Summary
A pivotal appeal disrupts Galahad's imminent journey home, compelling him to alter his destiny's course.
Chapter 37 The Call
Galahad cinched the final strap on his travel bag with a satisfying tug, giving the sturdy leather an appreciative pat. He swept his gaze around the near-empty dormitory barracks, the cavernous chamber eerily quiet, a handful a red cloaks and chain mail here and there. His Clarwick brothers had gathered their packs and taken their places in the courtyard below, busying themselves with readying their mounts and assembling into the homeward formation.
He'd intentionally delayed his own departure, reluctant to rejoin their ranks and the prickly atmosphere that seemed to encompass him these days. A mere fortnight had passed since his ill-fated brawl with Sir Christopher and his bitter cohorts – a month since King Arthur's command that he cast off his assumed name Maxwell, and reclaim his birthright. Still, the lingering resentment hung like a putrescent rubbish heap, its rank stench impossible to escape.
A friendly hand landed on his shoulder, quickly followed by the comforting weight of an arm draped across his back. Fair-haired Oswy stepped close, a warm grin crinkling the smattering of freckles across his nose. "Ready to ride out?"
Galahad returned the smile, feeling the knot of tension in his chest loosen slightly at his friend's easy manner. Even after his given name came to light, Oswy's support never wavered – a soothing balm against the prickly disdain and cold shoulders from his other estranged brothers-in-arms. With his disarming humor and unyielding loyalty, Oswy remained one of the few who treated him as an equal rather than a scorned and reviled outsider.
He pulled the straps of his bag over one shoulder as Oswy's arm slipped away, the coarse fabric rasping against the nape of his neck. "Not for the journey itself," Galahad replied, glancing towards the dormitory's egress with a tight smile. "But to return to the warm embraces of kin and keep, our homecoming shall be a promised salve to comfort our weary souls."
Oswy cocked his head in that direction as well. "Shall we then, before we're marked late to the formation line?" One eyebrow quirked upwards. "You know how Sir Kolby gets his chainmail bundled when we test his patience." A sad smirk played across his lips as he dipped his head in a conspiratorial manner. "Though I wouldn't wager on earning any favors from our esteemed captain where you're concerned these days."
A weary sigh escaped Galahad as his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, his boots seeming to grip the stone floor tighter, hesitant to fully turn away. "As you say," he murmured, taking a moment to find resolve. His gaze drifted, growing distant and melancholic as it passed over the surroundings. "It pains me, how quickly the bond between Kolby and I have curdled. We were quite good friends before..." His voice trailed off, not needing to elaborate on the revelations that had driven that wedge between them. A rueful half-smile briefly surfaced. "We used to carouse at night with my best mate, Sir Ector, remember those days?"
Oswy's easy grin faltered at the mention of their fallen comrade. He nodded slowly, smile twisting into a wistful grimace. "Aye, I remember. Valiant Ector was what Kolby called him."
Galahad shook his head, features hardening as he waved a hand vaguely, seemingly unable to sum up the tangled situation in words. "To have lost that close friendship now..." regret tinged his quaking voice, "it cuts deeper than all the others' disdain combined."
Oswy's hand found Galahad's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "I know it stings, mate. But you'll always find me standing at your side, no matter the name you bear." He mustered a small smile, though it lacked his usual exuberance. "Now come on, let's not linger and test the commander's limited patience any further."
They turned and headed for the dormitory exit, Galahad nodding farewell to the knights they passed in the cramped corridors. Snippets of laughter and boisterous tales filtered in from the neighboring dormitories, evidence of the tight-knit camaraderie among the Camelot brethren.
As they descended the narrow, winding stairs, Galahad's steps slowed, his boots scuffing on the aged stone treads. Pensive thoughts drifted back over his tumultuous time quartered here – the dimly-lit landings and musty common rooms holding memories both challenging and treasured in equal measure. Despite the strained relations with his Clarwick garrison, these noble knights had welcomed him openly even knowing the truth of his identity. Not just respecting his abilities, but embracing him as a trusted brother – extending the very camaraderie he sorely lacked among his former mates.
But every passageway, every thudding step seemed to unearth memories humming with life's alluring vibrance – shouts and laughter from the sparring rooms, the thrum of chanted enchantments drifting from makeshift sorcerers' alcoves. So much of the essence within these weathered walls and Camelot's unfurling magic abound felt aligned to Galahad's own sense of being.
They passed an open doorway, granting a glimpse of the modest study chambers, which stirred memories of the millhouse where he had mentored Merlin tirelessly. Experiences like exploring the dragonlords lineages together and restoring Camelot's bountiful harvests were now indelibly etched into Galahad's soul. And to rise to become trusted confidant of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere themselves – that was something he would cherish forever. It was not a seamless, idyllic existence by any means. Unrest still simmered beneath that veneer, evidenced by the sidelong glances and hushed whispers that sometimes accompanied uncloaked displays of magic.
Yet the freedom to wield those very abilities openly, without persecution's shadow looming, struck a resonant chord deep within Galahad – reminiscent of his formative training in the sacred refuge of Catha so long ago. He hoped that this growing acceptance of magic throughout Camelot might one day allow the kingdom to parallel Catha's integrated harmony between sorcerers and civilians. Leaving these newly liberated castle walls, the heart where such ideals were taking root, would be sorely missed by him.
A thoughtful smile came to his lips as the barracks' arched exit came into view. For whatever trials awaited back in Clarwick, these uplifting Camelot experiences would forever buoy his spirit. As would true allies like Oswy and Lord Gregory who stood by him. But he knew he may never again receive that easy acceptance and fraternal bond he'd found all too briefly among the knights here.
Upon exiting the dim barracks into the early morning sunlight, Galahad's squinting eyes fell immediately upon Sir Kolby standing at the front of the mounted company, back rigid. Like them, the captain had donned simple traveling garments – a loose shirt and sturdy breeches fit for the fortnight ride home, rather than chainmail. No troubles were expected on the roads back to their garrison after rallying to Camelot's aid against the Southron invaders.
But Kolby's crimson cloak, billowing in the light breeze, clearly denoted his rank among Camelot's esteemed commanders. It set him apart from the other two dozen Clarwick knights in their plain travel attire – their red cloaks stuffed securely in their saddlebags. As Galahad and Oswy approached, Kolby turned slightly, his piercing gaze finding them before drifting back to the papers in his hand. He pulled one free with a curt motion, jaw tightening imperceptibly. His stern, uncompromising demeanor made Galahad's heart sink, remembering the harsh words exchanged after the row in the siege tunnel.
"Sir Oswy!" Kolby's bark cut through the bustling courtyard noises. He extended a parchment slip towards the knight with a rigid arm. "Ready your mount immediately, then join the formation without further delay."
Oswy straightened, accepting the orders with a curt nod. "At once, sir." But as he spun on his heel towards the stables, he couldn't resist flashing Galahad a conspiratorial grin and wink before hastening off to prepare his steed. Kolby's gruff tone left no doubt the extended delay had whittled away at his reserves of forbearance. His steely gaze settled on Galahad then, mouth a hard line.
"Sir Galahad!" Kolby addressed him, the curt edge to the man's voice taking on a frosty chill. "You're to report to King Arthur directly in the lesser hall. Immediately!"
Galahad blinked, caught off guard. He pursed his lips, the sudden silence between them allowing the ambient sounds of the bustling castle courtyard to intrude – the clop of hooves and whinnying of horses, distant sword strikes ringing, voices of people chattering. "Sir?" he asked, buying a moment.
"The king summons you," Kolby stated flatly, his expression unreadable as granite. "Do not keep His Majesty waiting."
Galahad's gaze flicked unbidden to the front ranks of the formation. There sat Sir Christopher upon his brown mare, the Clarwick standard clutched proudly aloft in his white-knuckled grip. As if sensing his stare, the knight who had led the vicious beating in the siege tunnel twisted his head, sullen eyes briefly meeting Galahad's in a contemptuous glare. Christopher's lip curled in a fleeting sneer before he wrenched his focus forward once more. Galahad tensed, suspecting his recent row with this bitter man may have prompted this unexpected audience before the king.
"Will this delay interfere with our departure?" he asked, turning back to Kolby.
"I do not know," the captain replied curtly, his former friend's frosty demeanor stinging like an icy wind. "But you should not keep the king waiting any longer than necessary." The brusque dismissal made their fractured bond palpable – a rift seemingly irreparable. If so small a mistake like he had made could splinter friendships so deeply, perhaps they were never as bonded as he'd foolishly believed.
"Yes… sir." Galahad's reply caught in his constricted throat as he turned away, determined not to let Kolby witness the sting of rejection in his eyes.
Hesitant steps carried him from the familiar activity of the courtyard – raucous laughter from the distant training yard, the hypnotic clop of shod hooves, the drone of many voices. But as he entered the castle's hushed interior, those clamors gave way to the muted sounds of the awakening halls – murmured conversations of servants already diligently at their work.
Apprehension gripped his insides over this unforeseen bidding. It felt disturbingly akin to being beckoned for punishment over some childish transgression long ago. But this was with the sovereign of Camelot. Had he committed an error during his recent mission, put Merlin's counsel at risk in some way? What dire offense could warrant such a behest? Dread knotted his stomach as endless possibilities whirled through his mind.
Galahad dropped his travel bag with a heavy thump a few paces from the crimson-clad guards standing sentry near the open double doors. The clink of their mail and shifting halberds allowing him entry sent faint metallic whispers through the air. His stomach knotted as if a thousand serpents coiled within before he stepped into the hall.
His tension spiked upon seeing the grave company assembled within, the muffled din of the corridor falling away as he nearly halted mid-stride. King Arthur, Merlin, the imposing form of Sir Percival, and his own lord Gregory – all seated solemnly around the table as if to impart dire news. What ill tidings necessitated such an ominous gathering? Had some catastrophe befallen Clarwick during their absence?
He steeled himself and bowed deeply, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "Sire…"
"Be at ease, Sir Galahad," King Arthur stated, his voice carrying full regal authority within the hollow chamber. "My purpose in summoning you is to inform you that I am assigning you an extended post here in Camelot's ranks, the duration of which shall be unknown for the present time."
Galahad's tongue instinctively wet his suddenly dry lips as a roiling storm of conflicting emotions threatened to overwhelm him – feelings too turbulent for words. His gaze momentarily alighted on the silent, stoic expression of Lord Gregory, searching for any glimmer of guidance or counsel. Home – he must return to the peaceful existence of Clarwick, surrounded by his loving family. And yet, despite the bustling energy and grandeur of Camelot thrilling his senses, an aching pang had lanced through him at the thought of departing these castle walls. Now, the notion of an indefinite stay kindled both longing and trepidation.
"From your silence," the king observed astutely, "I sense reluctance weighs upon you concerning this assignment."
Galahad's eyes drifted unseeingly across the rich tapestries adorning the chamber's stone walls, the vibrant colors and intricate patterns lost amid his churning thoughts. His gaze skimmed the brilliant banners hanging between carved columns, sunlight filtering through paned glass casting its beams across the ancient cloth.
"Sire," he began slowly, the decision looming like an impenetrable wall rising before him, "there are many opportunities in Camelot for growth, for new bonds and friendships... perhaps new responsibilities to be shouldered as well, but…."
"Yes," Merlin interjected, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth as he rose fluidly from his seat. Smiling, he began to approach Galahad, eyes sparkling with an undercurrent of anticipation and perhaps secrets yet unspoken. "You and I will continue our collaborative efforts – an exchange of knowledge between us both."
Galahad's gaze roved again, snagging on the intricate metalwork adorning the tapestries – gleaming crests, icons of battle rendered in shining thread. Somehow those martial emblems focused his resolve. He looked at Merlin. "I am first and foremost a knight, a warrior," he stated, squaring his shoulders subtly. "That fundamental aspect of my path must remain unbent."
"You'll be assigned duties with the men as well," rumbled Sir Percival, his sculpted jawline drawn from stone. "Training, missions, patrols." Galahad's gaze flicked briefly to the parchment resting beneath the first knight's large hand, undoubtedly detailing the terms of his new assignment.
"From what Merlin tells me," King Arthur said, "your prowess with magic rivals his own considerable abilities…"
"No, sire," Galahad interrupted, forcing his wandering focus back like a taut bowstring. "He has far surpassed this mentor. There is little more of true significance I can hope to impart."
"You're wrong," Merlin gently rebuked, though an enigmatic smile played about his lips.
A tense hush fell over the hall, the king's piercing stare seeming to bore into Galahad. He averted his eyes in deference, studying instead the scattered patterns of scuff marks marring the stone floor. The moment stretched interminably until finally the abrupt echo of King Arthur's bootsteps sliced through the silence. He approached Galahad and then clasped his shoulder with unexpected warmth.
"I require your counsel, Sir Galahad," the king declared, his stately timbre speaking singularly for him. "With Merlin as my court wizard, it is time I fully embraced the strengths sorcery can provide in shoring up Camelot's defenses and building trust with the people. You are among the most gifted and noble wielders of the old religion's powers. Your place is here, amongst my trusted advisors, helping guide our realm's rebirth alongside great men like Merlin and Sir Percival."
The king's direct appeal struck a resonant chord deep within Galahad's core. Like a cathedral bell finally finding its perfect harmonic tone, the rightness of it reverberated through his very being. This great kingdom required steadfast aid to solidify its newfound foundations – a purpose he felt destined to help uphold now blossoming within him. He swallowed hard against the lump of emotion forming in his throat.
"There is honor in selflessly serving where one's gifts are most urgently needed, sire," Galahad replied at last, raising his gaze to meet King Arthur's intense yet hopeful expression. "Yet I cannot promise my soul won't yearn at times for the comforting familiarity of my distant homeland." A reflective grin spread across his lips as the king's grip slipped away. "Still, it seems the roots of my own destiny have irreversibly interwoven with Camelot's magical rebirth – a path I must endeavor to follow."
Galahad's eyes moved between Merlin and the king, perceiving their unified resolve in the set of their shoulders and the intensity of their expressions. His gaze then shifted to the massive, chiseled frame of Sir Percival – the epitome of a faithful knight that would anchor them all, no matter how Galahad's former Clarwick brethren might bristle at his presence.
Finally, his focus found Lord Gregory again at the table's edge. Though silent, the grim line of his liege's mouth spoke volumes of the turmoil brewing behind that staid front. As their eyes met, an unspoken farewell seemed to pass between the two men who had risked so much together over the years.
"I shall miss you greatly, Sir Maxwell," Gregory said at last, his formal address now laden with unmistakable solemnity as Galahad's assumed name rolled off his tongue. "More than you could fathom."
A bittersweet smile tugged faintly at the corner of Galahad's mouth, his heart swelling until it felt fit to burst with profound sorrow. No lord could have shown more faith in nurturing his abilities than Gregory. From the start, the older man had unswervingly supported and shielded his secret gifts as a sorcerer without ever faltering in his trust. Fair, honorable, and resolute – Galahad would be eternally grateful for such an ally.
"You have been a loyal friend to me and my family," Gregory continued gruffly, rising to his full height. In a few strides he closed the distance between them, thrusting out his arm which Galahad instinctively grasped. But then the lord surprised him by pulling him into a firm embrace, clapping him soundly on the back. "I pray you return to us eventually," Gregory murmured roughly against his ear. "You will always find welcome in my home."
Releasing him, Lord Gregory stepped back, shoulders set in a soldier's rigid line as he turned to face King Arthur directly. "My knights and I must take our leave now, Your Majesty. But call upon our blades again whenever our service is required." His voice rang with solemn, ceremonial finality.
"Your valor and the courage of your knights shall inspire Camelot through the coming storms," King Arthur replied, imperial and assured. "Farewell."
Galahad watched with a melancholy ache twisting in his chest as Gregory turned on his heel, the crimson cape billowing behind him like a banner in the wind as the lord strode purposefully from the hall. The weighted silence left in his wake was abruptly sliced by the creak of Percival's leather jerkin as the mountainous knight approached.
He raised his gaze to meet the first knight's calm, assessing stare. The bigger man seemed carved of solid granite – an ideal embodiment of the resolute, honorable warrior whose physical power was outmatched only by the indomitable strength of his godly tenets and unshakable fealty. Sir Percival extended the parchment toward him, the transfer to solidify acceptance of this new role with a ceremonial significance. Galahad grasped hold of the paper with both hands, the simple action leaving him momentarily lightheaded as the realization settled in.
His focus shifted at the sound of King Arthur clearing his throat. "We'll further determine a rotation blending light duties with the knights and your primary task – assisting Merlin directly," he said.
"As you command, my liege," Galahad replied with a respectful nod.
The king hesitated then, his magical aura seeming to energize the air around him as his gaze flicked momentarily towards Merlin. Galahad's eyes were inexorably drawn to Excalibur at the king's hip, the extraordinary blade shimmering with an otherworldly light within its ornate scabbard. When King Arthur's expression turned grave once more, Galahad instinctively straightened to attention.
"There is something we must share with you," the king said, his tone carrying a gravid weight of solemn importance.
"At your service, my king," Galahad responded quickly with a deferential bow, hand clutching his orders crossed over his heart.
"Merlin, see that we are not disturbed. Secure the doors please," King Arthur commanded. "Sir Galahad, there are matters that must be imparted – matters requiring your unwavering discretion."
"You have my oath to stand stalwart for king and kingdom until my dying breath, sire," Galahad murmured. He could make out the faint scuff of Merlin's boots crossing the stone floor towards the chamber's double doors, though the thunderous pounding of his own heart seemed to drown out all other sounds. "I am honored by the trust you place in me," he added thickly.
King Arthur gave a curt nod of approval and gestured to the table with an open palm. "Then take your place in my innermost circle, Sir Galahad," he proclaimed. "And bear witness to what is to come."
Exactly what bearing witness "to what is to come" would entail, Galahad could scarcely fathom. A fresh thrill of anticipation caused his heart to redouble its thunderous cadence as he found an empty chair at the table's edge. Inside his core, the embers of youthful excitement he'd once known sparked anew at the thought of facing unknown perils alongside legends made flesh – the mighty King Arthur, the fabled Emrys whose very name held many sorcerers in rapt awe, and the legendary knights of Camelot.
His gaze traveled over each of them in turn as they settled in around him – Sir Percival's colossal, statuesque presence, King Arthur's regal and leonine countenance, Merlin's eyes glittering with ancient mysteries. He was well aware of the clandestine councils this innermost circle held, cloaked in secrecy, even including the queen's watchful eyes. Now that same rarified air surrounding their trusted assembly embraced him as well. Unconsciously, Galahad straightened until his shoulders drew back into a rigid line, his chest swelling with the surging tide of pride and purpose.
What higher honor or calling could a man of his gifts and abilities ever hope to serve. While his brotherhood among the Clarwick garrison had sundered old bonds, it seemed the road of destiny stretched before him here, yearning to be trod – new paths paved with unbreakable fealty and hallmarked by grand, unforeseen adventures.