by Julie Leung
“You know exactly how we should show our strength, Lancelot.” King Arthur’s voice soured with anger. “And yet you drag your feet when it comes to your son! Your boy and his sword are perhaps the best chance we have against the Saxons!”
Galahad’s breath caught in his throat. He prayed that the king was too distracted to notice his boots sticking out from under the tapestry. King Arthur would be furious if he found out Galahad planned on taking Excalibur away from the castle.
“He told me he wants to be a healer, not a fighter,” Lancelot said. The trio was now right next to the tapestry, and Galahad caught a glimpse of maps and ink-stained hems. They had clearly been strategizing late into the night.
“I’m afraid he’s still too soft-hearted,” Lancelot continued. “Galahad’s still a child with childish hopes. He’s not ready to lead.”
So that was how his father really felt about him. The fact that his father had hid his disappointment from Galahad somehow stung harder than any insult or embarrassment.
“Give your son more credit than that, Lancelot,” Guinevere admonished, her voice fading as they drifted down the corridor. “There are different types of strength. . . .”
The torchlight grew dimmer and dimmer, until Galahad’s only companions were the darkness and the sound of the chapel bell striking midnight, its dolorous chimes echoing in Galahad’s heart like a warning.
CHAPTER
6
Calib held on to Galahad’s ear as the boy slid into the cold water of the moat. Even though he’d spent a lot of the past spring sailing the ocean, Calib had never taken to swimming.
Meanwhile, Galahad treaded the water as silently as he could on his back, keeping to the shadow of the drawbridge. He held his traveling pack on his chest.
“You’d think, after all the sneaking out we do, we’d be better at this,” Galahad joked, teeth chattering. He coughed as a wave of river water splashed into his mouth and dripped onto Calib’s tail. After climbing to the top of Galahad’s head and then onto the travel pack, Calib wrung out his tail. In addition to bringing back his whiskers—albeit a different color than intended—Galahad had managed to heal Calib of his aches. Calib had pretended to be sick in the infirmary for the rest of the evening. Madame von Mandrake had marveled at what she thought was an extraordinary batch of witchbark broth.
“I should bottle it up and sell it to the balding moles!” she had exclaimed upon seeing Calib’s fully regrown whiskers. “How potent!”
Flicking his tail free of the last of the river water, Calib glanced up at the night sky, scattered with starlight.
“We’re coming, Cecily,” he whispered, wistfully hoping that somewhere far away, under the same stars, his friend could hear him.
Once they swam to the other side, Galahad and Calib dried off as best they could, changing into the extra clothes they brought.
They journeyed in the dark through the fields, not daring to make for the road until they were far beyond Camelot’s borders. As Calib passed the old cobbler’s hut, which marked the last building in town, he turned to look back at the castle one last time.
From where he stood, the torches along the battlements danced like fairies in the night, encircling the castle with a protective embrace. Calib’s whiskers twitched, and he was filled with bittersweet melancholy. There truly was no place anywhere else quite like Camelot. And for as long as he drew breath as a Christopher, he would vow to protect it.
“Don’t worry,” Galahad said. “We’ll be back soon.”
Calib turned to face the opposite direction, singling out the brightest star, the Dragon’s Eye. Its reddish light stood out in stark contrast to the summer night’s velvety blackness. That’s where Cecily was. That’s where Camelot’s hope lay.
Calib did not look back again.
Though it was late, the side roads weren’t completely empty. Twice, a Two-Legger wagon trundled by, filled with siege supplies for the castle. The only creatures they encountered were a smattering of Darklings, skittish and huddled in small family-groups. Their slight silhouettes cast long shadows on the ground against the pale moonlight . . . including one that seemed familiar to Calib.
“Ruby?” he whisper-called.
The silhouette froze. “Calib Christopher?” the fox asked after sniffing the air.
“Go on,” Galahad murmured. “I’ll walk slowly so you can catch up.”
Calib nodded, relieved that he didn’t have to explain to Galahad that a fox might not necessarily enjoy a Two-Legger’s company.
“What are you doing here?” Calib asked, peering around the fox chieftain’s legs to see a quartet of brand-new kits sleepily following their mother.
“I could ask the same of you,” Ruby said, and bared her teeth in a smile that, had it been any other fox, might have sent Calib running. But Ruby was a friend of his and Cecily’s—one to whom he owed his life.
“Something terrible has happened,” Calib said, before sorrowfully rehashing Cecily’s kidnapping. When he had finished, he heard a rumbling sound from above. At first, Calib thought it might be thunder, but then he realized the vixen was growling deep in her throat.
“Those villains,” she said with a snarl. Her golden eyes flashed. “That’s the fifth kidnapping this week!”
Calib swiveled his ears in her direction, unsure he had heard her right. “Fifth kidnapping?”
“Aye.” The fox nodded, then quickly brought her nose to the top of each of her kits’ heads. “Animals keep vanishing from the forest, not returning from the hunts.”
Calib’s fur prickled. “Are the Saxons attacking the Darklings?”
“Aye,” Ruby said wearily. “They’ve been causing all kinds of trouble since the white fever started. Some other creatures have said that they’re coming down from the Iron Mountains at night, grabbing woodland folks unawares, and disappearin’ ’em.”
His breath caught at the mention of the Iron Mountains again, and Calib tightened his grip on Lightbringer, the sword given to him by Commander Kensington. More and more, the white fever epidemic unleashed by Morgan le Fay and the Manderlean felt like it had been a distraction. But if the fever—which had killed hundreds of creatures—was only a distraction . . . what worse kind of devastation could Camelot’s enemies be setting into motion?
“That’s why I’m bringing my kits to the castle,” Ruby continued. “It’s too dangerous, especially with some of my band missing. I’m hoping Ambassador Thropper can put in a good word for us.”
“But Leftie hasn’t sent any wo—”
“Leftie has already withdrawn his own camp from the foothills,” the vixen interrupted loudly, accidentally startling her kits. They broke out into soft whimpers, and Ruby hastily began to lick their ears. When they had settled, she said with a sigh, “Merlin knows where Leftie is off to now.”
Setting a paw on Ruby’s much larger, clawed one, Calib thanked her. “Camelot will be happy to have you and your family,” he said.
“We’ll see about that,” Ruby said, and then began to nudge her kits to their feet again. “But as Camelot produced such fine young creatures like you and Cecily, I am hopeful. I wish I could assist you in the rescue, but the kits . . .”
“It’s all right,” Calib said. “I have some help already.”
“Good.” Ruby nodded. “Then may Merlin guide you on your quest.”
Calib bowed cordially and ran to catch up with Galahad, who was waiting at a crossroads many steps ahead.
“We better hurry,” Galahad said, stooping to offer a hand for Calib to climb on. “There’s still—”
“Shh!” Calib said. The earth beneath his paws had begun to tremble, and a moment later, his sensitive ears caught the sound of hoofbeats. And not just any plodding draft horse’s steps, but the dainty fanfare of a royal horse.
“A guard!” Calib said. “They must have realized you’ve snuck out with Excalibur!” The boy snatched Calib up and dashed into the trees.
“Careful!” Calib squeaked as thin branches slap
ped against them. The hoofbeats were closer now—the rider had followed them off the path.
“Hide,” Calib ordered, and Galahad threw them into a nearby yew bush. The smell of the crushed berries they’d flattened filled Calib’s nostrils, and he tried not to sneeze as the rider thundered into the thicket and came to a halt.
There was a soft squelch of leaves as the rider hopped down from their mount.
“Galahad,” the rider called out, “are you out here?”
The unmistakable voice, clear and regal, belonged to Queen Guinevere.
CHAPTER
7
Galahad heard Calib’s squeak of surprise as he rose to his feet and stepped out of the yew bush. There was no point in hiding. He’d been caught. As best he could with berry stains on his tunic, he bowed to his queen.
“Your M-majesty,” he stammered, and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to see you this evening—er, morning?”
Holding her dappled mare’s reins with one hand, Queen Guinevere gestured him forward with the other. In a finely crafted muslin dress—dyed a dark shade of green—and with a sparkling silver crown adorning her dark braids, she looked like a fairy queen beckoning to Galahad from another world.
Taking a tentative step forward, Galahad bowed again. This time, he felt Calib’s tiny paws hop across his neck and into the hood of his riding cloak.
“Forgive me if I’m foiling any grand escapes,” Queen Guinevere said with a slight smile. She walked around to the other side of her mount, her silk slippers barely making a whisper on the forest floor. She untied a saddlebag and began to rummage through it. “But I wanted to catch you before you were too far from Camelot.”
“How did you find us? I mean, me?” Galahad corrected himself, remembering that the queen was not supposed to know about his ability to communicate with Calib.
Guinevere gave him another small smile. “The same way I find out about anything of importance.”
From her bag, she gently pulled out her magical mirror—the same one Galahad had looked in last autumn. He shuddered at the memory of the flames that had emerged in the reflection. “I believe this mirror may be better off in your hands now. Along with this.”
Guinevere handed him a diary bound in a soft red leather.
“I’ve written down everything I’ve ever seen in this mirror,” Queen Guinevere said. “Though most of the time, I can barely make sense of the images at all. Go on, take a look.”
Galahad did as he was told, wondering when the queen would order him and Excalibur back to the castle. But as he skimmed the pages, he forgot about being in trouble completely.
The visions varied in complexity—a garden overgrown with wild roses, a ray of light shining from a wooden cup. Underneath each one, Guinevere had written down possible meanings. A few of them were circled, where Guinevere had interpreted something correctly. Under an entry written just last summer, Guinevere had been able to foresee that a war with the Saxons was coming.
But as the pages progressed, Galahad saw grimmer and more foreboding visions appear.
A large shadow crawling over the parapets.
The moon turning bloodred.
The castle in flames.
“How long have you had the mirror?” Galahad asked. The diary was almost full, save for the last page, and as thick as the width of his palm.
“Years,” the queen said, stroking her mare’s nose. “When I first moved to the castle as a new bride, I found the mirror in my bedchamber. Later, I learned that the room once belonged to Morgan le Fay.”
Peering at Galahad around her horse, she smiled sadly. “I know I should have said something about the mirror to Merlin, but . . . I was young. And it used to show me pictures of my brothers and sisters in Cameliard. I missed them terribly, and I didn’t want to give it up.”
“The pictures, then,” Galahad said, “do they show the past, too?”
Queen Guinevere shook her head. “I think not.” Taking the diary, she flipped to a recent page, one that showed a sword in a stone. “That vision came a week before you arrived at the castle gates. But still, the visions have remained the same: Camelot still burns and falls to ruin.”
Galahad’s stomach twisted. “Why are you showing this to me, Your Majesty?”
“Because it showed me something new tonight.”
Galahad took the mirror gingerly from the queen’s proffered hand. He looked in but saw nothing but a swirling fog. Whatever visions it wanted to show Galahad, they were obscured by his own lack of Sight.
“I’m sorry,” Galahad said, disappointed but also relieved. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see. I think last time was just a stroke of luck.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to use it. I think you’re meant to bring it back to its original owners. Those who possessed it even before Morgan le Fay.”
A sharp pain pinched his neck as Calib dug his tiny claws in. Galahad shook his head. The mouse was getting very pushy lately.
“Who does it belong to?” he asked, holding the artifact delicately. He worried about breaking the fine glass and metal during the journey ahead.
“I’m not sure I truly know,” Guinevere said. “Though,” she said with a sidelong glance at Galahad’s hood, “I do have some guesses. The only thing I am certain of, however, is that you are the one meant to deliver it. The Fates have their eye on you.”
“Then you’re not bringing me back to the castle?” Galahad asked.
“No, my friend,” Guinevere said. “I would never ask anything of you that you do not believe to be right.”
“But what about the king?” Galahad asked.
Guinevere sighed, and in that sigh, Galahad thought he detected a mix of sadness and frustration and deepest love. “The king is a good man,” she said. “But he is scared—not for himself, but for his people. And fear can lead good men to folly. He believes there is no choice but war.”
Weaving her fingers through her mare’s mane, the queen leaped onto the horse’s back. Picking up her reins, she looked down at Galahad. “For all our sakes, I hope peace is not out of the question yet.”
CHAPTER
8
Calib waited until the sound of hooves faded into the distance before he burst out of Galahad’s hood. He ran down Galahad’s arm to examine the mirror.
His heart thumped wildly against his rib cage as he took it in. Its glassy surface reflected the moon above in perfect symmetry. “By Merlin’s beard,” Calib whispered in awe. “It’s here!”
“What’s here?” Galahad asked. But Calib couldn’t bring himself to speak until he was sure. Reverently, he reached out a paw to touch the cool handle. Upon contact, his whiskers felt electrified, like they might vibrate off his snout. He jerked back. The magic inside the mirror was powerful—as strong as Excalibur, even.
Merlin’s Mirror.
The wizard’s first treasure, which had been given to the Darkling creatures.
Yes, it even had the metal thorns and roses that his grandfather had said distinguished the Darklings’ gift.
Calib thought back to the stories Commander Yvers had told him about the mirror. How it had once brought much prosperity to the Darklings, allowing them to predict the weather patterns and maximize their harvests. How, after it was destroyed, the Darklings had resorted to raiding the creatures of Camelot to survive. Leftie said he had lost the mirror during a raid by the Saxons. And yet . . .
Calib put a tentative paw out again and felt the same strange tingle. There could be no doubt about it.
“This belongs to the creatures of the Darkling Woods,” Calib said, looking up wonderingly at Galahad. “Everyone thought it had been smashed to pieces and lost, but it’s been in the castle the entire time. For the last few months, all three of Merlin’s treasures have been in Camelot, and we never knew!”
Even in the dim light of the moon, Calib could see that Galahad had turned pale. “Maybe that’s how we were able to survive the Battle of the Bear and the white fever,” Galahad said
. “But now, none of the treasures are there. . . .”
From Galahad’s expression, Calib knew they shared the same rising urgency.
“We need to hurry,” Calib said. “Do you think we can use this to find Cecily and the Grail?”
Galahad held out the mirror for both of them to look into. “I’m not sure I know how it works,” he murmured. “It only shows what it wants us to see.”
A lump grew in Calib’s throat. Galahad gently picked him up and set him back upon his shoulder.
“You can’t get mad at a mirror for being what it is,” Galahad said softly. “Don’t give up hope. I have a feeling that it’s trying to help us. We just need time to learn how to understand.” He placed the mirror into his knapsack, carefully wedging it between the folds of his blanket.
And though it wasn’t what Calib wanted to hear, he still felt the faint beat of hope inside him. Two of Merlin’s legendary treasures were accounted for: the sword and the mirror—and Galahad had them both.
Surely that was a sign that the Grail wouldn’t be far from their grasp, after all.
For four days, Galahad and Calib traveled almost without rest. At night, they felt comfortable enough using the main road to follow the light of the Dragon’s Eye. But as soon as dawn arrived and the Eye faded into the sunlight, they’d go into the woods, trailing the path from afar and avoiding villages and towns. Sometimes, they found thin deer paths for Galahad to follow, but most of the time, the Two-Legger had to hack away at the underbrush with Excalibur to clear the path.
Calib thought not for the first time that it was a shame Galahad had not been born a mouse. He would have found it much easier to travel. But then again, it would have been much harder to carry Excalibur.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, during a short lunch break by a stream, Calib felt a funny tickle in the pit of his stomach. When a flock of camouflaged grouse hens took off in sudden flight, Calib felt relieved. He was sure it had been the watchful eyes of the hens that had given him that crawling sensation.