The boar snorted. And again. And again—in a quickening rhythm like a battle drum before it charged. Grady scrambled backward until he could scramble no further when his back hit the wall behind him. He raised his arms helplessly in front of his face.
Oh God. She couldn’t watch, but she couldn’t turn away. Vera dropped to her knees with a cry, not feeling the sting of rocks digging into them, only a rush of burning sensation over her skin that did not come from the winter air. Even if Grady didn’t know she was there, even if it was horrendous, Vera would not look away. She would not abandon him to die without someone who cared for him at least bearing witness. A distant part of her noted what a dismal thought this was, but the heat raging through her scorched it to ash.
When the boar was about to slam into him, when Grady should have been taking his last breaths, there was something else. It started at Grady’s chest and exploded out from there—a blue-white disk of light that burst from him with a colossal exhale of wind, so powerful that the boar was tossed in the air like a rag doll, thrown onto its back. The explosion sent a shockwave like a string threaded through them all, stretched tight and thrummed. If the beast hadn’t been stunned by the impossibility of what had happened, it still would have struggled to find Grady.
Every loose piece of wood, be it the handle of a tool, a spare board, or even a wagon for hay, zipped toward Grady and formed a wall in front of him. It gave Lancelot and Percival time to get to the dazed boar and swiftly end it.
Vera ran to catch up with Arthur. They were all left staring at an unharmed Grady behind his makeshift fortress. He stared at it in shock.
“Looks like somebody used their gift for you,” Percival called over as he tied the dead hog’s feet together. Vera caught Arthur’s eyes and knew he’d seen it all, too.
“I—I did it,” Grady said in awe. To confirm it, he swiped his hand, and all the gathered wall clumsily disassembled into a pile in the dirt. “I felt like something in my body exploded and then …” He shook his head, and his jaw hung slack. “I knew I could do it. I knew I could, and I knew how.”
“That’s not possible,” Percival said. His eyes searched the gathered men for answers. “That—powers don’t just show up. You have to be born with them.”
No one present had ever seen someone exhibit a new gift after infancy, but there was no denying it. Impossible or not, Grady now had magic, a gift that had saved his life.
The story of the hunt gone wrong and its aftermath tore through town as quickly as the boar itself. The horn’s call, mistaken for the end of the hunt, was meant to be a series of emergency blasts warning that the beast had broken loose, but it was cut short by sharp tusks to the crier’s gut. Thanks to the quick work of Gawain, who had arrived barely in time to keep the man on this side of the brink of death, the crier would survive.
The next morning, before their departure to Glastonbury, Arthur sent Percival out to find the mage and bring him back so the king might thank him, but it wasn’t so easy a task.
“Well, I found him after searching the whole bloody castle and half the village.” Percival rolled his eyes. “And you aren’t going to believe this, but he flat-out refused to come. Said he was too busy.”
Annoyance flashed through Arthur’s eyes, but Vera saw the way his lips tugged up at the corner.
They decided to go find Gawain themselves.
Percival led Arthur and Vera straight to the training field and past the keep-away pit. At first, Vera thought that Percival got it wrong. She didn’t see anyone, save the townsfolk, who all cast disconcerted glances toward the spot where Grady had nearly been killed yesterday. Was it superstition that captivated their attention? Nothing was there—
Vera’s thoughts screeched to a stop as she saw a man in a dingy brown robe crawling in the dirt. Gawain.
Percival cleared his throat. Gawain ignored him.
“Mage Gawain,” Arthur called.
“Yes,” he said, barely audible as he lowered the side of his face to examine the ground without so much as glancing at Arthur.
Percival stared at Gawain, aghast as his eyes narrowed. “Mage Gawain,” he barked. “Your king addresses you. Another ruler would lock you in the stocks for far less than this display of disrespect.”
He blinked as he sat up.
“I was supplicant on the ground, was I not?” he asked dryly, only addressing Percival.
“Yes,” Percival said with exasperation as he gestured toward Arthur. “And yet you continue to ignore your king and queen.”
Gawain’s sunken eyes stayed on Percival for a long moment. Percival’s face reddened. He might have even stopped breathing. Arthur looked on in bemused silence.
“You’re right,” Gawain muttered. He cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I apologize.” He sounded about as engaged as if he was reading the phone book. Vera wished Lancelot was there to witness it because she would swear that Gawain’s scowl deepened as he addressed her. “And to you, my queen.”
She dipped into a poor curtsy, expecting that to be the end of it. But he kept his shadowy eyes on her like he was making a silent accusation.
“Why didn’t you come when summoned?” Arthur asked, his tone even as he cocked his head to the side.
“An unprecedented magical break happened right here yesterday.” Gawain dropped his face back to the ground, resuming his study of the ordinary-looking dirt. “Magic leaves a trace, but it doesn’t linger. I couldn’t afford to delay.”
Percival scoffed loudly.
“What are you hoping to find?” Arthur asked.
