“Well, I’m sure I’m not as good at kissing you,” I say with a laugh.
His face turns red again, and he laughs. “Apples to oranges,” he murmurs, which makes my own face heat up.
That single kiss had been a clumsy thing, borne of adolescent curiosity and frustration that the others always treated us like we were inexperienced children compared to them. It had lasted only a few seconds before we broke apart, laughing until our stomachs ached.
It was a perfectly fine first kiss for both of us, all things considered, but Arthur was right, it was incomparable to a kiss with a person you truly want in that way. And that has never been what Arthur and I are to each other, simpler as it might have made things.
Which is why I take one of the pillows from my armchair and throw it at his head.
He catches it deftly with a grin. “I’m not talking about that, though . . . well, not just that. I just miss her, especially here. This place isn’t what I expected. It’s so gloomy and cold. I think it needs her, in a way. It needs her light.”
The yearning in his voice tugs at my heart. He isn’t the only one who misses Gwen.
“We leave for Lyonesse in two days. If our travels go to plan, we’ll be there in a week. And then there will be only one test separating you from the throne.”
He nods slowly, and when he smiles, he doesn’t look like a king. He doesn’t even look like a prince. He just looks like a boy, the boy I’ve known since I was thirteen years old, with his freckled face and curious eyes.
“I trust you, El,” he says.
* * *
THE THING ABOUT Avalon is that no one can truly prepare you for it. A million words—even a billion—might paint a vivid picture, but there is no combination of words in this world that can do it justice.
On the boat ride there, Morgana tried to describe it to me, and she did as good a job as anyone was capable of. She told me about the rolling fields full of every flower imaginable, the forests so lush that not a single sunbeam could get through the leaves, the beaches where turquoise waves rolled in, bringing shells that shone like jewels. She told me it was the most beautiful place in the world.
All of that was true, but there were things no amount of explanation could have prepared me for—like the way the paths that wove through the forests would often change depending on the time of day or the weather or the mood of the sprites who called it home. Or how mermaids lived in the lakes and rivers and sea, how they were just as likely to give you pearls as they were to pull you into the water and drown you. Or about the fey themselves, how some looked as human as Morgana and me, but others had skin in a rainbow of hues, or wings sprouting from their backs, or cloven feet and horns. Some, in fact, had all of that and more.
I don’t think Morgana really understood that those were things she should have told me. Avalon was home to her, and so the things that seemed strangest to me were perfectly commonplace to her. Many times, I would ask her something and she would respond with a blank stare and a bewildered explanation that left me with more questions than answers.
I learned quickly that there was no one better at answering questions than Arthur.
At first, he intimidated me, even though he was younger and barely came up to my shoulder. He was quiet and soft-spoken, a whisper among the shouts of the others and easily lost in any crowd, but he was still Arthur. Still the lost prince I had heard about so much he was more myth than anything else, and there he was—just a boy with his nose buried in a book and his head always in the clouds.
He didn’t know what to make of me at first, a strange girl in a strange land where he had grown up knowing everyone, and I suppose that feeling was mutual. I never knew what to say to him. What does a person say to someone they know to be their future king? I stuttered and stumbled over my words. I always felt like I should curtsy or call him Your Highness, though the first time I did, he looked like he wanted to die of embarrassment and Morgana continued to mockingly call him that for the rest of the day.
One day, though, I asked him a question and that changed everything.
“Is it always this cool here?” I asked. “It was the middle of summer when I left Camelot and sweltering hot.”
We were at lunch, and Morgana, Gwen, and Lancelot hadn’t arrived yet, so it was only the two of us. Arthur was reading a book about the flora and fauna of Avalon, but when I spoke, he looked up from it, blinking like he’d just been dragged out of a deep sleep. When he registered my question, though, he put the book down spine up and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His eyes grew wide and bright.
“It’s a fascinating phenomenon, really,” he said. “Part magic, part science. You see, because we’re so close to the water, we get the benefit of the ocean breeze, which you don’t get in Camelot because it’s so landlocked. But it’s also to do with the island itself. It regulates its temperatures all on its own—you’ll see it more when winter comes. The most you’ll need is a light cape to ward off the chill.”
I considered this. Even though I’d been on Avalon a week at that point and seen magic with my own eyes plenty of times, the idea of it was still strange and intangible to me.
“Is it some kind of spell?” I asked him. “Does Nimue cast it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so, no,” he said. “There was a book I read—mostly a log of tide patterns from a few hundred years ago, but there was a section in it about the weather. It claimed it was the island itself that regulated the weather. It’s why the rain is so controlled here as well—we never have droughts, but we also never have floods. Sometimes you’ll see a storm far out in the distance, but it never comes here. It actually moves around the island, as if there’s some sort of barrier protecting it.”
His face lit up as he spoke, and I found myself leaning forward, desperate to hear him speak more, even if it was only about the weather.
“Do you ever get used to it?” I asked him. “Magic, I mean?”
As far as I could tell, Arthur was the only one on Avalon without a drop of fay blood, without a hint of any kind of magic. Morgana had her spells and potions, Gwen had her control over nature, Lancelot was faster and stronger than any human could be . . . but Arthur was only Arthur, hopelessly human in every way.
He shrugged. “I think a person can get used to anything if they’re around it enough,” he said. “And I’ve been around it for as long as I can remember.”
“You don’t remember Camelot at all?” I pressed.
He frowned at that, as if trying to search his memory. “I remember . . . shadows of things. Hazy images, flashes of feelings. Every so often, something comes back, but it usually slips through my fingers again. I was only two when I left.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say, but before I could say anything, he looked up at me, something shy and tentative in his expression.
“Will you . . .” He trailed off, chewing on his bottom lip. “Will you tell me about it?” he asked. “Camelot, I mean. Or Albion in general. There are so many books in the library here, but most of them are about Avalon or magic or the fey. The ones that are about the mainland are mostly old, and even when they aren’t, there’s a distance to them. They’re all written by fey, so they read like an observer’s account of a place and its people. It’s hard to get a real feel for it through them.”
“You want me to tell you about Albion,” I said slowly.
He shrugged, giving me a small, secret smile. “It’s my home, after all. Why shouldn’t I be curious about it?”
As I would find out, Arthur was curious about everything. Anytime I answered one question, he always had five more at the ready. And as I told him about Albion, about Camelot, about court, he told me about Avalon. He showed me the island in a way that Morgana hadn’t been able to, with patience and a sense of wonder.
15
THE DINING ROOM in the royal wing is large and a
iry, anchored by a table that holds only six people, as opposed to the five long tables in the banquet hall that can hold fifty people each. For all the grandeur of the room—the large windows overlooking the forest, the tapestries threaded with gold and silver, the crystal chandelier overhead, the gilt plates and bowls that set the table—this is a space that few people in the palace ever have the opportunity to see.
I never thought that I would be one of them, but here I am, sitting at Arthur’s right hand, just across from Lancelot.
Though there is nothing strange about the three of us eating together, the surreal nature of the surroundings is only amplified by the presence of Morgause and Mordred.
The seat next to me remains empty, though I’d expected Mordred to take it. I admit I was relieved when he didn’t, opting instead for the foot of the table directly opposite Arthur. It was an unmistakable show of power, a way of asserting himself as Arthur’s equal, and I’m sure even Lancelot with his limited knowledge of court etiquette can feel the chill that hangs over the table.
Arthur is the first to speak, lifting his gold goblet of wine with a congenial smile.
“It is so wonderful to be back home, with family,” he says, nodding toward Mordred and Morgause. “Thank you for coming tonight. I did feel terrible for interrupting your coronation like I did. The timing was regrettable.”
Mordred returns Arthur’s smile. “Regrettable, yes, but as Merlin said, it is important to be thorough.”
“Of course,” Arthur agrees.
Morgause sips from her own goblet with pursed lips. “And yet . . . we aren’t with all of our family, are we?” she asks, her voice lilting and slippery. “My dear sister couldn’t join us?”
“Morgana was feeling indisposed,” I say, which is true enough.
If I have to have dinner and watch those two hold hands or kiss or whatnot, I’ll be sick, she’d told me when I invited her. Maiden, Mother, and Crone, he’s our stepbrother.
From what I’d gathered over the last few days at court, Morgause and Mordred’s marriage barely raised an eyebrow when it happened two years ago. Even though they shared no blood, they were related through marriage, and were siblings at that. Mordred’s natural father had raised Morgause as his own since she was practically an infant. Still, at the time, Uther was without a proper heir—only a ward and a bastard. It made perfect sense for them to consolidate that power.
“Pity,” Morgause says, though there is no pity in her voice. Only boredom and a thimbleful of venom.
“I’m glad that your girl could finally make room for us in your busy schedule,” Mordred says with barely a glance at me. He slouches down in his high-backed chair with his goblet held carelessly in his hand. Though tonight’s dinner is a casual affair, he wears a gold-trimmed doublet with heavy rings on all his fingers and a jewel-encrusted chain around his neck.
When they walked in, Lancelot leaned in to whisper to me, If I threw him in the moat, I reckon he would sink straight to the bottom.
By the end of the night, we may need to put that theory to the test, I’d whispered back, fighting a bout of laughter.
“Lady Elaine is my adviser,” Arthur says, and though his voice is smooth enough, there is a sharp edge to it. “Not my girl.”
If we were on Avalon, I would put a hand on his arm to calm him. Mordred is trying to get a rise out of him, that’s all. But such a gesture—small as it may be—would lead to wagging tongues in the morning, and those rumors would do neither of us any favors.
“It has been a very busy few days,” I cut in before Arthur can say more. I try on an apologetic smile, though I don’t bother trying to make it look genuine. “It seems that everyone at court is eager to offer Arthur allegiance since his return. It’s been very tiring, I’m sure you can imagine.”
Mordred’s smile is tight, his gray eyes darkening until they are nearly black. “I’m sure I can,” he says before turning back to Arthur. “When do you leave for Lyonesse?” he asks.
“The day after tomorrow, at dawn,” Arthur says. “It’s a week’s journey, so we should return just outside the fortnight.”
Morgause’s eyebrows arch. “So soon?” she asks. “Lyonesse has been resistant to joining Albion for decades. Surely it will take longer than a few days to persuade them, far longer if you have to resort to force.”
Arthur shrugs his shoulders, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’ll forgive me, dear sister, if I don’t divulge my plan quite yet.”
Mordred sips his wine, watching Arthur over the rim of the goblet, calculating. “As Uther was fond of saying, a strategy is only as good as the men you have at your side. I have to say, I do worry in that regard. After all, you have no men at your side—just two women and one of the fey.”
Lancelot blinks, surprised to find so much attention suddenly on him. I suppose he’s gotten used to largely fading into the background and letting Arthur and me do the talking while he merely looks intimidating.
“I beg your pardon?” he says, sitting up.
“I’ll thank you not to insult my advisers,” Arthur interrupts before Lancelot can say something he’ll regret.
“Your advisers,” Mordred says with a scoff, the thin veneer of gentility slipping away. “Your advisers are a lady with a reputation for madness, a witch so cowardly she won’t leave her tower, and one of our own enemies.”
“I didn’t realize I was anyone’s enemy, my lord,” Lancelot says, derision dripping from his voice. “If you’re referring to the war with Avalon, I was only just born at the end of it. And at least in Avalon, I was raised not to insult women without cause. I’d heard Albion was a chivalrous place, but I’m beginning to think I was mistaken.”
Lancelot keeps his voice level, but as he speaks, Mordred’s face turns red. Before he can reply, Morgause gets there first.
“And here I always believed that to the fey, a stretch of twenty years was little more than a blink,” she drawls. “There are many in Albion who believe the truce that ended the war was nothing more than a child’s promise to the fey, that they are lying in wait, biding their time. That they, perhaps, insisted on raising a human king to be their pawn so they could one day take their revenge.” She pauses, idly toying with the stem of her wineglass, her eyes falling on me as her smirk widens. “And I do believe that Albion and Avalon have very different definitions of womanhood.”
“That’s enough,” Arthur says, his voice too full and booming to have come from his lanky body. “I’ll hear no disparagement of any of my advisers or Avalon in my presence, not even from family.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I want so badly to reach out and clamp my hand over his mouth, to stop him from speaking, from giving them exactly what they hoped for. On Avalon, I would have, but here all I can do is clench my teeth and clutch the arms of my chair and wait for it to be over.
Mordred smirks, running his finger around the rim of his goblet while looking at Arthur with glittering eyes.
“Spoken as a true champion of the fey,” he says.
For a second I think Arthur might snap at him, might throw all of his regal behavior out the window and leap across the table to pummel him. Instead, though, he takes a deep breath.
“Spoken as the future king of a country with citizens who are both human and fay, as well as a good amount who are both. I don’t intend to be king of the humans, or king of the fey for that matter. I intend to be king of Albion and everyone who calls it home. Otherwise, we run the risk—no, the absolute certainty—of finding ourselves at war again. That, Lord Mordred, is why my father sent me to Avalon, to ensure that I had one foot in each domain so that I could rule over both.
“And you were right, sister,” he adds to Morgause. “The fey have long memories. If war comes again, make no mistake: They will wipe us out. I don’t intend to let that happen.”
Silence follows his words and l
ingers for the rest of the meal, though my stomach is so tied in knots that I can’t eat more than a few bites. When the dessert wine is poured, Mordred drinks it down in a single gulp before setting the goblet down so hard that I fear he’ll have left a mark on the oak table.
“You get ahead of yourself, brother,” Mordred says finally. “You have two tests left, and the last few battalions we’ve sent to Lyonesse haven’t returned. I wouldn’t start picking out my coronation robes yet, if I were you. You might be better off picking out a funeral shroud.”
* * *
WHEN DINNER ENDS and the others disperse, Lancelot lingers. Suddenly, the cavernous dining hall feels too small, its wall pressing in on every side of me. Though there are servants who will sweep in at any moment to clear the table, I busy myself with stacking the plates, gathering the goblets, anything to keep from facing him.
It is one thing to talk to him with Arthur as a buffer, when we are only a group of friends and neither of us can say anything beyond that. But alone? With wine and fury and fear of what Lyonesse will bring rushing through my veins? That is another story entirely.
His hand comes over mine, over the plate I’m holding, and I drop it. It crashes to the stone floor below, shattering into gold-painted shards.
“Sorry,” Lancelot says. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
He trails off, dropping down to gather the broken pieces. As I watch him, a strange thought occurs to me: He’s as nervous as I am. Cool, collected Lancelot, who never stumbles over words, who never trails off his sentences and rarely apologizes, and here he is, all aflutter.
“Be careful, it’s sharp—” I say, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, he lets out a hiss of pain and drops one of the pieces. A line of red wells up on his palm, and he closes his hand tight over it.
I take a clean napkin from the empty seat next to me and drop down beside him, holding out my hand. After a second, he gives me his, and I wrap the napkin around his palm.
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