CHAPTER

23

“Healing has two sides: life and death,” Morgan had told Galahad as she’d ushered him into an underground garden nearly a week ago. This deep into the mountains, there was no sunlight, yet a large yellow crystal embedded in the rock ceiling gave off a warm glow that seemed to be enough for the potted saplings and rosebushes that grew in the stuffy garden. For the past week, Galahad had toiled under its dim light.

“The line between both is thin,” Morgan had continued, “which is why you must work hard to be able to reach out and grasp the spirit of a living thing. Life is potential. Potential is magic.”

She’d then set a potted oak sapling in front of Galahad. “When you can draw this sapling’s potential into Excalibur, we can move on to the next lesson. Do you understand?”

At first Galahad hadn’t. But now, as he pointed Excalibur at an oak sapling in a pot of sandy soil, he thought he heard a quiet whisper from the plant. Stunted and frail, the sapling had lived all its brief life in the caves. But it still dreamed of the forest. For a moment, Galahad could feel the essence of it through the sword: a wispy hint of moss and loam and sunlight. But then it was gone. Excalibur felt heavy in his hands.

“You are too passive,” Morgan observed from her high-backed chair situated among the wild rosebushes. “The sword is only a tool. It cannot do the work for you. You must bend it to your will, or magic will always escape you. If it helps, imagine that the sapling has within it what you most want. Direct that want down your sword, and take.”

Though tired and exhausted, Galahad nodded. Taking a deep breath, he wiped sweat off his brow. What he most wanted was easy: the Grail.

Galahad had not seen the Grail since Morgan had first made him sip from it, but he knew Britta—who was crushed that her theory had proven incorrect—was still hard at work trying to unlock its secrets. Occasionally, in the evenings, if he was still awake after training sessions with Morgan, he’d join Britta and pretend to assist her. All the while, he tried to slow down the Saxon researcher’s progress and glean new hints for himself on how to work the Grail.

As Galahad adjusted his grip on Excalibur and fixed his mind’s eye on the Grail, another image replaced it. A memory from long ago, of a young Galahad situated between Sir Lancelot and Lady Elaine. Each held one of his chubby hands, and they swung him by the arms as they walked by the river, singing a silly ditty with him. It was one of the few memories Galahad had of his family together, a rare moment when Sir Lancelot wasn’t out on Arthur’s orders. It was a rare memory of peace.

Suddenly, Galahad was again aware of the sapling’s yearning for the sun on its leaves, its dreams of rich dirt in its roots. And this time, instead of letting the sapling’s thoughts slip away, Galahad gripped them. Excalibur’s hilt grew warm in his hand.

“Good,” Morgan said softly from behind him. “Now, tug, pulling the sapling’s potential into Excalibur.”

Barely breathing, Galahad tugged at the sapling’s essence, as if it were a loose thread from his tunic. The sapling shrieked!

Startled, Galahad let go of Excalibur, and the sword clattered to the ground, breaking his concentration and his connection to the little tree.

“I can’t,” Galahad said, looking toward Morgan. “The sapling said it hurt!”

“Sometimes, to heal, you have to hurt first. To grow something, you have to burn something.” Morgan frowned, an expression halfway between impatience and disappointment. Galahad was becoming very familiar with that look. “Galahad, you lack conviction. This should be easier for you.”

She gestured toward the sapling with a casual flick of her wrist. Through Excalibur, Galahad felt a surge of magic, and a moment later, he saw the sapling writhe like a snake as its leaves turned brown and withered. He caught a sense of dry heat and pain, a forest on fire. Then the skinny branches crumbled into a fine gray dust. In Morgan’s hand, a ball of blue flame danced and crackled.

“Remember, all living things have power. A skilled magician can harness that power and do with it as she pleases.”

Morgan closed her hand into a fist and walked over to a stout little tree. When she touched the blue flames to its trunk, the ball extinguished, leaving a curl of smoke and the scent of rosemary and iron that lingered in the air. A second later, the leaves of the tree rustled as large plums, dusky purple and fragrant, hung heavy on the formerly bare branches. Morgan plucked a fruit from a branch and gently tossed it to Galahad, who caught it.

“Anyone—even Red—can accomplish this task. But you, Galahad, are barely trying.”

“Why bother with me, then?” Galahad asked. Resentment swept through him, and he was surprised at how hurt he was at her words. But then, Morgan smiled

“Because you are special. Anyone, with some studying, can channel power, just as any skilled forester can walk through the forest and identify the birds by their song, or the trees by their leaves. They may even learn to interpret the behavior of the birds or to determine which trees are healthy and which are sick. But they will never be able to understand the emotions of a rowan tree, nor translate the language of the larks.

“Excalibur chose you, and once you have mastered Excalibur’s magic, you will find that you can move a forest as easily as you can listen to it.”

Galahad shivered. She knew so much about Excalibur, and he remembered again what she had said on the first night he’d arrived: that the sword in the stone had been meant for her.

“Why did Merlin not let you pull the sword?” Galahad blurted out before he could stop himself. Immediately, he winced, preparing for the sorceress to punish him for his impudence. But instead, she sighed.

“I don’t know why,” she said sadly. “But I never quite fit in with the others of Camelot. My thirst for knowledge proved a nuisance to the court after they realized I was no longer going to be queen. They whispered about me in the castle, plotted to marry me off to some lesser noble.”

Again, Galahad felt uncomfortable. Morgan’s experience in the castle had some similarities to his own. Awkwardly, he tossed the plum from one palm to the other.

“Arthur,” Morgan continued, “for all his weaknesses, tried to be understanding. And when he realized that Merlin had stolen my inheritance away from me, he personally requested that the Sisters on Avalon take me onto their island and teach me their ways. He hoped that if I could not have the throne, perhaps I would be placated by knowledge.”

She shook her head, and her auburn hair shimmered down the length of her back.

“Avalon was home for me—for a little while, at least. The Sisters, despite their powers of foresight, did not understand their role in the world. Why cultivate all this magic and knowledge, only to hoard it away on an island? In this, Merlin and I agreed. Where we differed is how we proposed to use it. Merlin wanted to use his magic to prop up weak kings like Arthur. But I believe that only those with power belong in power. Only the people who can make difficult decisions should lead. In order to survive, Camelot needs a strong ruler.”

Galahad’s mind flashed back to all the bickering at the Round Table during those hours at court. What if King Arthur had simply gone with his gut?

“Enough of this,” Morgan said, and then she plucked the plum from his hand. She took a bite from it and swallowed, the plum’s sweet juice so fragrant that Galahad could smell it from feet away.

“Pick up Excalibur. Try again.”