CHAPTER

14

Galahad drifted into an uneasy dream that felt more real than it should. He was standing on top of a mountain. A glowing white shadow in the shape of a wolf swam just out of focus. He could hear only the faintest of whispers in the wind—nothing he could actually understand.

“I can’t hear you,” he said. He tried to reach out and touch the wolf, but suddenly, a great pain exploded in his hands. He looked down and saw that he had grabbed Merlin’s Mirror, the thorns cutting into his palms. Inside the mirror’s reflection, Camelot was engulfed in flames.

Galahad bolted out of his dream, gasping for air.

“Finally, you’re awake,” Red drawled, standing over him. Groggy and confused, Galahad took a few moments to remember where he was. After Morgan had dismissed him last night, Red had lead Galahad to a small room with a rickety bed and a dresser. He had locked Galahad in, with not only a key, but also, Galahad suspected, with magic. With no way to escape and look for either Calib or the Grail, he had fallen asleep, exhausted from both his travels and his nerves.

Red yanked the covers off Galahad. “You’re no pampered hero of Camelot here. In my fortress, you work. Get up and get dressed,” he said as he strode to the door.

Galahad rose from his bed and got dressed for the morning. His body felt heavy and groggy, his mind fuzzy. His conversations with Morgan the evening before felt like muddled memories from long ago. Was it true that she had been wronged by Arthur?

When Galahad had put on a fresh tunic from his pack, he stepped out to see Red waiting impatiently for him.

“Let’s go,” the older boy grumbled. “You’re making me late for training.”

“Where are you taking me?” Galahad asked.

“You don’t get to ask the questions here,” Red said, and began to walk quickly down a passageway . . . and then another . . . and another . . . and another.

Red marched Galahad confidently past an underground quarry, which had been turned into a makeshift battle arena. Saxon soldiers sparred in pairs. Others practiced beating on straw men with iron clubs, spraying stuffing and sawdust everywhere. The clanging and shouting were constant and deafening. Galahad thought back to the gentlemanly jousts and chivalrous fighting King Arthur employed among his knights. He couldn’t see how that code of honor could outlast the Saxons’ brutal melee training.

Red prodded Galahad to move faster. Galahad blinked. They had just made a quick left down a corridor that he could have sworn wasn’t there a second before.

“How do you find your way around in here?” he asked, the question tumbling from him before he could stop it.

“My mother’s security at work,” Red responded, waving casually at a carved door Galahad thought they’d already passed earlier. “The halls are enchanted. Once you know how to master the magic, the right room will come to you.” Galahad deflated. He was used to having people working against him—it was quite another to have an entire fortress against you.

He wondered where Red was taking him. The dungeons? He didn’t think so. But wherever it was, he was sure it couldn’t be good.

Red eventually opened a door and ushered Galahad inside. They were standing between two long bookshelves at least three times his height. They were filled with yellowed books and rolled-up scrolls. The shelves extended for many feet beyond him. Red walked them to the end of the aisle, where Galahad was astounded to see rows and rows of shelves in a room as big as Morgan’s throne room. Rays of yellow beams poured from the cavernous ceiling, where crystals were embedded into the stone roof as skylights.

This book collection puts Camelot’s to shame, Galahad thought jealously. He leaned in closer to look at some of the titles, admiring the gilded spines and fine leather bindings.

“Finally!” a voice called from beneath the stacks. “Lord Mordred, you’re late. The scrolls aren’t going to translate themselves!”

A girl about Galahad’s age popped her head up from the opposite side of the shelf. She had spritely features—a heart-shaped face that framed inquisitive brown eyes. Her brown hair sprouted in a thick mass of curls that she kept in a high bun, making her a foot taller than Galahad.

“Actually,” Red said, pushing Galahad forward, “I’ve brought you a new assistant.”

The girl’s eyebrows shot up. “The queen didn’t mention that,” she said. “In fact, she said that you, Red, were supposed to—”

“This,” Red interrupted, “is Galahad. Galahad, meet Britta, Mother’s head researcher.”

“Hmm,” the girl said as she stepped out from behind the shelves. Her arms were full of scrolls. She was dressed in a page boy’s long black tunic with many pockets filled with quills and ink. “Do you know Gaelic?”

“Yes,” Galahad said, puzzled.

“Thank goodness,” Britta said, and shoved her bundle of scrolls into Galahad’s arms. “You can start by copying that entire stack.” And with that, she bustled off.

Galahad glanced down at the thick scrolls in his arms. Tiny letters in narrow lines marched up and down the parchment on both sides.

“Copying this will take days,” Galahad said, dismayed. “A year, even.”

“Who says you’ll be leaving anytime soon?” Red smirked, and as he exited the library, Galahad heard the door lock shut.