already she was strategizing, the look in her eyes distant. “If this is so, Calib—and I believe you—what does the throne do? What kind of power are we dealing with here?”

  “I don’t know.” Calib looked at his paws. He was not being nearly as helpful as he wanted to be. “But I know that we need to get it out of the Manderlean’s paws before it’s used against us!”

  There were murmurs as the knights and other leaders nodded their heads.

  After the sorceress Morgan le Fay, the Manderlean was the most dangerous enemy known to Camelot—and certainly the most dangerous on four paws. No one knew where he had come from or even what kind of creature he was, as he always hid his face behind a golden mask, but he was the driving force behind the Saxon animal attacks.

  The masked villain had eluded justice at the Battle of the Bear. For months, they’d had no word of him, until Calib had discovered a letter in Red’s room with the Manderlean’s signature paw print on it. It was only then that he’d realized the Saxons were working with Morgan le Fay and that the white fever had been another of their plots against Camelot.

  “I need volunteers to go farther afield and search again,” Commander Kensington said once Calib had concluded his tale. “Time is of the essence. We must recover Cecily and the Grail before Percival reaches the Manderlean.”

  Nearly everyone in the room raised their paws, including the squires, but Commander Kensington selected a handful of Macie’s elite squirrel scouts, as well as Sir Alric and Ambassador Thropper.

  “The search party will resupply with Macie and then head out tonight, under the cover of darkness. Everyone is dismissed.”

  The knights and emissaries saluted and began to leave the hall.

  “Wait, what about us?” Calib asked, gesturing to himself, Warren, and Devrin. “We’re the ones with the most information.”

  “You and Warren need to stay in the infirmary and heal,” Commander Kensington said. “And I can’t spare Devrin just yet.”

  “But—”

  “What part of my order invited any discussion on the matter?” Commander Kensington said in a tone that invited no answer to that question at all. “The mark of a good leader is understanding how your actions affect others. Your grandfather understood that. I need you to rest and regain your health. Viviana?” she called across the room to Cecily’s mother. “Would you please escort these two creatures back to the sick bay?”

  Madame von Mandrake approached and took over wheeling Calib back to the infirmary while Warren trudged behind her. Devrin shot them a sympathetic look before she scurried away after the commander.

  Calib stewed silently. Part of him was angry at Commander Kensington. How dare she lecture him, the last Christopher, about his own grandfather? But on the other paw, Calib could not deny the truth of her words. Because of his actions, many creatures had already been put in harm’s way.

  He sighed loudly.

  “I know that you care about Cecily very much,” Madame von Mandrake said as they entered the infirmary, startling Calib. A flu
sh of color came to Calib’s ears as Warren snickered quietly behind them. “But Kensington is right. There is no point in acting rashly. I do appreciate your dedication, and I know Cecily would too.”

  After she settled Warren, Madame von Mandrake helped Calib back into his bed, gave him a quick hug, and left him to his own thoughts.

  Calib had never felt so powerless. The Grail and his best friend were in enemy paws. He wished he still had some of Merlin’s magic to fix this mess.

  He paused.

  He needed Excalibur.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Galahad du Lac could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he stood by the door of the throne room. Today, it was packed with the usual courtiers and knights, and more unusual guests, like the farmers and local townsmen. The air was stuffier than the kitchens. Only the slightest of breezes blew in from the broken window behind the throne. The ragged glass was a constant reminder of Mordred’s escape from justice. With the sleeve of his tunic, Galahad quickly wiped his forehead and hoped his father, Sir Lancelot, had not noticed.

  All afternoon long, King Arthur and Queen Guinevere had been holding court, listening to petitions and making decisions big and small that would keep the castle running smoothly. Ever since the white fever had passed two weeks ago, Arthur and his knights had been doing everything they could to put the castle back into working order. And while the king seemed content to work until sundown, everyone else seemed to have long since lost patience.

  Galahad glanced around at the ladies-in-waiting who sighed and cooled themselves with paper fans. Knights stifled yawns and battled drooping eyelids. Even Queen Guinevere’s gaze seemed to wander toward the windows.

  Father Walter could not have been assigned a worse time to bring up their cause, Galahad thought. This late in the day, everyone would be too tired to listen. Plus, the knights were in a foul mood. They had just denied the last petition from the merchants’ guild to improve the southern roads with cobblestone.

  “Every rock is needed to reinforce the outer walls, especially at the rivers,” Sir Kay said. King Arthur eventually agreed.

  The head of the merchants’ guild, a man with a woolly beard that would have looked at home on a sheep, protested, “Please, Your Majesty, just consider—”

  “We are at war now,” King Arthur cut in. “The Saxons could attack again at any time. We must think strategically about the resources we have left. Next petitioner, please.”

  Galahad clenched his jaw as he swung the door open for Father Walter, who had been waiting outside in the antechamber. This was definitely not a good time, but they desperately needed to resupply the infirmary.

  The old healer slowly shambled up to the Round Table, leaning onto Galahad for support and guidance. The white fever had left the old man blind, and his joints had not recovered. Some days, he could barely get out of bed.

  “Greetings, Father Walter. How are you feeling?” King Arthur said, his expression softening at the sight of the castle’s oldest inhabitant and wisest healer.

  “Not the spry chicken I once was, Artie,” Walter said, using an old nickname from when he knew the king as a young squire.

  A number of courtiers looked scandalized, but King Arthur laughed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been called that. Times were simpler then.”

  Father Walter let go of Galahad’s elbow and eased into one of the wooden chairs that lined the Round Table. Galahad admired the Celtic knot designs that decorated the surface. The Round Table was the most important symbol of King Arthur’s reign, representing his belief that a true king makes himself an equal among his people.

  “The past only ever seems simple when the future is uncertain,” Father Walter said as he drew out a scroll from his pockets. Galahad unrolled it and passed it around to the knights.

  “We’ve finally had a chance to take stock of our apothecary. It seems that your nephew made a mess of things, destroying our rarest herbs and potions.”

  Mutters of anger rose in the room, and a trace of guilt passed like a shadow across Arthur’s face. Red had been the king’s guest in the castle, as an olive branch from his estranged sister, Morgan le Fay, who was Red’s mother. Unfortunately, Red had proven to be less of an olive branch and more of a thorn.

  While the king was expected to make a full recovery from Red’s assassination attempt, Galahad was still taken aback to see how much it had affected him. Arthur now walked with a slight limp and often needed a cane. His hair, which had been the color of an autumn leaf, was now more gray than red.

  “Thanks to Galahad and Excalibur, we’ve overcome the worst of the sickness,” Father Walter continued. “But now our stores are sorely depleted, and we need to resupply as soon as possible.”

  Queen Guinevere, seated at King Arthur’s right, nodded. “What would you require to accomplish this?”

  The old healer inclined his head in the queen’s direction. “A company of riders, strong mounts, and soldiers to stand guard as we gather the necessary herbs and—”

  “Unfortunately, Father Walter,” Sir Kay, Arthur’s foster brother, interrupted, “all our riders are currently occupied in the countryside, rallying defenders to Camelot.”

  Father Walter frowned. “They could pick some of the items on my list while they travel. We need only send them a lark.”

  “I will not have my men picking flowers while we rally for war,” another knight cut in. “We are more vulnerable than ever!”

  Galahad opened his mouth to respond, but the queen spoke first.

  “If our troops are injured, isn’t it just as important that we can heal them?” Guinevere asked. “After all, last time our enemies attacked us with a fever, not swords.”

  “But the boy fixed everything with his magical sword, didn’t he?” Sir Kay exclaimed. “Why couldn’t he do it again?”

  Galahad shifted uncomfortably on his feet as all eyes in the throne room fell on him. Since he had lifted the curse on the castle, rumors of Galahad’s command over magic had quickly spread into outright exaggerations. He’d noticed that other pages and squires treated him with almost a servant’s respect now. Knights had taken to tousling his hair for good luck before a tournament. And just last week, Malcolm, a page, had snipped a lock of his blond hair, saying it was for an experimental soup to heal boils.

  “My sword is unpredictable,” Galahad said, hoping his voice would stay steady. “I barely understand what it can do.”

  “Then maybe you should give it to someone smarter,” Sir Kay groused.

  “Watch your tongue,” Sir Lancelot said, his gray eyes flashing. “Half of you are alive and standing because of my son. I agree with the queen. We need to make sure the healers have what they need.”

  Galahad bit back a relieved smile. His father—the greatest knight in all of Camelot—was still coming to terms with the fact that Galahad didn’t want to follow in his steps. His defense was heartening to hear.

  Sir Kay rattled the parchment list in front of Father Walter’s nose. “Will anything on this list heal a soldier fast enough to turn the tide of a battle?”

  “Nothing would,” the healer replied calmly, “short of Excalibur’s magic. But people will be injured, and they will need to be tended to.”

  “Not if we do the injuring first!” Sir Kay declared.

  “That is enough.” Arthur’s voice rang out, silencing the chatter in the hall. He closed his eyes, as if he didn’t want to say his next words. “Father Walter, I am afraid Sir Kay has a point. We have hard decisions to make in the coming weeks. All our resources must go toward battle preparations.”

  Galahad’s jaw dropped open. Never in a million years did he think Arthur would come to the defense of someone as blockheaded as Sir Kay. Even Father Walter looked taken aback.

  “What happens if there is a siege?” the old man asked. “Arrows will not stop a disease from spreading.”

  “No, they will not,” Arthur agreed. “But I would rather ensure that a siege does
not begin in the first place. Is there any other way you can get what you need?”

  “There is one,” Father Walter said slowly. “If we possessed the Grail again . . .”

  Some of the knights in the room looked at one another and coughed. King Arthur’s face became pale with anger. He raised his hand for silence.

  “Do not say another word to me about the Grail,” King Arthur said, his voice low and steady. “It is a fool’s quest.”

  Galahad blinked in surprise. He didn’t know the healer believed in the existence of the Grail. He knew of it from the stories his mother, Lady Elaine, had told him in front of the fireplace during the long winter nights when they’d waited for Sir Lancelot to return from a far-off war. But it had been lost years ago, and no one had seen it since.

  Father Walter, who had become hard of hearing, barreled on, “I believe that Excalibur could be used to discover the Grail’s whereabouts.”

  “No.” This time it was Sir Lancelot who spoke. “I will not have my son wandering enemy territory alone, seeking something that was destroyed years ago—or may not even exist at all!”

  “I appreciate your viewpoint, Walter, but I must continue on to the next petitioner,” King Arthur said with an air of finality. “We need to make do with what we have now. Perhaps Guinevere can spare a few ladies-in-waiting to help you gather more herbs in the countryside.”

  “Gladly,” the queen responded. “And may I offer my flower garden to your cause? Roses may be beautiful, but I would rather tend to something that is both beautiful and helpful.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Father Walter said as Galahad hurried to help him up. As they exited back into the antechamber, the old man quietly muttered, “It won’t be enough. If Morgan attacks with magic again, we will not be prepared.” His eyes looked more tired than usual.

  “Father . . .” Galahad paused, unsure of how to say it. “The Grail . . . Do you believe it exists?” When Father Walter nodded, Galahad rushed on, “Is it true, then, what they say of its healing powers?”

  Father Walter let out a long sigh. “All I know is that whoever bears it will be invincible—that their wounds immediately close. Merlin wrote about it, you know. But no one paid any attention to his scrolls.”