“They say you’re hiding,” I tell her, tying a neat bow at the small of her back and looking at her in the mirror, looking at us, standing together. Two sides of the same coin, just as Nimue said. So different, but with the same heart. “They say you’re frightened. That you’re ashamed of something—though what you’re ashamed of changes depending on who’s doing the telling. Warts, sometimes, or a sixth finger. I heard someone swear that you returned to court impregnated with a fay child and that the pregnancy has turned you blue.”
She gives a snort of laughter. “People are morons, El,” she says, but her eyes are guarded and hard.
“Maybe,” I say, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. “Last night, Mordred called you a coward for not attending dinner.”
She frowns, the energy between us shifting.
“He said that?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous. “He called me a coward?”
I nod, making her wince when my chin digs into her shoulder. She doesn’t shrug me off, though.
“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’ll attend this ceremony, but don’t expect me to be happy about it.”
I squeeze her waist and plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “I would never dare.”
* * *
I’D BEEN TO Choosing of the Knights ceremonies before, though they always felt more like excuses for a banquet than events in their own right. In my memory, they were tedious affairs, but at least quickly done with. I remember King Uther overseeing things, instructing whichever lord or earl or foreign prince he was sending on a quest to choose his men.
Though the choice, I felt, had always been made beforehand. Whoever was leading the quest knew who he wanted and listed the names one after the other. When each knight heard his name, he would come forward to bow and swear fealty to the leader and vow to see the quest through to its end, no matter the outcome.
As I follow Arthur down the palace steps and into the bustling courtyard, I hold a worn piece of parchment tightly in my hand. It had been folded and unfolded so many times over the last few days that it was in danger of falling apart altogether. On it, Lancelot had scrawled the names of fifty men who, in his estimation, would make the best team to venture into Lyonesse with.
Fifty men. That was all we would be given. Merlin expected us to conquer a wild, monster-infested country with only fifty men.
Or maybe he didn’t expect that at all. Maybe he expected we would fail, and didn’t intend on throwing any more soldiers than necessary into the mix.
It didn’t matter, though, if we had fifty men or a thousand; the treaty with Lyonesse would be signed either way.
Still, I would have preferred a larger team. A larger team would mean more men—many of them the sons of noblemen—to give their loyalty to Arthur, to follow him, to call him king. It would have meant more support, which is something we desperately need.
But fifty men is all we will get, and so we will make do.
The courtyard is full of people—noble, judging by the array of fine silks and jewels that glitter in the light of the afternoon sun—all gathered around the arrangement of knights in polished armor, lined up in too many rows to count, shoulder to shoulder.
We seem to be the last to arrive. Merlin is already waiting on the dais at the center of the square, dressed in ink-blue velvet robes, his white hair bound back with a leather tie.
Before Arthur joins him on the dais, I press the piece of parchment into his palm, and he gives me a grateful if somewhat anxious smile. As natural as Arthur has always seemed when he speaks before a crowd, I’ll never understand how he gets so nervous beforehand.
“You’ll do fine,” I say. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
He gives a quick nod before turning away and starting up the steps of the dais to join Merlin while Lancelot, Morgana, and I gather at the front of the crowd, so close to the gathered knights that the smell of their sweat is nauseating. I try to hide my discomfort, but Morgana makes no effort to do the same. She covers her nose with the sleeve of her gray gown.
“Thank you for joining me this morning,” Arthur says, looking around at the crowd. I take a moment to do the same, my eyes catching on some familiar faces. Several of the dukes and lords and earls I’ve dined with the past few days, the young ladies they tried to present to Arthur during audiences, all dressed up in gowns a touch too elaborate for the occasion, various jewels and beading glittering in the pale morning sun. My eyes linger on Mordred and Morgause, standing a few feet to the left of me, both wearing cloaks trimmed in ermine, a matching set of dolls—the kind whose eyes seem to follow you eerily across the room.
“Tomorrow I will embark on a quest to fulfill my father’s dying wish—for a united Albion. I will not return to Camelot until that quest is completed and I have truly earned the right to be called his son and heir.”
He scans the rows of knights with alert eyes, though he can’t make out any of their faces. They are all wearing helmets with the visors down.
“You are Camelot’s best and brightest,” he continues. “The pride of our kingdom, the heart of our country. It will be an honor to have you by my side in this quest, and I wish that I could take all of you with me, but I will limit my group to fifty men.”
He unfolds the parchment, and I hope that I’m the only one who notices how his hands shake ever so slightly.
Clearing his throat, he looks out at the crowd once more and announces the first name.
“Sir Caradoc.”
Lancelot leans toward me, his voice low as we both watch a knight in the front row step forward.
“He’s one of the best I’ve seen,” Lancelot says. “Plus, the younger son of another king of some kind. Nates, I think?”
I nod. Nates is a small island kingdom off Albion’s eastern coast. Their king swore fealty to Uther before I was born, and they’ve been part of Albion ever since.
Sir Caradoc pushes up his visor. “I thank you, sir, for your request. It humbles me. But I must decline.”
I jerk away from Lancelot. In all my years of seeing the Choosing of the Knights, I have never seen a knight decline. I didn’t even think that was permitted. A quick sideways glance at Mordred and his insufferable and unsurprised smirk, though, and the truth of it hits me—Sir Caradoc is his.
For his part, Arthur doesn’t stumble. He inclines his head toward Sir Caradoc, who lowers his visor once more and steps back in line.
“Sir Palamedes,” Arthur calls next.
Another knight steps forward, and again, Lancelot leans toward me.
“He’s older—in his forties, perhaps, but he’s good and the men all respect him.”
I barely hear him, though. All of my attention is on Sir Palamedes as he lifts his visor. Even before he speaks, my stomach is sinking. I don’t need to scry to know what will happen next.
“I thank you, sir, for your request. It humbles me. But I must decline.”
There’s no denying Mordred’s grin now. He is practically beaming as uncertainty works its way into Arthur’s features. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and frowns at the sheet of parchment as if maybe he’s misreading it.
“You didn’t plan this, did you?” Lancelot asks me.
“Of course she didn’t,” Morgana hisses before I can answer.
“I didn’t ask any of them if they would join Arthur. Should I have?” he continues, frowning.
“It’s never been necessary,” I say, though all of my attention is on Arthur. “It’s a formality—knights always go where they’re told. They don’t choose their assignments based on politics or familial loyalty.”
“But that’s exactly what they’re doing,” Morgana says, peering around me to glare at her sister and Mordred. “He must have offered them something significant.”
Arthur tries three more names, but each knight�
�Sir Dinadan, Sir Ector, and Sir Safir—all say the same as the other two. They thank Arthur for his request. They are humbled by it. They must decline.
After Sir Safir steps back in line and lowers his visor, Arthur crumples the piece of parchment in his hand. Though frustration and mortification are burning through every inch of me, Arthur looks calm. He gazes out at the assembly of knights.
“There are many admirable qualities in knights,” he says. “Bravery, valiance, a strategic and sharp mind. I have no doubt that none of you would be standing before me if you didn’t possess each of those qualities in abundance. And so the only quality that matters to me today is this: a willingness to follow me, to see my father’s wish fulfilled, to unite our entire continent under one flag, one crown, one rule. I know that I ask a lot—traveling to a dangerous land where few have ever dared go and from which fewer still have returned. I know that I am only asking for the bravest of men to follow me.”
A glint of admiration flashes through me. Well done, Arthur, I think, using their pride against them. Let it be said the men who refused to follow you are cowards without ever actually saying the words yourself. I didn’t know he had it in him.
Arthur continues. “If you are willing to accompany me, please step forward. The rest of you are dismissed.”
Silence follows his words, and fear coils in my belly. No one will join him. Mordred wooed them all to his side. He orchestrated this whole event not just to kill Arthur’s chances at succeeding but to fully humiliate him, to tell Arthur and the entire court that he does not belong here, that he is not someone who is worth following.
Morgana’s hand finds mine, and she squeezes it tightly, her eyes glued on Arthur.
“They’re all fools,” she says through tight lips. “They should be falling all over themselves to follow him. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for just one strike against my sister, one opportunity to rake my claws over her fa—”
“Shh,” I say, my eyes finding one knight who steps forward on uncertain feet. He isn’t in the front row, or the second, or the third. He stands back in the fifth row. He pushes up his visor, and the sight of his face feels like being struck by a bolt of lightning.
I know that face, even though I’ve never met him before, not in person.
“I will fight beside you,” the knight says, and I recognize his voice straightaway as well. I’ve heard it in my visions, swearing loyalty to Arthur; I’ve heard him scream like death itself when he’s held Arthur’s cold body in his arms.
Arthur smiles. “I would be honored, sir. Would you tell me your name?”
“Gawain, Your Highness,” he says. “Our mothers were sisters, but we never had the chance to meet.”
“Well, cousin, I am glad to rectify that now. Are there any others?”
One by one, more knights step forward, pushing up their visors. I catch a few names here and there, but not close to all of them. I do see, though, that none of them are in the first few rows—most lingering near the back, where I assume the newest recruits stand, or the ones who have already been tested and been found lacking.
“How many is that?” I ask.
Lancelot, the only one of us tall enough to manage a good view, does a quick count—too quick—in his head before frowning.
“Nine,” he says. “Only nine knights.”
* * *
WHEN THE CHOOSING is over and the crowd dissipates, I linger between Lancelot and Morgana, watching Sir Gawain. He must feel my eyes on him because he turns and meets my gaze. I hold it until he disappears into the crowd, trying not to think of another time I felt those eyes on mine, desperate and wild and bright with unshed tears.
“Elaine?” Lancelot says, drawing me out of my thoughts, his expression perplexed.
“What did you observe of him?” I ask Lancelot. “Sir Gawain?”
He considers it for a second, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s green, but he has promise, I suppose. Passion but not precision—but precision can be learned and he’s young.”
“Not so young,” I say. “I would wager he’s around Arthur’s age.”
“He wasn’t on your list?” Morgana asks him.
“No,” Lancelot says after a pause. “None of them were, the ones who offered. A few of them have some promise, but none of them are trained. None of them are ready for Lyonesse.”
“Well, they’ll have to be,” I say, as if it’s that simple. “And it isn’t as though we’re bringing them to war, are we? They’re an escort party, nothing more. They can manage that, I assume?”
Lancelot hesitates before nodding. “They’ll do,” he says.
“Good,” I tell him. “Will you fetch Sir Gawain and bring him to breakfast?” I ask, stepping down from the dais with both of them at my heels.
“Why?” Lancelot asks.
Because he’s important. Because when the rest of us fall, he will remain. Because he is a missing piece and we need him.
But I can’t tell him any of that.
“You heard him—he’s Arthur’s cousin, and Morgana’s as well, for that matter. He is one of our only noble connections, and after Mordred’s display of power out there, we need all the connections we can get.”
* * *
AFTER THE BATTLE is won, after Arthur is betrayed, after that sword plunges into his back, cutting clear through to his stomach, Gawain will be the one to carry him. He will support him, all on his own, for miles. He will do his best to clean the wound, to keep Arthur awake, to lessen his pain, but he will know it won’t be enough. Which is why he will bring him to the shore, why he will call for me.
Sometimes, I come alone. Other times it is Guinevere or Morgana with me. Sometimes, it is all of us, together, who bring our boat to the shore. It will be a hard journey through the mist, but it’s for Arthur, and so we won’t hesitate to make it.
In a low, hushed voice, Gawain will tell me what happened, but he won’t need to. I’ll have seen it already myself, with my own eyes, but I will know that they are words he will need to say himself in order to make sense of them, in order to believe them.
When he asks me to save Arthur, his voice will crack like an adolescent’s. When I tell him I’m not sure I can, he will shake his head.
“You can,” he will say, his voice unwavering. “You will.”
I won’t correct him, but I won’t make promises that I can’t keep either. Even if I wanted to, the words wouldn’t pass my lips.
Together, we will lift Arthur into the boat. If Gwen and Morgana are there, they will stay with him, stroking his hair, murmuring comforting words, uttering spells that are barely more effective than a mother kissing her child’s scraped knee.
Numbness will overtake me as I steer the boat back out, back to Avalon. The feelings, the emotions, will shove at me, begging to be felt, but nothing will quite make it through. All I will know is that I have to get back to Avalon, that time is running out, that everything hangs in the balance.
It will be just as well—if I could truly feel the weight of the moment, I would become paralyzed by it. Better to let the shock take hold of me, to push myself forward without feeling anything but cold logic.
But as we sail away, I will look back over my shoulder to where Gawain stands on the shore, his shoulders slumped and head hanging low. All of the life will have gone out of him, but he will stay standing. He will fight another day for Arthur and his legacy, even if Arthur himself is no more. He will mourn, yes, so much that it might just break him, but it never will.
No matter what, Gawain will be the only one who will never betray Arthur, the only one who will never run, never cower. In many ways, he might just be the best of us.
We need him or we have no chance.
18
ARTHUR AND GAWAIN are fast friends, which surprises me more than it should. Though I’ve seen him fighting at Arthur’s side, ready to give his life to pr
otect his king, I also know firsthand that we are a tightly knit group and that it is not easy for another person to work their way between our threads. Gawain, though, manages it as naturally as breathing. As soon as Arthur and Lancelot arrive and Gawain sees the book Arthur carries with him, they launch into a discussion about it, and the rest of us are left outside of their bubble.
Morgana seems to take to him as well—like the servants she hired, he doesn’t fear her, and that is enough to endear him in her eyes. Before our morning tea has cooled enough to drink, she is already teasing him the same way she does Arthur, and I half expect her to ruffle his hair or tug his ear in jest as she gently mocks the two of them. But to everyone’s surprise—including Morgana’s—Gawain manages to elicit a promise from her to read the book.
“I’ve been trying to get her to read something for ages,” Arthur exclaims, hitting the table with his hand. “She has no interest in anything that isn’t covered in spells or potion recipes.”
At the mention of Morgana’s witchcraft, I hold my breath. Magic is still illegal in Albion, and though Morgana hasn’t cast a spell that I know of since we interrupted the coronation, there is no telling how Gawain might react to that.
“Now that I’d like to take a look at,” he says to Morgana. “Though I doubt it would be more than gibberish to me.”
“You never know,” Morgana says, sipping her tea. “We are cousins, after all—the same blood runs through our veins. You might be surprised at what you’re capable of.”
“Not again, Morgana—you already tried that on me when we were children,” Arthur says with a laugh before turning to Gawain. “She managed to convince me that I could levitate rocks. Really, she was the one doing it, but I was so proud that I insisted on demonstrating my newfound gift in front of the Lady of the Lake and her council, to convince her to let me take lessons with Morgana. And of course, I made a fool of myself in front of them when my powers suddenly disappeared as suddenly as they came on.”
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