Mice of the Round Table #3

by Julie Leung

  CLANG!

  Galahad jumped in his skin. He turned just in time to see a suit of armor collapse into pieces on the floor.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Calib’s teeth chattered as the clang of the decorative breastplate echoed around him. He’d waited by the mice hole located behind a piece of loose tile in the throne room. The petition had ended sooner than he thought, and Galahad and Walter were already leaving.

  Dodging between the long robes and dresses of the Two-Leggers in King Arthur’s court, Calib just managed to slip under the door after Galahad and Father Walter. But they were walking too quickly for Calib to catch up to them, especially in the afternoon, when there were massive Two-Legger feet that needed to be avoided.

  That’s when Calib noticed the decorative suits of armor that stood at attention in the hallway. He’d only meant to climb onto one of the plumed helmets, but without his whiskers, he’d misjudged his speed—and the entire hollow suit had tumbled down.

  Well, at least he’d gotten Galahad’s attention. He began to wave a paw out of one of the visor’s slits.

  “Goodness, what was that?”

  “A suit of armor, Father Walter, fallen over from a breeze,” Galahad said. To Calib, he mouthed silently, “What are you doing here?”

  “Must have been some breeze to make such a clunking noise on the metal. I could have sworn I heard the pitter-patter of mice just now.”

  “Ha-ha, Father,” Galahad said weakly. “It’s been a long afternoon. Why don’t I take you to the garden for some fresh air, and I’ll quickly clean up here?”

  Calib heard the rat-a-tat of Father Walter’s cane fading into the castle’s hallways. After a minute or two of waiting, the helmet’s visor suddenly flipped open.

  “Calib!” Galahad scolded. “What on Earth are you— Oh!”

  Calib had stepped out. He wobbled a bit, and the whole floor seemed to tilt sideways.

  “What happened to you?” Galahad gasped. His right hand gripped Excalibur’s hilt—allowing him to understand animals.

  “I was struck by lightning,” Calib said, trying to wave his paw loftily, but his dizziness put him off-balance, and he swayed. Galahad quickly placed his palm down for Calib to steady himself on.

  “From the storm two nights ago?” Galahad asked incredulously. “Calib, you could have died!”

  “I’m all right,” Calib said. He focused on Galahad’s nose to keep his vision from swimming. “But I need your help. We need to find R—”

  But Calib stopped speaking as the doors of the throne room slammed open and the court spilled out, the king and queen seeming to have finished listening to petitions for the day. Without saying anything, Galahad gave a small nod of his head, and Calib scurried up his arm and into his tunic pocket.

  They waited until the last noble, a woman with a conical hat and sleepy eyes, bustled out before Galahad reentered and bolted the door.

  “We need to find Red,” Calib finished as Galahad placed Calib on top of the Round Table.

  “I know we do,” Galahad sighed. “Sir Kay’s sent out some scouts, but I don’t really think they’re trying. Why are you shaking your head?”

  “You misunderstand me,” Calib said, his words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out. “We need to find Red. You and me. They’ve kidnapped Cecily and stolen the Grail!”

  “Cecily!” The Two-Legger’s mouth dropped open. “And . . . the Grail?”

  Calib’s whiskerless nose twitched. “You know of it?”

  “Of course.” Galahad began to pace now, long strides that took him from one end of the room to the other. In the past year, the boy had grown. Calib thought that someday not too far in the distant future, he might be as tall as his giant of a father.

  “And Cecily!” Galahad exclaimed, swinging back to face the mouse. “I’m so sorry, Calib. What happened?”

  Calib recounted everything, explaining how all three of Camelot’s greatest foes seemed to have joined together to defeat them: the Saxons; the Manderlean; and Morgan le Fay, Red’s mother. When he came to the revelation that the Grail had been in the castle under all their tails all along, Galahad fell back into a seat at the Round Table.

  “The Grail,” Galahad breathed. “I can’t believe that it’s real. That it actually exists!”

  “I think if we find Red, we’ll find the whole rotten lot of them—and Cecily,” Calib concluded, slightly winded from all the talking. He was suddenly bone-tired. Maybe Commander Kensington was right, and he was exerting himself too much.

  Galahad placed his tiniest finger between Calib’s ears. “Are you feeling all right, Calib?”

  “It’s my whiskers,” Calib muttered miserably. He wished he weren’t such a mousling about them—after all, it was Cecily who was now in enemy paws.

  “I have an idea,” Galahad whispered. Standing up, he unsheathed Excalibur and pointed the sword at the mouse’s snout.

  Calib’s heart began to knock against his chest. “What are you doing?” he squeaked.

  “I want to try healing with Excalibur, if that’s all right with you.”

  Eyeing the sharp edge of the blade, Calib nodded. Galahad was his best friend, after Cecily. He had trusted the Two-Legger with his life before, and he trusted him still.

  Closing his eyes, Galahad seemed to sink into himself, reaching for the soft hum of power that always emanated from Excalibur. Calib could feel the energy change in the air as the boy began to focus.

  Galahad adjusted his grip on the hilt slightly. Calib was now aware of a second heartbeat that was not his own, though it pounded in his ears as if it were. The ripple of a draft blew through his fur. An ache throbbed somewhere behind his nose.

  The pain began to cool, turning into a sensation as soothing as a babbling brook, as refreshing as a spring’s day. Then suddenly—

  Searing heat flashed through Calib’s nose, as if he were being struck by lightning a second time.

  “Ow!” Calib cried, placing a paw right on his snout. Galahad’s eyes flew open. He jerked Excalibur’s point up and away.

  “Are you a-all right?” he stammered.

  “It hurt for a moment, but . . .” Calib trailed off as his pawpads brushed against something long and thin. “Oh! My whiskers are back!”

  Galahad stooped to examine his work and winced. “I think I got the color wrong.” He held his sword like a mirror up to Calib.

  “Oh . . .” Calib wasn’t sure what to say. Where there had once been bright-white whiskers, there were now a bunch of black, unruly ones that curled outward like weeds. He wrinkled his snout back and forth, soaking in the scents that finally flooded his nose. He could detect Galahad’s sweat, the musty woodwork from the table, and a strong spicy odor that seemed to come from the sword itself. The smell from the sword was actually a little overwhelming.

  “Good . . . good as new,” Calib managed to say. He put on a brave smile. Despite the surprising color, at least these new whiskers weren’t crooked like his previous ones. Plus, they worked phenomenally well.

  “I’m so sorry,” Galahad said, and Calib noticed his skin looked ashen. “Red said I needed a proper teacher, but without Merlin . . . who’s to teach me?”

  Calib patted Galahad’s thumb. “I love my new whiskers,” he said, and meant it. “And now, we can search for Red.”

  Galahad sighed. “But no one knows where he went.”

  Sitting on the table, Calib twiddled his tail in his paws and tried to think where he would flee if he were Red. But it was hard. Camelot, with its turrets and secret crevices, was home. He supposed he would go live in the woods with Valentina and the rest of the Darklings. That is, if Valentina ever wanted to see him again, after the danger he’d put them in. Shoving the thought back with a hard push, Calib asked, “Where would you go if you had to leave Camelot?”

  To Calib’s surprise, Galahad answered without hesitation. “Easy—I’d go to St. Anne’s.”

  Calib’s ears twitched in confusion.
“The nunnery?”

  Smiling, Galahad reached into a pocket and pulled out a small locket. Inside was a portrait of a woman with long blond hair and a kind smile. Calib immediately recognized the smile, as it was identical to Galahad’s.

  “This is my mother, Lady Elaine,” Galahad said somewhat wistfully. “She lives at St. Anne’s Nunnery. A few years after I was born, she left Camelot because she wanted to keep me safe. And I think she was often lonely while my father was away war campaigning for Arthur.”

  Excitement grew in Calib’s chest. “What if Red would go back to his mother too?” Almost as soon as he said it, his hopes fell. “But, of course, no one knows where Morgan is.”

  “Red knew,” Galahad said. “And he sent letters.”

  Now Calib truly smiled. “The larks.”

  Galahad grinned back and held out his open palm for Calib to clamber onto. “You know what?” he said. “Sometimes it feels like you know me better than most people.”

  “You say that as if you are surprised,” Calib said as he braced himself against Galahad’s thumb. “Mice are known to be excellent listeners.”

  Together, they traveled to the southernmost tower in the castle, up the exhausting spiral staircases leading to the aviary. Wide windows faced all four cardinal directions, and Galahad could see the Iron Mountains in the west as a thin range of gray. The air was breezy but smelled distinctly of bird poop. Dozens of cages hung on chains from the rafters, each housing a lark family. Feathers covered the ground like a layer of snow.

  The loud chattering of larks quieted as Galahad entered the room. The largest bird, General Felix, took off from his perch and settled in front of Galahad and Calib in a swirl of feathers.

  “Squire Calib, you’re not supposed to be out of bed,” he chided, his head bobbing with each word. “Commander Kensington will not be pleased.”

  “It’s my fault, sir,” Galahad said. “I needed help.”

  The lark flapped his wings in surprise. Though all the animals had heard about Galahad’s ability, not all of them had experienced it firsthand the way Calib had.

  “Oh?” General Felix clacked his beak. “And why is that?”

  “We want to speak with the larks who had delivered messages to Morgan le Fay on behalf of the traitor Red,” Calib said quickly. “I have a lot of questions.”

  Felix’s eyes darkened. “As do I,” the general said. “Those messengers never came back.”

  The fur behind Calib’s neck inched up. “They never came back? What do you mean?”

  General Felix took a few agitated hops. “At first, we thought they stayed away because of the white fever, but the cursed sickness has passed, and no one’s returned.”

  “Have you sent anyone to look for them?” Galahad asked. Felix cocked his head at the Two-Legger, looking slightly suspicious.

  “The search party has yet to return,” Felix finally said. “I’ll need to send another search party for them next.”

  “And where were they sent?” Calib asked.

  “The Iron Mountains, in the path of the Dragon’s Eye,” Felix said. He fluffed his feathers and pointed a wing to the sky.

  “All I see are clouds,” Calib said.

  General Felix rustled his feathers. “It’s a star, squire. Of course you can’t see it now, in broad daylight! But at night, it gleams with a reddish glow. And that’s where the king’s nephew sent all his messages. In the path of the Dragon’s Eye.”

  Galahad bowed and said, “Thank you, Master Felix, for your help.”

  “Mmph,” General Felix said with an odd head bob. “If I learn anything more, I’ll be sure to let you know.” Then with a farewell chirp, he flew high up into the rafters to give his report to the other birds.

  Galahad looked at Calib. “I need some time to prepare,” he said.

  “We don’t have time,” Calib said, fear pulsing in his chest with every breath. “The treasure will be cared for—Morgan wants it. But Cecily . . . I don’t know why they took her.” He closed his eyes, trying to push out the worry. The fear. The guilt.

  “I only need a little time,” Galahad promised. “Besides, we can’t follow the Dragon’s Eye in the day.”

  Each second that passed was another weight on Calib’s heart. But Cecily was brave and strong, and if anyone could take care of herself, it was her.

  Calib nodded. “We’ll meet on the bridge at midnight.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  The bells in the tower tolled half past eleven. Galahad had everything ready—a satchel of food, sturdy boots, and a thick cloak that might be useful in the cooler air of the mountains. But still . . . he wasn’t ready to meet Calib at the bridge, not yet.

  He’d lost control earlier that day. When he had regrown Calib’s whiskers, the sword had felt odd in his hands, as if it were a horse he couldn’t command. That heat! He could have really hurt Calib.

  Or worse. Was it even safe for him to use the sword? Perhaps Sir Kay was right. Perhaps he should give it to someone smarter. . . .

  A soft knocking on his bedroom door startled him. “Who is it?” Galahad called out. He quickly shoved his travel bags underneath his bed.

  “Father Walter.”

  Surprised, as it was many hours past Father Walter’s usual bedtime, Galahad opened the door. In walked the old man, along with . . .

  “Bors! Malcolm!” Galahad exclaimed. “What are you all doing here?” But Malcolm, a strapping lad of fourteen, ignored Galahad and promptly reached under the bed.

  “Sneaking out of the castle again, Exacli-Boy?” Malcolm asked as he tugged out Galahad’s packs.

  “No! I mean, maybe, but . . . how did you know?” Galahad asked. Malcolm was usually too focused on coming up with new dishes for the kitchens to notice anything other than the frying pan in front of him. The one-time castle bully had since found a calling as a talented chef.

  “Spied you in the cellars after dinner shoving your pockets full of cheese rounds and dried fruit.” Malcolm removed a block of cheese from Galahad’s bag. “I actually need this brie for a fish bake later.”

  “When Malcolm told me, we figured you were probably up to something, so we let Father Walter know.” Bors folded his arms into his long sleeves. The former page was now the castle historian, tasked with documenting all its minutiae.

  Galahad looked at the old healer, who had shuffled to Galahad’s bed and was now resting his feet. “Are you going to say anything to the others?”

  Father Walter bowed his head. “That depends. Are you leaving to gather supplies for the infirmary?”

  “In a matter of speaking . . .” Galahad shifted uncomfortably. “I am going to quest for the Grail.”

  “Told you!” Malcolm said with a light punch to Bors’s shoulder while Father Walter frowned. For a long moment, Father Walter didn’t speak, and Galahad wondered if he had made a mistake.

  But then the old man slowly nodded.

  “The king has forbidden it, yes, but I believe that Merlin’s secrets run deeper than most secrets,” Father Walter said. “And you have already wielded one of his treasures with grace and courage.” Galahad felt a blush rise in his cheeks.

  “But while swords were made for war, the Grail was meant to maintain peace,” Walter continued. “I’m not sure why Merlin hid the Grail, but perhaps he knew that Arthur would always fall back on war instead of looking for other solutions. Bors?”

  The castle recorder hurried forward, and for the first time, Galahad noticed a scroll tucked under his arm.

  “This is the only one of Merlin’s Scrolls that Red didn’t steal,” Bors said. “And that’s only because I had it in my chambers. I haven’t been able to translate it at all, but maybe something in there will help.”

  “Thank you,” Galahad said. “We—I mean, I—need all the help I can get.”

  “Merlin acted odd during his last days,” Father Walter said, turning to face Galahad. Even though he could no longer see, the healer’s eyes were full of kindness. “
In the months leading up to his disappearance, Merlin would visit me often for elixirs of strength. Some thought he was dying or at least deathly ill.”

  “Was he?” Galahad asked, astonished that Walter had personally known the famed wizard.

  “Not quite,” Father Walter replied. “He seemed to be fading, more like. I saw him once wander into the woods as if sleepwalking. And another time, I thought I saw a white wolf walk in his footsteps, as if it were stalking him.”

  Galahad nodded, noting the information for later.

  “Where are you going to start?” Malcolm asked.

  “The Iron Mountains. Red said he was from there,” Galahad said, keeping Calib and the rest of the creatures out of the story. It was for the best. Either Father Walter would believe him or he wouldn’t, and Galahad didn’t have time to try to convince the healer he was of sound mind.

  “Then Bors, Malcolm,” Father Walter said, reaching for his cane as he stood up, “I’m afraid I need you both to help me in the infirmary, where there are no windows facing the drawbridge, and we can easily say we never saw anyone leave.”

  Bors and Malcolm nodded and hurried to the door. “Best of luck, Galahad,” Bors said.

  “Remember,” Malcolm added, “keep your wrist loose when you parry, and you’ll be all right.”

  Galahad counted to one hundred before he picked up his bags and left his room. In order to preserve the castle supply of torches, only a few hallways were well lit, and he stuck to the shadowy corridors. Suddenly, he heard footsteps and soft voices coming down the hallway.

  “Guinevere is right.” Galahad’s heart sank as he heard his father’s voice. “We can’t afford to look weak now. Word may reach the Saxons.” Light from a torch flickered at the end of the hall. Panicked, Galahad dodged behind a hanging tapestry depicting the coronation of King Arthur, and a moment later, the real Arthur along with Guinevere turned into the hall, accompanied by Sir Lancelot.