Free Corbenic by Catherine Fisher Page B

his own amazement Cal enjoyed all of it. The spicy food, the chipped plates, the warm, cluttered, comfortable room; after a while all of them stopped hurting him. Hawk lay on the sofa with his feet up and plate balanced on his chest, and Shadow sat cross-legged on the floor and fed the cat tidbits. They drank beer out of cans, and he told them. About the train, and the walk in the dark, and about Corbenic. It was strange; he didn’t know them, but he trusted them. He told them about Bron, the man’s tormented unhappiness, and about the great banquet. And then he told them about the Grail.
    At first Hawk chipped in, asking questions, but when Cal described the procession, the power of the shining cup, the spear that bled on the floor, he was silent. Except that in the curved reflection of the shield, Cal saw him glance at Shadow, and her shake of the head. He stopped, suspicious. “Have you heard this story before? From someone else?” He sat up. “Do you know about this place?”
    Shadow looked uneasy. “We’ve heard of it. Tell us the end. What happened after?”
    Cal put the plate down and picked at his sore hands. Then he said, “Nothing.”
    â€œNothing?”
    â€œBron . . . he seemed to want me to do something. Ask him something.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t?”
    â€œNo,” he whispered. The cat got up and wandered out, beyond the bright hangings. “I said I hadn’t seen anything.”
    The van was silent. Only the stove hissed, and the wind outside, over the castle walls. Suddenly, Cal looked up. “I know, I lied. It was . . . I just couldn’t understand what was going on. I thought it was . . . the drink. And in the morning, it was gone. As if it was all a dream.” He couldn’t explain. Not about his mother and her voices. Not about home.
    Shadow said, “Cal, listen to me. Have you tried to get back to this place?”
    â€œWhy should I?”
    She looked at Hawk. “Tell him.”
    The big man was sitting up now, his great arms folded over his chest. He looked grave. “There was once a King . . .” he said.
    â€œI don’t want some fairy tale!” Cal almost stood, but Hawk reached over and shoved him down, hard.
    â€œYou’re not getting one. This man was the ruler over a great country. In his castle were secrets, terrible secrets. He was the guardian of the Grail, a cup that held great mysteries, some say a cauldron, or the chalice of the Last Supper. Also the Lance, the Sword, the Stone; ancient Hallows. The Grail came to this island centuries ago, and while the King was whole the land was at peace. But these things are dangerous, they give pain as well as joy. It happened that the King was wounded by a blow from the Lance itself, and completely crippled, and his pain . . . it infected all the land. The country became a waste land. Desolate. Wintry. The people’s hearts became hard.”
    â€œDon’t tell me,” Cal sneered. “Murders and muggings and sink estates. Pollution, pornography. Drugs. Right?”
    â€œIn one.” Hawk wouldn’t let him go; the man’s hand was heavy, a hard grip. “It might not be like that in Otter’s Brook, my son, but not everyone’s as privileged as you. And the King moaned and wept but he couldn’t be cured, he can never be cured, until someone comes, someone they all wait for.”
    â€œAnd he spends his time fishing, and they call him the Fisher King?” Cal twisted away. “Get real. I thought you were different but you’re not. You’re just winding me up.” It was all wrong. They didn’t believe him. He should never have told them. And Bron’s words were whispering in his ear. You ask me. That’s all you need to do. Ask me about what you saw.
    Shadow knelt up and put her drink down; her fingernails were black too, with delicate crystals stuck on her nails. “We’re not. Listen to