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.”