The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [16]
Newt went back into the stables, packed his few belongings into a leather saddlebag, and placed it carefully over a stall door.
“Stop that,” he said to the bay mare who tried to nibble on the straps of the pack. “You’ll be fed soon enough.” He hoped. Bold words, to volunteer himself for this fool’s errand, but he doubted the ability of even the best squire to keep these beauties in line and cared for. What was he thinking, to leave them? His life was here; his purpose was here, with these animals.
Newt smiled wryly. He was thinking that for all his brave posturing and loud words, the king’s nephew would be lost on the road by himself. Newt would wager money he didn’t have that the boy had never been on his own for a night, much less a whole journey to who knew where. If this trek to find the enchanter was to succeed, Newt would be needed.
Tugging his boots on and knocking the worst of the horse dung from them, Newt made one last futile attempt at making his water-slicked hair behave. He set his still-aching jaw and walked the unfamiliar distance from the stable to the great wooden doors of the castle.
Stable boys, like servants, didn’t use the main entrance. He hadn’t been thinking clearly the night before when he’d run through these gates to see if what had struck the stable could be explained by someone in power. Now, though, the very act of walking on the polished stone floors made his heart shake in fear, half expecting someone to grab him by the ear and toss him back into the straw where he belonged.
But no one did.
The only souls he saw in the hallways were two pages, red-eyed and rumpled. Newt tapped one on the shoulder, feeling guilty when the boy jumped as though he’d been bit on the rump.
“Where’s the squire Gerard?”
The smaller and blonder of the pages pointed down the hallway. “In the Room.”
“The what?” The entire castle was made of nothing but rooms!
“The Room. The Council Room,” the boy said in a tone that clearly indicated his opinion of anyone who needed it spelled out for them.
“Where is it?”
Directions pried out of the boy, Newt patted him on the head out of sheer maliciousness, and went in search of his road companion.
The great doors were closed, but the smaller door set into them was open. Newt walked in, hearing his boots echo in a way they hadn’t anywhere else. The squire—Gerard, Newt reminded himself—was standing by the table, one hand resting on the polished surface.
“It’s just a table,” Newt said. He had been expecting something…more.
The squire didn’t seem to hear him, staring down into the polished wooden surface as though it were a scrying mirror.
“It’s not just a table,” Gerard said finally. His voice was raw and raspy from lack of sleep, and it made Newt’s throat hurt just to hear it. “It’s a symbol. Symbols are important. Sometimes they’re all we have.”
“Yeah. Right.” Newt wanted to be out of this room. It weighed on him, a pressure on the back of his head like a disapproving stare. He knew he didn’t belong here.
The squire turned to look at him then. His blue eyes were as red-rimmed as the young pages’ had been. Was Newt the only one to have gotten any sleep at all?
“You’re ready to go?” Gerard asked.
The night before, Newt had picked out the horses they would take: two sturdy beasts from Camelot’s own stable; quality riding horses, a gelding for him and an older bay stallion that he knew the squires had been training on, neither of them too showy nor overly muscled from combat. He had also arranged for the kitchen brats to provision them as best they could from what was available. Dried meats and bread, probably. “If you know where we’re going.”
“I’ve an idea,” was all the squire said. And with that, Newt had to be satisfied.
The sun was just beginning to lift over the hills behind Camelot when they finally led their horses and a heavily laden mule out of the great gate.
“You know where we’re going?” Newt asked for the tenth time. And for the tenth time Gerard answered,