Chapter 2—The Vault of Magic

Arthur followed Lancelot down two sets of staircases and then out through an arched side entrance of the castle, set with a green painted door. Known as the Harvest Door, the cellars where food stuffs were stored over the winter lined the walls of the short passage, leading to the vegetable plots. Servants bobbed curtsies as he passed, but Arthur paid them no heed. Once outside the main castle and into the central garden, Arthur matched Lancelot’s stride. “How do you know a weapon has been stolen? What weapon is it?”

Lancelot glanced in his direction. “I did not detect any forced entry, sire. But there is something missing, nonetheless. Habin, the fletcher, saw someone leaving the armoury in the early hours of the morning, but he couldn’t see who it was. They were wearing a cloak with the hood drawn up, hiding their face. He wouldn’t even have mentioned it to me other than he saw that the door was locked when he reached it. He thought it was strange, as he hadn’t seen the person pause to lock the door. It was odd enough that he thought to mention it to me. I’m not sure if anything was taken. All the regular equipment is present and accounted for. You will see.”

Arthur frowned. If nothing was missing, why was Lancelot concerned? Arthur did not like mysteries and especially ones that involved things that could be dangerous, and everything housed in the armoury was a weapon of some kind.

“You mean,” he said, his voice hesitant, “it’s one of the other objects, stored in the back room? The items that my father suspects may be used for magic?”

“Yes, sire. Something is gone, but we don’t know what. I didn’t want to alarm the king, so I called it a weapon. You know how he feels about those forbidden objects.”

“Yes.” The curt word hung on the air, pregnant with promise. If there was one thing his father hated more than the ongoing war with Hengist the Horrible, it was magic.

The armouries were located on the north wall of the royal gardens, carved out of thick native stone. Built on two levels, the first floor was filled with every form of cudgel and cutlass known to the kingdom. The underground section was locked away behind an iron grate, requiring a key.

They arrived at the door of the armoury, and Arthur produced a key ring, thick with an assortment of black keys which he carried at all times on his belt. Finding the one he sought, he thrust it into the lock and turned it. The door opened easily, swinging back on silent hinges. Arthur ran his hand down the door frame, checking for signs that the door had been forced in any way. No pry marks or chips of any sort were found. Natural light spilled into the room from the open doorway.

The large room was filled with racks of ornate polished swords, shields bearing the crest of Pendragon and sharpened pikes in upright circular racks. Two walls were lined with giant fish hooks from which hung every sort of mace and flail imaginable. The third wall resembled a prickle of angry porcupines, stacked with rows on rows of arrow-filled quivers. The scent of beeswax hung in the air, mixing with the musky scent of cedar. Arthur inhaled deeply. He loved the smell of the armoury, especially on a humid day like today. But this first atrium was not their true destination. He led Lancelot across the room to a second door. He reached out and rattled the door handle. It was locked.

“How did you get inside this room? Did you lock it after you left?” said Arthur.

“Yes, it was wide open when I discovered the theft. I was afraid to leave it open, so I jammed the door.” Lancelot pulled a short knife from a sheath at his side then slid into the top of the frame, prying at a chunk of wood wedged tight between door and frame. It was stuck tight. Frowning, Lancelot pushed hard on the door. An ominous creaking accompanied the sound of cracking framework. Splinters of wood fell to the floor. Grunting, Lancelot fished out the remainder of the wedge then said, “Try the door now.”

Arthur turned the handle. As soon as he pulled, the heavy door groaned and twisted on its one remaining hinge, toppling into the room. The base of the door collided with Arthur’s shin, and he yelped with pain, stumbling back. His hand clasped the swelling, bone-deep bruise, as he limped to the side of the opening to lean against the wall.

“Sire! Forgive me. The door must have been weaker than I realized. Are you ok?”

“Yes.” Arthur straightened, smothering a grimace. “Grab a torch.”

Lancelot retrieved two torches, handing one to Arthur. Arthur limped over the door. The torchlight pushed back the shadow, revealing a dank interior covered in cobwebs. More of a mausoleum than a room, the vault was reserved for rare artifacts of unknown origin. Most had been acquired from the accused, those witches and wizards who had been executed by Uther’s command, their property and lands seized. Those same lands had been moved into the hands of lords and ladies raised to nobility, as trusted allies of Camelot and the church, and their goods confiscated and moved to the vaults.

As magic was forbidden by the church, the king naturally upheld the prim edicts against the use of magic. However, this naturally led to a problem. There was no one within the king’s inner circle who could verify if the objects were actually imbued with magic or spelled in any fashion—or they refused to identify the talent if they could. Arthur peered around the room in disgust. The walls were divided into cubicles, roughly five feet by five feet, and stuffed with an assortment of junk. Broken chairs, shredded pillows, and cracked clay pots fill filled the one closest. The wooden arm and head of a child’s puppet flopped over the edge of a milking stool, half of its hand painted face missing. In the cubicle next to it, burnt bolts of silk cloth jumbled in around a wax mannequin. The body was punctured and slashed, as though those who had brought the silhouette back to the castle had been afraid that it was bewitched. In a third cubby hung a mummified cat. He did not need to step closer to tell it had been alive when it was hung. Now the fur hung from the skeleton in tatters. As he passed it by, moths flew up from the cavity. Grimly, he marched on. Those items that were thought to be magical had been specially arrayed.

The firelight brightened the end wall as they approached. Behind an iron grate, figurines of various sizes and shape lined the end wall. Simple wooden carvings jostled for space with idols of stone, some gilded and others set with precious stones. Wooden crates, nailed shut, were stacked in one corner, and in the other leaned staffs of various sizes and configurations. Pewter bowls and bronze platters filled a trestle table in the center of the room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. Arthur fished out a second key and turned it in the iron lock. The hinges squealed as he pulled the metal gate open. Raising his torch, he moved it slowly across the ragtag selection. Lancelot raised his hand and pointed.

Perhaps the oddest thing was a collection of keys that hung in a row from a row of wooden pegs attached to the side of a cabinet. There were enough pegs to hold fifty or more keys, and one key was missing. Arthur stepped closer to the cabinet, peering at the empty spot in the middle. “Someone stole a key?” he said, incredulous. “From here?”

“So, it would seem,” said Lancelot. “Do you know, sire, what the missing key is for?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. No one knows what these keys do.” He frowned, then pointed at the floor. “Footprints.” He knelt by the print, examining it. The boot print was adult sized, but small. A young man, or perhaps a woman. He walked through the room, following the disturbed dirt, pausing where the thief paused, examining the items. Lancelot followed, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Layers of dust covered everything, making it easy for them to determine where the stranger had paused and touched an object. Nothing else appeared to be missing. Arthur returned to the cabinet and opened the door. A bare spot on the third shelf immediately caught is eye. “A box has been stolen, too.” A long, thin rectangle free of dust marked where the object had sat.

Lancelot moved up beside him, peering over his shoulder to see within the cabinet. The sweet smell of sandalwood filled Arthur’s nose and his nostrils flared. The warmth of his body seeped into Arthur’s back, pushing away the chill of the room. “Do you know what it was?” said Lancelot.

“The objects in this cabinet are believed to be used in performing spells. They are among the most dangerous objects in this room. Only a wizard or a witch could say for certain what their purpose is.”

“So, this theft is more serious than I thought,” said Lancelot.

“We cannot keep this from my father. He must be told. Stay here and guard this room. I will send a mason down to repair the door and reset it in the block.” Arthur moved his arm to search for a key on his belt, his elbow brushing Lancelot’s firm chest. Ignoring the surge of sensation that tingled up his arm, he retrieved the ring from his belt, removing the one that secured the vault. “Once repairs are complete, lock the door and return this key to me, immediately.”

Lancelot took the key. “Yes, my liege.” He bowed, then followed Arthur out of the room. Legs spread, he placed himself firmly in front of the empty door frame, right hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Arthur took the stairs two at a time and slowed to a more dignified walk at the top. He left the armoury and veered across the courtyard, heading for the council chambers. At this time of day, his father would be found there, deep in conversation with those charged with the varied tasks required to run a kingdom. The sessions filled the morning hours and generally ran until noon, after which the council dispersed to go about their duties.

Gaining the interior of the castle, Arthur moved through tiled hallways. The servants stood aside for him as he passed. An angry grimace creased his brow. The bad-tempered expression caused the servants to jump out of the prince’s way as he bowled his way down the long passage. He rounded a corner and collided with Lady Guinevere. Instinctively, he threw out his hands to ward off the impending collision. Guinevere gasped, and her arm swung. The slap echoed like a cannon blast, his face stinging with the strength of the blow. Outraged, he opened his mouth to speak, but the harsh reprimand froze on his lips when he realized that he held Guinevere’s large breasts in his fingers.

What a lovely handful, was the errant thought that flashed into his mind. He dropped his hands, throwing up an arm just in time to ward off a second slap and catching it on his forearm.

“How dare you take liberties with me!” she hissed.

“I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

“You pig. You filthy, rutting swine,” shouted Guinevere while Lady Morgana howled with laughter.

Arthur’s face flamed as did Guinevere’s, twin suns spinning around the same axis. Arthur eased his way to the right, slipping past Guinevere. With a sniff, she tossed her curls and nose pointed into the air, glided away, as regal as a swan.

Arthur’s hand found the stinging reminder of her fury, and a grin twitched onto his smooth face. He walked backward a few steps, watching their retreating backsides until they turned the corner with a swish of skirts. He resumed his path, arriving at the council chambers. Twin guards were stationed to either side of the double doors and looked at him quizzically. Arthur realized he was whistling a merry tune and stopped immediately. The guards chuckled and grasped the door handles, pulling them open for the prince. Arthur’s eyes flicked to each man, then he soberly stepped into the room.

A long rectangular table was set with seating for a dozen people. His father sat in a high-backed, ornately carved black oak armchair at the head of the table, and to either side the benches were occupied with his cabinet ministers.

“…to make sure that the grain fetches the best prices for Camelot. These foreign traders are dumping their grain in the markets, driving down prices. I believe we should place a tax on the sale of imported grain. The farmers we polled agree with this position.” Uther held up his hand to halt the speech. The minister in charge of agriculture paused, his head turning to see who had entered.

“Arthur.” Uther acknowledged his son’s presence. “What is it?”

“There has been a break in, into the vault under the armoury. There are two items missing.”

Uther’s stood, his eyes fixed on Arthur. “You are dismissed, councillors.” Chairs and benches scraped across the tiles. The men gathered their scrolls and shuffled from the chamber. Once the door had closed behind them, Uther gestured to Arthur to join him at the table. He took the seat to his father’s right.

“What articles are missing?” he demanded, reaching for a glistening pitcher sitting on a tray in the middle of the table and pouring mead into two cups. He handed one to Arthur.

“A key, and two boxes from inside the cupboard. I believe them all to be artifacts retrieved during the Pelinor Purge.”

Uther’s thick brows drew together, and he half rose from his chair. “The wand is gone? How did they get inside the vault?”

“The hinges were melted. I have never seen anything like it. I left Lancelot guarding the entrance until we can get a mason down to reset the door.”

“Do we know when this happened?” asked Uther.

“I would suspect that it was in the wee hours of the morning. It is the most logical time to attempt something so brazen. There is only a small guard that early in the day assigned to that area of the castle grounds. Father,” said Arthur, “I’d like to tackle this investigation, with your permission.”

Uther nodded, considering his son. “Magic is dangerous. Those that wield it would see us dead, and the church destroyed. Witchcraft has no place in a Christian kingdom. They would like nothing more than to lure us into a direct fight with them.”

“I know. But at some point, I must be tested. I must prove to the people, to the knights, and to you that I am fit to lead Camelot, as your successor. But mostly, I need to prove it to myself. I cannot hide from those who would use magic.”

“That is true, my son.” Uther stood, walking over to the open window to gaze down at the armoury door. He clasped his hands behind his back. The sun blazed across his face, sharpening the wrinkles creasing the corner of his eyes. Silence descended for the space of several minutes and then he nodded to himself. Turning back to Arthur, he said, “I agree. It is time you were given such a task. You will choose three knights to assist you in this quest. Track down the thief and return to me with the stolen items and the thief’s head.”

Arthur stood up, bowing to his father in acknowledgment of the command. “I will not disappoint you, Father. I will begin my investigation immediately.” He took two steps toward the door when his father’s voice stopped him.

“Arthur. Be careful.”

Arthur nodded, then left the chambers.