Mice of the Round Table #3

by Julie Leung

  His mind flashed back to the library scrolls Red had stolen from the castle.

  “Britta,” Galahad forced out, feeling as if he were choking. “What have you been translating? How, exactly, is your research going to help save Saxony?”

  Brushing a curl off her forehead, Britta smiled at him. “I’ve been working on translating Merlin’s secrets. We’re trying to figure out how to use the Grail, you see. And once we’ve figured that out, no one will dare fight anymore.”

  Oblivious to Galahad’s growing horror, she tapped the scroll in front of her. “I’ve seen your land. It’s more than big enough for both Saxons and Britons to live together peacefully. Your island is fertile. It can easily grow enough food for both nations, if we stop fighting long enough to care for it.”

  The door opened, and Red waltzed in, wearing full-plated fighting armor—a chestplate, helmet, and lance. His metal boots clanged and echoed in the large library.

  “Very good, Britta!” he said with a smile. “Her Majesty is ready to try something based on your latest finding.” He pointed at Galahad. “Mother will see you now.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  Calib mulled over the puzzle of the Wolf’s Mouth as he returned to the kitchen, after delivering breakfast to the Manderlean and his hideous hawk.

  The rest of the kitchen workers were awake and busy, cooking breakfast for their fellow prisoners. Jasper stirred a gigantic casserole made of corn kernels and bread crumbs, yelling over his shoulder the whole time.

  “For the last time, Fennel, there is nothing to be afraid of. Just keep your eyes straight ahead and walk right on past.”

  “I don’t want to!” whimpered the mouse Calib had encountered in the mines. The young Fraytail had since snuck back into the kitchens by hiding in an emptied soup cauldron. “That place makes my fur stand on end.”

  “Oh, for hoppin’ out loud, just because something is carved like a wolf, doesn’t make it an actual one!”

  Calib’s ears perked up. “What did you say about a wolf?”

  “Fraidy Fennel here would rather let the miners in the east end of the mountains starve than walk past a tunnel that spooks him!”

  Fennel crossed his arms. His eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Would it help if I walked with you?” Calib said. “I’d like to see this tunnel for myself.”

  Before Fennel had a chance to respond, Jasper waved them both away with his spoon. “Fine, just get out of my fur and do something useful!”

  Fennel pulled on Calib’s tunic and motioned for him to follow him. He pushed a food cart laden with two vats of mushy pea gruel onto the lift that led to the mines. Once inside, Fennel began cranking a lever that lowered them deeper into the depths of the mountains than Calib had ever gone.

  Fennel said, “Everyone’s afraid of the deeper tunnels. They think they’re haunted. So the miners at the very bottom always get fed last.” Calib’s ears began to pop. “Jasper’s right, I am being a coward.”

  Calib patted Fennel reassuringly on the shoulder.

  “A wise mouse once told me that being brave does not mean lacking fear,” Calib said, remembering Commander Yvers’s words. “If you were never scared, you wouldn’t know what it means to be brave. I know you are not a coward because the day we met, you took a great risk to save me. That is not a coward’s way.”

  At this, Fennel beamed. “I can see why Dandelion thought so highly of Camelot.”

  Suddenly, the lift came to a stop with a screech and then a thud, and Fennel’s smile vanished.

  “We’re here. Now, the wolf tunnel is on the right. But we’ll need to turn left to meet the miners.”

  “You should go on without me,” Calib said. “There’s something in the tunnel that I need to see.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Fennel cried. “Creepy voices come up from there!”

  “I will be fine,” Calib said, puffing up his chest. “I need to see if my friend is down there.”

  Not looking convinced, the mouse nodded.

  “Good luck, Calib. I hope you know what you’re doing.” Fennel wheeled his food cart away, leaving Calib facing the tunnel’s mouth alone.

  The entrance to the tunnel had been carved to look like the open mouth of a snarling wolf, complete with fangs, bordering a staircase that sloped downward. He didn’t know where it led, but he knew at once this was where Theodora the hawk had been referring to. A wailing sound reached Calib’s ears, and he steeled his resolve as he peered in past the wolf’s teeth. It could have been just the wind, but in truth, it sounded like crying animals.

  Mustering all his courage, and chanting Camelot’s motto under his breath, he walked into the tunnel. The path corkscrewed deeper than Calib would’ve thought possible. The air was stuffy and unbearably hot. Gradually, the incline of the stairs leveled out into a low-ceilinged hallway. The way was poorly lit, with torches only every few feet. But even so, Calib could clearly see the tightly packed cells lining either side, each filled with Darkling animals. Many were asleep and snoring, but others paced their cells, appearing to have gone rabid in captivity. Hungry eyes followed Calib’s every movement.

  “Cecily,” Calib whispered, hoping she was within earshot. “Cecily!”

  “Cecileeeee C-c-celi!” mimicked a nearby crow.

  “I’m trying to sleep over here!” roared a fox with a bandage across his eye. He banged on his prison bars, which woke another fox, who gnashed his teeth.

  Soon, all the prisoners were arguing about who woke whom. Someone started calling for the guards. In the noisy chaos, Calib ran deeper into the prison, trying to peer into every cell—trying to find Cecily.

  Eventually, he sprinted past empty cells—ten, twenty, thirty of them. On one paw, Calib was glad they weren’t all filled, but with each empty cell, he felt his hope slip away. If Cecily wasn’t here . . . then where was she? What if Sir Percival had already ordered for her to be brought before Theodora? What if—

  There was a splash of color up ahead. A bit of plum and opal—Cecily’s favorite colors!

  “Cecily!” His footpaws pounded the rock floor, and a moment later, he was there. Cecily was sitting on the ground, her back to the cell doors. Why hadn’t she turned around? Was she sleeping?

  “Cecily!” he said again, “it’s me!” He reached a paw through the bars and tried to shake her awake. “Cecily, wake—”

  But Calib’s words caught in his throat as Cecily’s head rolled clean off her neck and struck the ground with a hollow wooden sound.

  When it rolled over, Calib realized his mistake. What he had thought was Cecily was just a corn-husk doll made up to look like a mouse-maid, complete with a walnut nose and leaf ears.

  “Calib Christopher, what a surprise,” a voice whispered. Sir Percival Vole stepped forward from the shadow. “For you, I mean. A little soot is not enough to fool a master of disguise like myself.”

  Calib had fallen into another trap.

  CHAPTER

  19

  “I’ve brought Galahad, Mother.”

  Galahad’s stomach churned as Red announced their presence in the throne room. By helping Britta translate a single word, he had given Morgan an idea of how she could possibly use the Grail. With the Grail’s power on her side, it would be only a matter of time before she launched her attack on Camelot.

  And it would be all Galahad’s fault.

  Morgan, who’d been pacing the dais upon which her throne sat, now stopped and smiled.

  It chilled Galahad to the core.

  “It’s good to see you again, Galahad,” Morgan said. “Especially after I hear you’ve been most helpful.”

  Galahad’s mouth twisted into a scowl, and he was surprised to see Red wear a similar expression.

  “It was my idea to assign Galahad to translating,” Red reminded his mother.

  Morgan waved a casual hand as her dress whispered past the rosebushes on the dais. The bright-red flowers looked to Galahad like droplets of blood. />
  “Yes, Red,” Morgan said. “Though I suspect your wish for Galahad to take up your chore was the motivating factor and not a strategic plot.”

  Red’s face flushed, and he mumbled something to the ground, but Morgan wasn’t listening. Instead, she was striding toward Galahad, her white skirts trailing behind her like tendrils of smoke.

  “With this new information,” she said, “I have a theory. Please humor me.”

  Morgan held out her hand and then plucked the air, and her hand, which had been empty, was suddenly not.

  In her palm stood a wooden cup that glowed a buttery yellow in the torchlight. It was perfect in its symmetry except for a small divot where a piece of it had broken off.

  The Grail—mere inches from Galahad’s face!

  His heart pounding, Galahad resisted the urge to snatch it out of her hands. He had gone too deep into enemy territory. He would not make it far if he tried to run for it now.

  But then, with a flourish, Morgan held the Grail out to him. “Take a sip,” she instructed. Peering down, Galahad saw an inky black liquid slosh about. The smell of black magic was so thick, he thought he might be sick.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “No dawdling,” the sorceress said, and holding the cup to Galahad’s lips, tilted the chalice toward him. “Just trust me.”

  Begrudgingly, Galahad allowed one sip before sputtering. The liquid inside was burning hot, and it traveled down his throat like liquid fire.

  Morgan nodded, and with a final flourish of her hands, the Grail disappeared back into the air.

  “And now,” she said, walking back up the dais and settling into her throne, “let’s test my new theory—and your mettle.”

  “What?” Galahad managed to ask, still coughing, before Red ran at him from behind, sword drawn.

  Galahad had only a second to throw himself out of the path of Red’s swinging sword. He hit the black marble floor with a gasp. As he looked up, he saw Excalibur’s hilt sparkling on the floor next to him.

  Not questioning how his sword had suddenly appeared there, Galahad lunged for it, his fingers wrapping around its hilt before he bounded to his feet. He ducked again, just managing to keep Red’s blade from slicing his face.

  The clangs of Excalibur and Red’s sword echoed in the throne room as Galahad and Red dueled once again. But this time, there would be no army of creatures to help Galahad.

  Galahad was utterly alone against Red’s onslaught; the older boy’s slashes fast and unrelenting, his sword moving in a blur of fury.

  His breathing ragged and his arm numb from Red’s attacks, Galahad found himself backing up farther and farther . . . until he felt the cool stone of the wall against his back. Red had him pinned.

  Galahad spun away to avoid getting gutted. Red, anticipating this move, stuck out his foot. Galahad tripped and landed with a thud on the stone floor. The force knocked Excalibur from his hands, and the sword spun away from him on the polished floor.

  “Don’t—” Galahad gasped as Red’s sword came swinging down with unforgiving speed and cut into Galahad’s forearm.

  Warmth flooded Galahad’s arm as blood spilled out. A moment later, the pain followed, a blinding ache that made black dots swim in front of his vision. He couldn’t move; he could barely think.

  “Halt!” Morgan cried, a command imbued with magic.

  Galahad blinked away the fuzziness and watched as an invisible force yanked Red’s sword from his hand. It stayed suspended in the air, frozen and harmless.

  Red whirled on his mother. “Tell me when you’re ready to stop playing favorites!” he yelled, and stormed out of the room, armor clanging.

  With ragged breaths, Galahad tried to push himself up from the ground, his vision swimming.

  “Stay still,” Morgan said, and she moved to sit next to him on the floor, her white dress unfurling around her like a blooming lily.

  Through his fading vision, Galahad watched as Morgan clicked her wrist, and suddenly, a ball of blue flame danced and crackled.

  Morgan clamped her flaming hand onto Galahad’s forearm. Where she touched, Galahad sensed a dry heat and the smell of woodsmoke.

  But then, the pain rolled back. His vision cleared.

  Struggling to sit up, Galahad looked at his arm.

  The wound had instantly healed.

  If it weren’t for Morgan le Fay, Red surely would have killed him.

  “How did you do that?” Galahad asked with wonder.

  “There is power in all living things,” Morgan said, walking down the aisle. “A skilled magician can harness that power and do with it as she pleases.”

  Staring now at the smooth, unbroken skin on his arm, Galahad marveled at the sorceress’s power. The power to heal completely, not just patch, as Father Walter did with herbs and elixirs.

  He remembered what Britta had said, how Morgan had come to Saxony and saved their fields. Could Arthur have stopped the war, if he had been generous with Camelot’s harvest? If he had sent his knights to Saxony to help till the land instead of sending them out on personal quests for glory?

  “Ma’am?” Galahad said, thinking quickly, “Do you think . . . Is it possible . . . Could I do that?”

  The sorceress smiled. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

  There was something about Morgan’s smile that Galahad still did not trust. Yet . . . if he learned how to heal from her, how could that harm Camelot? And besides, if she thought he was becoming interested in her version of events, perhaps she would allow him to work with Britta on Merlin’s Scrolls. He could misdirect Britta’s research while seeking the knowledge of the Grail for Camelot.

  Mouth dry, Galahad nodded. “Yes, please.”

  Morgan smiled. “This time, I believe you. Pick up Excalibur. You have earned the privilege to keep your sword. Tomorrow, we will begin your training in earnest. For now, I’m afraid I’ve just received news that I am needed elsewhere.”

  No new messenger had entered the throne room as far as Galahad could tell, but as Galahad exited the throne room, he had the sense that someone was watching him. Turning around, he looked once more at the dais. No one was there. All looked the same. Except for one thing.

  The rosebushes around the throne still hung heavy with red blooms—except for one empty spot, where instead of a rosebush, there were only a few brown petals and a mound of ash.

  CHAPTER

  20

  The blindfold was yanked away, and the sun glared into Calib’s eyes. He squinted against the yellow-white light, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was surprised to be standing outside on a thin stone ledge overlooking the rest of the Iron Mountains. A strong wind blew away the bits of soot that still clung to his fur. Sir Percival stood before him, smug with his new triumph.

  If Calib weren’t shackled, he would have kicked himself.

  He couldn’t believe he’d fallen again for an enemy’s trap. He surely must be the worst Christopher ever to come out of Camelot. Jasper was right: his reckless heroics endangered everyone he held dear.

  After catching Calib, Sir Percival and his guards had blindfolded him. “March,” the guard had growled.

  Calib had been led to a twisting stairwell and made to climb out to this precipice outside the mountains, where he now stood. The sun was low in the sky and approaching sunset. Calib could hear the sound of the rushing river far below; likely the same one that the hot spring fed.

  “Well, well.” Sir Percival had smiled widely. His teeth revealed themselves like two rows of rotten tree stumps. “I knew you would come calling sooner or later. Like grandfather, like father, like son. Christophers always let their foolish pride get the better of them.”

  “It’s called honor,” Calib spat. “Something you obviously know nothing about, traitor.” His ears flushed hot from Percival’s barbed words. The greedy old vole might have the upper paw and the Grail, but Calib’s family name was unimpeachable.

  “I know about honor—just not for th
e great lie that is Camelot.” Percival shook his head in mock wonder.

  “Tell me where Cecily is!” Calib said, fixing his eyes on Percival. “What have you done with her?”

  “You want answers, and you’ll have them. After we get ours,” Percival said. “What do you know about the Grail and its powers?”

  “Nothing. You killed the only mouse who knew anything before he ever got the chance to tell me.” Calib’s mind flashed back to the terrible moment when he saw his grandfather’s shadow twist in pain from the assassin’s blade. Nothing would ever bring his grandfather back, but his death still left Calib with the bad taste of injustice. Even though the assassin had been vanquished at the Battle of the Bear, Percival was the true murderer.

  “Now you’re the one who is lying.” Percival grew impatient, and paced around Calib like a bird ready to pluck a worm from the ground. “Yvers and Merlin would not have left you completely in the dark.”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know anything!”

  “How did you discover where the Grail was, then?” Percival asked.

  “Cecily helped with the final clue.” Calib shrugged. “Maybe if you had smarter friends . . .”

  “I’ve had enough of your insolence!”

  The vole raised his paw, as if he might strike Calib across the face. Calib cringed and closed his eyes for the impact, but it never came.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw why.

  The Manderlean had appeared.

  “What did I say about your temper, Percy?” the Manderlean spoke in a rasp. The warlord had appeared soundlessly at Percival’s side, catching the vole’s arm and twisting it around his back. “You should have told me sooner that you had a Christopher caught in your little web. Why was it Lieutenant Johann who had to tell me?”

  “My liege,” Percival said, his face twisted with frustration and fury. “I wanted to make him tell us the secret to the Grail. I was going to tell you once—”

  Percival stopped speaking as the Manderlean held up a paw. “Once you found out the Grail’s powers?” the Manderlean said, eyes flashing. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to keep secrets from me.”