chipped away, leaving tiny gaps. He tried to peer through to the other side, hoping to see whoever it was that spoke to him, but he saw nothing.
“Lad, you there?” the deep voice questioned.
“I am.”
“Good, good, I am pleased to make your acquaintan—”
“Of course he is there,” a third, angrier man rasped. “You heard him, did you not, Uter?”
“Leave Uter be, Ambrosius,” the boyish voice squeaked.
“My apologies, Sir Wart,” Ambrosius mocked.
“How long have you guys been here?” Bran asked, suddenly happy to have someone—anyone—to talk to.
“Too long.”
“Indeed,” Uter agreed with Ambrosius. “Far too long. With any hope in the Lady, you will not be imprisoned for as long as we have been. Still, all those throughout Annwn under the boot of the false king are as we—in need of retribution from his ills and evils.”
“My sword Caledfwlch shall deliver more than retribution,” Ambrosius spat. “If I am freed, I will speak an oath on it!”
“You heard my conversation with Philip then?” Bran asked.
“We heard it,” Ambrosius growled. “Could not help but overhear that prat.”
“His time will come, Ambrosius,” Uter allayed. “As surely as our own will. Now is not the time for anger however. Now is the time for planning.”
Bran didn’t know what to think. The two men and young boy had obviously known one another for some time, imprisoned together. Uter seemed to be a highly educated man, possessing the calm demeanor of diplomacy. Ambrosius sounded the opposite, driven by emotions, an impatient warrior. Wart could not have been more than ten; why Philip had need to jail a youth was beyond Bran. He could not believe the three of them could fit comfortably in the shared cell if it was the same size as the one Bran occupied.
“Why have you all been imprisoned?” Bran questioned.
“For the knowledge we possess,” Ambrosius mumbled.
“How so?”
“Caer Llion is our castle,” Uter responded. “It was taken from us.”
“Your castle?”
“We saw the first stone laid, lived in it, lorded over it,” Uter answered. “The knights of my table were chivalrous and courageous, and the lay of the land respected the law of love. The false king stole it and Annwn when he brought his ilk here, quite uninvited. Plantagenet has ever kept us here, in his dungeon, to revel in his victory, I believe.”
“Damnable Plantagenet,” Ambrosius hissed.
Bran once again didn’t know who to trust. From what he had seen of it, Caer Llion was an ancient fortress. For Uter to have seen its creation meant he had lived for a very long time.
Then again, Philip had lived a long time.
“Philip took Caer Llion from you then,” Bran said thoughtfully.
“He is an ugly, ugly man,” Wart said a bit petulantly. “Not very nice at all.”
“True words, Sir Wart,” Ambrosius concurred.
“You cannot join with him,” Uter added. “He would use you as he uses all. With the power of Lancelot’s blade granted you by the Lady, it would increase Philip’s power a thousand fold. He will keep you alive as long as it suits him. Word and Lady willing, freedom will be your own and you can fight his evil once more.”
“And gain the pretty cup back,” Wart piped in with a tiny voice.
“Cup?” Bran asked, startled. “You mean the Grail?”
“Wait,” Ambrosius said sharply. “Listen!”
Bran did so, straining. He heard nothing.
“I hear noth—”
Then Bran did hear it. It was a sound but also a tremor in the wall behind his back, growing in intensity until the castle darkly hummed with it. It sounded like the great stone blocks of the castle were toppling above, as though a bulldozer drove through them.
“It comes,” the Ambrosius said.
“What does?” Bran questioned, bewildered by what could be happening.
“Freedom.”
The rumbling continued like an avalanche and became still. Shouts of bewilderment and pain followed. Outside his cell the manic voices of warriors echoed, the soldiers Philip had placed in the dungeon not far away. Whatever was going on up above had set Caer Llion ablaze with confusion, arousing the occupants of the castle into a frenzy.
The sounds of far-off battle filled the silence. And came closer.
Minutes passed.
Before Bran could figure out what was happening, the locking mechanism to his cell clicked. Suddenly the door opened.
No one entered.
Bran stood still, trying to get a glimpse out into the hallway, when an invisible vice encircled his forearm and held it in place.
Bran tried to pull away. “What the hell—”
“Relax, outworlder,” a voice smelling of beer growled. “Let me free you.”
“Ardall, you are alive! Amazing that!” Snedeker exclaimed, hovering at the cell entrance. The fairy