Autumn was saying goodbye, abandoning dead leaves and puddles of mud behind him. The wind blew through naked branches. It whistled, as if calling Winter to finally come out and cover the ground with snow. Winter was definitely coming, but there would be no snow for a couple of months.
Still, the air was cold, and fireplaces were keeping homes warm.
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Deep in the forest, young Charles was cutting wood with his father. Antor was working fifty yards away; Charles could see the man bending down once in a while, grabbing armfuls of twigs. They would soon go back home with a cart full of logs that they would pile up outside, against the wall. It was a hard work, but raising and bringing down an axe kept him warm in the chilly air.
Suddenly he heard a stray thought from Antor: 'My back is hurting. I am going to pick up Charles and we will go home.' Charles put the last cut logs and his axe in his wheelbarrow and joined his father.
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Charles knew that Antor was not his real father. But the man had taken such a good care of him since he was a little baby that he could not call him with any other name. Antor would always be his father. And Aenor, Antor's wife, would always be his mother.
"I think we should go home now, Father," Charles said to Antor once he had reached the man. He helped Antor with his task, everything soon put away in the old cart.
"Were you in my mind, son?" Antor asked with a large smile on his face as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Charles held a dirty handkerchief out to him.
It was a jest, alright, but Charles was embarrassed just the same. Because it was the truth. That was actually the reason he knew Antor and Aenor were not his real parents. Neither had told him, but he had read it in their minds.
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At first, it had been odd but exhilarating. He had been an infant just starting to babble some recognizable words when his power appeared.
Each time his father or his mother talked to him, he heard two speeches. And one was somehow subdued, like a whisper, not to his hear but to the back of his head. Most of the time both speeches had the same meaning, even when the words were different. But sometimes they would diverge. When it was the case, the whisper would be angry, or sad, always tinted with a colorful feeling, while the words escaping the mouth stayed emotionless. The face showed no emotion either.
He had learned since then to hide his reactions to those whispers. He was not supposed to hear them. "Why do you smile like a loon, Charles?" Aenor would ask after she had a sweet thought about him. Or "Why are you crying, now?" if Antor's worries about Winter or his health made Charles sad. When they started thinking he may be a lunatic, he chose to concentrate on the actual words more than the thoughts, and kept his feelings to himself. He became the quietest child of the kingdom. But often at night his pillow was drenched in tears.
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'Damn, I was about to forget my lunch,' Antor thought, looking around. The cloth containing a chunk of stale bread and some radishes lay on the ground, a few feet away from them. Charles heard the pain in Antor's mind-voice, and wanted to help him. The only thing that could top his fear of being discovered was his extreme kindness. He reached for the bundle before Antor moved an inch, grabbed it with both hands and held it out to the man.
"Thank you," Antor said out loud. But something else was murmured to the back of Charles' head, and it was said with suspicion.
The smile spreading on Charles' face was anything but sincere.
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His power was not normal, whatever "normal" meant. He did not feel like one of the monsters from the stories Aenor read him when he was a little boy, but he knew he was not like the other children either. When he played with his friends, he heard whispered hating words behind amused harsh names, sometimes shy confessions in between insults. They came from everyone and they formed a background noise, like a wind he alone could hear. Charles knew those murmurs were not to be heard by anyone, but he heard them anyway.
The first time he understood this big lesson was at the Church. He was five and for three years already he had lived with the mind-wind blowing around him. After the mass, he had asked Aenor: "Mama, why do people pray for peace and harmony when all they want is to hurt each other?"
"What makes you think it is so, Charles?" Aenor replied.
"I heard the miller say he would beat his wife when they get home." The man was a good friend of Aenor, and she visited him and his wife regularly.
Aenor's gentle smile melted like snow under the sun. "He would never say that. Baldric and Emma love each other very much. Come, Charles. It is time to go home." And when she took his little hand in hers, maybe it was Charles imagining things but she seemed to squeeze a bit too much.
People's thoughts were personal, and most of the time, no one wanted to know about them. The lies that came from the mouths were sweeter than the truth of the minds. Charles would keep his knowledge to himself, and be the only one tasting the sourness of the souls. He did not want to add a burden to his parents, or anyone at all.
He had since learned to block everyone else's thoughts, to shield himself especially from strangers' minds as much as his power let him. Getting intentions and feelings from people Charles already knew was somehow harmless. He understood them enough to guess what they had in mind most of the time. But Charles could not know what was in strangers' heads beforehand, and being assaulted with defiance, anger and sometimes outright rage was frightening. And so he blocked, always.
He was now fourteen and he was alone. So terribly alone. And nothing his loving parents would do could change that.
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Something else was bothering him. He knew that an old and strange man was supposed to come and take him from his parents. The thought had always been at the forefront of Aenor's and Antor's minds. At first it was just a vague anxiety, as if Charles would vanish any moment. But it grew with the years, until his parents would sometimes look at him as though he was already gone and they missed him very much. They never talked about it – one more thing he was not supposed to know. When he was a child, he thought it was a punishment, and tried to be as good as he could, hoping the man would never come if he was a well-behaved little boy. But his parents' fear did not disappear and he understood it was his fate. A veil of resignation fell on his useless hopes.
For six months already, since his fourteenth anniversary, they had all waited nervously for that man. Any day could be the last he would spend with Antor and Aenor, and he could not really enjoy them as fear crept in his heart.
He had seen the face of that man in his parents' minds, and it was the face that haunted his nightmares. The features were nice enough, but there was a spark of mischief, of evil, in those pale blue eyes. They were often the only thing visible under the darkness of his hood and they seemed to glow sinisterly.
Every night, Charles thanked God for allowing him to spend one more day with his parents, just before another bad dream swept him away.
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Charles and Antor walked back home in silence.
When they were a few yards away from the little house, Charles heard his mother thinking about the delicious stew that was simmering in the pot above the fire. It was hot and the smell was appetizing.
No doubt the hot food would soothe his father's ache. But he would not tell him. It would be a surprise.
He did not want to see suspicion in Antor's eyes ever again.
Between his last encounter with Shaw and his tragic death on the Glastonbury meadow, King Xavier had delivered on his promises to the Wizard. He had built the prestigious castle of Westchester and adorned it with a beautiful Round Table.
Somewhere South of Britain Xavier had found the perfect spot for the castle. Perched on a wooded hill, the white towers of the fortress were looking down on the country, its fields and its villages. On the front, above the main entrance, the Xavier coat of arms had been engraved.
Westchester's halls were large and well lit, richly ornate with drapes and statues and painted vases. Lush woolen carpets coming from the East covered the otherwise cold floor. The windows were high and wide, letting the sun reflect on the white walls.
In one of the rooms, deep in the castle, the wooden Round Table had been brought by the artisan who made it, and his apprentices. Made of the strongest ebony, it displayed its robust and dark features to any knight allowed to pass the door.
When King Xavier was still alive, once every month, the castle would resound with laughter and conversations. The knights Xavier had chosen to sit at the Round Table – most of them had been at the Glastonbury battle – came with their families for three days. There were receptions and festivities, and, the morning of the second day, the Knights would sit with King Xavier around the Table and discuss Britain's politics and war against the Saxons. On the third day, a tournament was always organized, and the Lords were happy to show their skills in a friendly manner.
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After King Xavier's demise, his surviving allies decided on a meeting at Westchester. The powerful Kings and Dukes of the Kingdom were gathered around the Round Table. They were wearing the scars from the battle that took Xavier's life. They all had been faithful allies to the Fair King, and his death was a tragedy.
"Britain needs a King!" Lot, King of Orkney, growled, banging loudly on the Table.
They nodded, all agreeing. Of course they were agreeing, the problem was: who should be the new King of Britain? Xavier had no wife and no child, there was no legitimate heir.
"As the oldest ally of King Xavier, I should rule Britain," Urien said. King of Gorre, Urien had been an enemy for a long time before Xavier convinced him to join him. If the dead King ever had a friend, it had been that strong Scottish sovereign.
But Urien's territory and power were not as strong as the man himself. The other Lords complained.
"How can a King of so small a land be capable of governing the Holy Kingdom of Britain?"
"You must be joking, Lord Urien."
"I simply refuse that a Scottish King becomes my sovereign!" Edern, King of Cornwall, said with anger.
North and South of Britain were fighting over power, while the other Lords tried to choose their side.
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One knight remained quiet, standing in a corner of the room, looking outside through the large window. Lord MacTaggert, King of Cameliard, already knew the outcome of such a discussion: personal ambitions would get in the way and they would not reach a consensus. He was waiting patiently for the argument to die on its own.
Lot of Orkney chose that moment to turn towards MacTaggert. "What do you think, Sir MacTaggert? You cannot possibly have no opinion on that matter," he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Boredom written on his face, King MacTaggert turned around and answered: "My opinion is that we cannot decide. We need someone else, a wise man, to make the decision for us."
Intrigued, Urien replied: "And who do you think we should ask?"
MacTaggert smirked. "Well the Great Wizard Shaw of course!"
"And he shall help you!" The doors had opened suddenly and in came the Wizard. He looked around at the Lords gathered in the room. They all had turned when they had heard his voice. Some of them bowed before the Mighty Wizard, others stared at him with suspicion and doubt. All were afraid of what he would say. Shaw bathed in the feeling.
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He gestured towards them, and they all sat around the Table, waiting for his words. But he kept silent, pacing the room, all intent and patience.
Until Urien raised his voice. "Which of us do you think should rule Britain, Great Wizard?"
Shaw glared at the King of Gorre, obviously offended. "And what makes you imagine that I am the one to decide?"
Confused, the knights studied each other. Urien was once again the one to talk. "But you said you will help us?"
Shaw had them eating out of his hand. It was perfect.
He took his time, to let the tension seep into every knight's bones. When the silence became heavy with anxiety, he stopped pacing and crossed his arms behind his back. "I shall help you, as I said. But I will not tell you who will be the King, as it is not in my power to know." He was lying, of course, but they did not need to hear the truth.
King MacTaggert intervened: "And how will you help us, then, Mighty Wizard?"
"This is what you shall do. You will invite everyone in the Kingdom here for Christmas. Fate will then show you Britain's true King. And you shall obey him unconditionally."
The Lords were troubled, but they had no other choice. They would follow his words.
Shaw left the room with their promise to do as he had said.
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The Great Wizard had now a young boy to take away from his foster parents.
Charles was coming back from his schooling at the nearest church. The elderly priest taught him reading, writing and counting. Antor and Aenor had insisted that he should study. Thankfully he quite liked learning new things, and his teacher was more than happy to share his extended knowledge with the boy.
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He was a few yards away from home when he felt a void in the house alongside the bright minds of his parents. They both thought about that third person, but nothing was coming from the stranger. Afraid, he refused to watch that man through his parents' eyes, because he was almost certain already of whom it was. When he tried to reach for the surface's feelings of the stranger, the tendrils of Charles' mind came back with nothing, like they just went through thin air.
He walked faster, dreading the meeting with the man from his nightmares while wishing for it to be over at the same time.
When he opened the door, the stranger was turning his back to him, but he read desperation and fear on his parents' face. On the man's head, a crown made of a dark metal was glowing dully. Something told Charles the odd diadem was the reason he could not reach the man's feelings.
When Shaw finally turned around, he was smiling, but it did not quite extend to his eyes. Charles could not read his mind, but Shaw's eyes were full of purpose and calculation. Charles did not trust him. But he knew he had little choice in the matter.
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"Ah, you are back, my boy," Antor said, smiling. But there were tears in his eyes. "This man is…"
Shaw interrupted him. "Let me explain to Charles the reason for my presence." He kept staring at the boy as if he was judging him, measuring him for a task he could not yet imagine. Charles supposed he would know soon enough.
"Antor and Aenor are not your real parents," the man added with a sardonic smile. Charles saw the old couple wince, and decided to play the part – he was not expected to know the truth already. He gasped and hid his mouth behind his hand, hoping it would be enough to fool his parents. However it was not enough for Shaw, as a glint of maliciousness appeared in his pupils.
"I entrusted them with you, but now the time has come for me to take you back, as you have a destiny to accomplish." He got up. "So gather your possessions, Charles. We do not want to be late for Fate." Shaw walked through the door and waited outside, not even saying goodbye to Antor and his wife.
More distressed, Charles turned to his parents, tears already flowing down his cheeks. The moment he had dreaded for six months had finally arrived, and he did not want to leave his home.
He hugged Aenor fiercely. She was holding him, kissing his hair, crying like her heart was being ripped from her chest. Her mouth to his hear, she whispered small advices. "Do not forget your scarf when you go outside. Eat at least one fruit each day." It felt more like he was going on a short journey. But Charles knew it would be longer than that.
Antor was not demonstrative. He was not affectionate. However, when he looked at the boy he had raised for fourteen years for the last time, he embraced him tightly.
Charles collected his meager belongings and used one of his tattered shirts to make a small bundle. He kissed his parents one last time and passed through the door.
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Outside, the Mighty Wizard was leaning back against the trunk of an old tree, watching absently the race of the clouds in the sky. When he heard the door shutting, he stared at Charles until the boy was at his side.
"You are a filthy little liar," he said casually.
Charles cringed. No one had ever called him a liar, but he knew it was the truth. And that did mean the man – he had not heard his name yet, as his parents did not know – was familiar with his gift. He was now more certain than ever that the crown on the stranger's head was aimed for him.
"And you are hiding your mind behind jewelry. Are you afraid of me that much?" Charles' smugness started Shaw, and his conceited smile disappeared. In its place, a grimace of rage now deformed Shaw's feature. "Do not consider yourself clever, boy. I will always surpass you."
If their pace hastened, Charles had only himself to blame.
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In the safety of his own mind, he thought: 'We will see, old man. We will see.'
On the top of a hill, there was a sword stuck in a large stone. Its blade was strong, engraved with Latin words, and its hilt was made of the purest silver.
The legend said it had been plunged in a block of almost petrified lava by a giant when Britain was still a burning Hell inhabited with demons and monsters, and the blade was so perfect it did not melt.
Shaw knew better. It was a Gifted – whose power was to alter matter – who changed the rock into a ball of mud before changing it back, leaving the sword in the rock for all eternity.
The hill was located a couple of miles away from Westchester castle. One could almost see the glistening of the sword's hilt in the sun from the fortress' highest crenellations. It was perfect for Shaw's plan.
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The Great Wizard arrived with Charles at Westchester the day before Christmas. Most of the guests were there already, and the staff was busy preparing their rooms and cooking a fest for Christmas Eve. Servants and chambermaids were running around like headless chickens. But thanks to the Wizard's fame, they soon obtained their own room, and settled.
As soon as he had passed the main door, Charles had been assaulted with feelings of urgency and panic, exposed every second to the danger of breaking down and crying right away. Drifting like ribbons of grey smoke, he could smell arrogance and ambition, anger and jealousy, passion and romance. Now in the relative remoteness of their room, he was able to build the walls that would keep everyone's mind at bay, and finally rest. He sat on the only chair of the room and stared out of the window.
After a few minutes, Shaw left him without a word.
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Charles did not know what he was doing here, at Westchester. He knew it had been the King's castle. He had heard in the Lords' minds that they were waiting for some kind of miracle to tell them who would be Britain's next sovereign. And the name of Shaw, associated with the face of his personal monster, was floating in everyone's head, sometimes tinted with fear, sometimes painted in awe.
'So Shaw is the name of my tormentor,' Charles thought. The Great Wizard Shaw, who had been King Xavier's first advisor, who had shown his immense power in a duel several years ago. Shaw who, people said – or rather thought –, was God's instrument and would point at the new King.
Shaw who had entrusted him to Antor and his wife before taking him back, as if he was a toy he could play with. Shaw who had refused to tell him who his real parents were when the boy had asked. Charles was more than confused. What did a powerful man like Shaw want or need from him? He was just an orphan – as far as he knew – raised by a poor couple in the middle of nowhere.
Their two day travel had been hell: they would not talk to each other, and at night, Charles was so sad he would cry for a long time before passing out. He missed his home, he missed his parents. His young heart was broken.
He did not understand why people thought so high of the Wizard. But Charles would not trust him. Ever. He would play along with the evil man's plans until it would be too much, and find a way to escape from him.
Charles jumped on his bed. The mattress was supple and thick. Charles had never slept in a bed like this one. For an instant, he hoped his father was there: with his back hurting, Antor would enjoy such a luxury.
Charles turned on his side, and in a matter of second, he was asleep.
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Shaw joined the knights in the Round Table's room. They were all there, impatient and nervous. First they wanted to know what that madness was all about. Shaw would not give details, but there were some thing they needed to know.
"I suppose you all heard of Excalibur."
Edern of Cornwall raised his voice: "You mean the Giant's sword?"
"An old superstition," Lord Urien laughed. The King of Cornwall glared at him but kept silent.
"Do you know the real story of that magic blade, Mighty Wizard?" MacTaggert asked, curious.
"Oh yes, I know." The Lords were now all looking at him with great attention. "Excalibur is the Sword of the True King! Only it can tell you who the next sovereign of Britain will be."
Whispers of awe and murmured discussions filled the room.
Urien was the first to speak aloud. "How it can be?"
"Please tell us, Great Wizard," King Lot added.
Shaw took a dramatic pose and said: "Tomorrow, when the sun rises, every man on the Land of Britain shall try and pull the Sword out of the stone. But only one man will succeed."
"But that is not possible, Great Wizard. No one has ever been able to do so," King Edern complained.
"Oh but it is, my Lord! I give you my word," Shaw replied. "The one man who can pull out the King's Sword is the true King of Britain, and he shall rule the Holy Land." With that final word, he bowed and left the room.
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Shaw joined Charles in their shared bedroom. The boy was sleeping, no doubt exhausted by their long trip. Shaw sat on his own bed.
The Wizard brushed his crown with two tentative fingers. He was so glad he and Emma were able to conceive such a device. With the help of a local blacksmith, they forged a ring out of a dark alloy that could block mind-readers. He had feared it would not work with Charles, but the boy did not seem able to perceive his thoughts. He was relieved.
But Charles did not trust him. He could tell. Not that his trust was required, but Shaw needed to be sure he could manipulate him in doing his deeds. He looked at the boy. "Will you be a threat, child?" he asked, knowing he would get no answer. "I do not care if you agree with my views, but I will destroy you if you hinder my plan."
He got up and walked to Charles. He shook the boy's shoulder. "Wake up, child. Dinner is served."
Charles opened his eyes. For a second, he seemed lost, then remembered where he was. He hid his face in his arms. "I am not hungry, sir." The truth was, it was his first Christmas without his parents, and he missed them greatly. He was not in the mood for festivities, surrounded by hundreds of unknown minds thinking despicable thoughts.
"As you please," Shaw replied. "But do not forget that tomorrow you will have to come with me. Excalibur is waiting for you." He did not elaborate and walked out of the room.
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When he came back, Charles was sleeping soundly, dreaming of roasts and cookies.
Stars were still shining in the dark blue sky, a little touch of orange tinting the horizon, when Charles woke up to the sound of a horn.
He and the Wizard dressed quickly and met with everyone in the courtyard. When they were ready, they headed to Excalibur's hill.
They arrived as the sun was finally peaking above the horizon, filling the sky with a bright yellow glow.
Even with his walls built high in his mind, Charles could feel excitement and anxiety floating in the air. It was thrilling, and anticipation was flooding his veins unwillingly.
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Shaw went up the hill and stood besides the large stone. He put his hand on the hilt, and started to speak.
"My Lords, my Ladies, people of Britain. As you all know, King Xavier died in a ferocious battle at the beginning of this month. Alas, he had no wife, no child. Britain is in dire need of a sovereign. This sword, here," he waved at the stone, "is the Sword of the True King. Rooted in rock, no one can pull it out, except the legitimate King of our Holy Land. We are all gathered here today to see who God has deemed deserving of the highest rank of nobility. Every man shall have one try at it. By the virtue of their honorable condition, the Kings and the Dukes of the country will be the first to try."
He made a gesture towards Lot of Orkney, who climbed the hill and put his hands on the Sword. He pulled it, he shook it, but the blade did not move an inch. Disappointed, he retreated and let Urien, King of Gorre, attempt at retrieving the blade from the large stone.
One by one, they all gave it a shot, but no one succeed. By noon, every noble person of Britain had failed the test.
After a quick lunch of bread and fruits, it was the turn of the more humble citizens.
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Shaw had discreetly left the assembly. He knew no one could pull the sword out of the stone without his help, but he needed help himself in doing so. He went in search of a corruptible servant. He saw a man of perhaps forty who seemed perfect. His face showed a permanent frown and a mischievous spark lightened his brown eyes. Shaw approached him.
"You, come here," he ordered. "What is your name?"
"They call me Stryker, sir," the servant answered politely.
"I will give you a golden coin if you hit me, brave man."
Stryker looked at the Great Wizard dubiously. "It is a trick, certainly."
"There is no trick," Shaw replied. "And to prove my honesty, I will pay you in advance." And he held the coin out to the servant.
The man took it, tried to bite it, and smiled when he realized it was genuine. "Alright, sir. I accept."
"Go ahead, then. Hit me where you want."
Stryker slapped the Mighty Wizard in the face, a strong blow that sent Shaw's head to the right. The Wizard was seething – it was not a painful strike, but it was a vicious one. Gritting his teeth, he said: "Well done, Stryker. You can now leave."
Dismissed, the vile servant went his way, twirling the coin.
.
Now full of energy, Shaw got back to the sword. The queue of people waiting to try was quite short now, as the sun was about to set behind the horizon.
Charles had stayed aside the whole time, watching the ceremony – because it was one – and still not understanding what he was doing here. He wanted to give it a shot, but it was his curiosity challenging him. He had no desire to become a King. He was just a humble teen, who will become a humble worker in time.
He straightened his back when he saw Shaw coming to him. Without a word, the man grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the sword. Charles knew struggling was useless, so he followed the Wizard obediently.
Shaw pushed the last man who had tried – a peasant or a merchant, he did not know, but the man had failed too – and made a gesture at Charles. Resigned, the boy took the hilt and started to pull.
Discreetly, Shaw hit the stone with the point of his shoe. It crackled imperceptibly, but it was enough to free the blade. Surprised, Charles almost fell on his back, the sword in his hand. He looked at it stupidly.
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A deafening silence filled the clearing. The crowd gathered at the foot of the hill could only stare at the young boy God had chosen to rule Britain.
Until King MacTaggert knelt respectfully, helmet in hand and sword at his feet. Soon everybody else was getting down on their knees, Lords and peasants, men and women, adults and children.
The Great Wizard opened his arms. "Britain has a new King. Long live King Charles!" His cry was echoed joyously.
Charles was too out of it to hear the under-currant of hatred and jealousy poisoning the stream of their happy chant. He got up clumsily, tightening his hold on Excalibur, the instrument of his Fate. The faces looking at him – the faces of his subjects – faded and blurred, until the crowd disappeared and silence fell on his now deaf ears. He was a King. He was fourteen, and he was King. Shivers ran down his spine. How was it possible? What sorcery was it? Shaw's, undoubtedly.
When the voices quieted, Shaw spoke again. "Charles here is still too young to rule the country efficiently." The Wizard called King MacTaggert. "Lord MacTaggert, King of Cameliard, you shall teach King Charles how to be a good sovereign. And in the meantime, you will be the regent. I trust you will do for Britain as you do for your land: rule wisely."
King MacTaggert bowed before Charles. "I shall do as you please, my King."
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That night, there were celebrations and songs and wine. At one point, Shaw had snuck into the darkness of the forest and never returned.
Seated at one end of the long table, Charles did not understand yet how his life had changed. But it had changed all the same. He was a fourteen year old King. Antor's and Aenor's lovely humble home had never seemed so far away.