“Erm,” Gawain said, his eyes darting between them. That was a yes. When Percival burst into laughter, they all followed suit.
“What about Guinna’s knack for strategy?” Lancelot said. “That could be a gift … Though, if it is, it’s a load more boring than being able to make fire or heal people or whatnot.”
“No,” Gawain said. “If Guinevere had a gift, she wouldn’t have ended up queen.”
“Why not?” Vera asked.
“You must have been too young to remember,” he said quickly, his cover for Vera’s ignorance so smooth even Lancelot didn’t seem to notice it. “Right around the time you’d have been born, the Christian leaders near your familial home of the North Upton territories rounded up all children with the gift, no matter how powerful its manifestation, and sent them to vocational training to join the religious order. It was their attempt to respond to the foundation of the council of mages after the massacre of Dorchester. They wanted their own supreme board of power. And,” he added gravely, “they wanted all trace of magic away from their populations. A knee-jerk to the horror inflicted by—”
“Oh! I’ve got it!” Percival pointed at nothing in particular. “Lancelot’s like really lucky. Nobody ever died in battle when paired up with him. Come to think of it,” he turned to Lancelot, “it’s pretty damn brilliant to have you on the king’s detail.”
Lancelot snorted. “Thanks a lot, Perce. Let’s conveniently forget that I trained since childhood and have dedicated my whole life to being a soldier. Can’t be that I’m actually an excellent fighter. No, it’s got to be magic.”
Gawain eyed Lancelot appraisingly. “No one ever died when fighting at your side?”
He tipped his mug toward the mage. “Not once. Bit of a point of pride for me. But even in my big-headedness, I can acknowledge that much of that came down to luck.”
“That could be a gift,” Gawain said as he scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “Part of my theory about magic breaks that occur at an advanced age holds that even someone unaware of their dormant gift might exhibit latent magical traits. Like the specimen in Camelot—”
“His name is Grady,” Vera said with a glare.
He halted and, after a pause, stiffly nodded. “Thank you. Like Grady, yes. His father told me that he’d always been naturally inclined to woodworking. Of course, it’s not evidential proof, but the correlation between that and the manifestation of his power makes me wonder.”
Lancelot nudged Gawain with an elbow and gave his most winning smile. “You think I’ve got some fantastic power lying in wait?”
Gawain cast his eyes upward as he considered it. “Mm. Magic is clever, and I believe it deliberately hides. If you did have a gift, we’d actually make it far less likely to appear by telling you about it. Later life magic most commonly breaks via the necessity of a disaster.”
“There you have it,” Lancelot said. “My life has been in dire peril somewhere in the realm of hundreds of times, so if my incredible secret gift didn’t break during any of those instances, I’m fairly certain it doesn’t exist.”
“Seems about as likely as the original gifts’ existence,” Gawain admitted. “That’s to say; highly unlikely.”
“What are the original gifts?” Matilda asked. She leaned forward intently.
“Rumors, mostly. They’re the powers that have been in myths and stories all across the world. One tells of the power to bring the dead back to life, another invincibility, and there are many different versions of the gift of immortality, the fountain of youth. In the Greek stories, it’s ambrosia—”
Vera perked up as the threads connected. “The Holy Grail?”
Gawain turned to her, his sallow eyes suspicious. “How have you heard about that?”
Vera picked at the tabletop with her fingernail to stall for time. “They mentioned it at the monastery.” Ah. Even with Gawain aware of her memory loss, she had to be careful not to betray the time travel bit. She wasn’t sure how long her go-to excuse of “the monastery” would hold for all the things she shouldn’t know.
Gawain held his stare on Vera.
“What’s the Holy Grail?” Lancelot asked. Percival and Matilda were intrigued as well.
That answered one question. Arthur nor his knights had their sights on the grail. That part of the legend had to be false.
After a pause that felt longer to Vera than it was, Gawain answered. “It’s rumored to be the cup Jesus of Nazareth used in his last meal and that caught his blood as he died on the cross. It’s said to contain such gifts of immortality to those who drink from it, like all the other cultures’ stories. Same ends—different magical mechanisms to achieve them.”
“So, the item gives the power? You don’t even have to have the gift to receive it?” Matilda asked.
“That’s the myth,” Gawain said. “But there’s no logical truth behind it.”
“How can you be sure?” Percival said. “If so many people all over the world have come up with the same thing, maybe there’s something to it.”
“What do all people who live have in common?” Gawain asked. He waited, like a teacher hoping his pupils would rise to the occasion. When they didn’t, he forged on. “We’re all afraid of dying. That’s what frightened people do. They make up stories that make them feel better. In this case, humanity came up with a story of magic that can alleviate our biggest fear. It’s an appealing prospect to believe in, especially when times grow dark.
“Even the council of mages has been caught up in that thinking. But unless we have actual, concrete answers, magic as we know it is doomed. I’ve not gained much popularity by saying it, but someone has to address the situation honestly. Magic’s dying out. If it continues to dissipate at this rate, it will have completely disappeared from humanity within two generations. I’m not entirely certain the world can even survive without it.”
Vera shifted in her seat, at a loss for how her life in the future made sense in all of this. Lancelot watched her keenly, chin propped up on his hand, and raised his eyebrows when she met his eye.
“There’s a sect of mages who believe that the original gifts are our key to saving things.” Despite the topic’s gravity, Gawain’s voice remained dry. “They’re as deluded as whoever came up with the notion of original gifts in the first place. The notion that there’s a power out there that we might find and use to fix things in a markedly bleak situation is soothing. It’s also a farce.”
“So … that’s it?” Matilda asked. “We’re doomed?”
They stared at him in the heavy silence that followed, only broken when Percival let out a low whistle. “Sheesh, Gawain,” he said with a disbelieving laugh, “You’re a real riot at a party, aren’t you?”
“It might be hard to believe,” Gawain murmured, “but I haven’t been invited to many parties.”
They weren’t sure if he was joking until he looked up from his drink, and his sullen face bore a hesitant grin.
“A joke!” Lancelot yelled as he threw his hands in the air. They laughed and offered a toast to Gawain’s efforts at party conversation, an unofficial welcome to his presence among them. Vera wasn’t entirely sold on him after his theories rattled the purpose of her existence. But if Lancelot had made a friend of Gawain, that would be enough to call the man at least tolerable for the time being.
This last toast left many of their cups empty. Vera jumped up and began collecting their tankard handles between her fingers with the particular skill of a woman who’d waited tables since she was seventeen.