Lance said nothing for a moment. Then: “And you agreed.”
“I told him religion was good for her.”
The silence stretched. I could feel Lance deciding whether to push.
“She tried to flood your dungeon,” he said finally.
“I wouldn’t say shetriedto flood it.”
“That’s what the guards said.”
I shrugged. “The guards are notorious for their exaggerations.” I paused. “What does her flooding or not flooding the dungeon have to do with Galahad?”
“Just that she’s dangerous and unpredictable, and Galahad is one of the most powerful, most able knights of the Round Table.”
“Exactly, so he can handle her.”
“But if he can’t or doesn’t… we could lose him.”
I shook my head. “I’m not worried about Galahad. Besides, her magic is contained. Mordred saw to that.”
He nodded and paused for a few seconds before his eyes met mine once more. “Mordred bound her two weeks ago, and you’ve been in this yard every morning since before dawn.” He picked up a cloth from the rack and wiped down his blade. His voice was very even. “Arthur, is everything okay?”
I turned and looked at him. “Of course. I’m fine.”
His eyes moved from my face down to my hands and back. Then he did the thing he almost never did. He held my gaze and kept it.
“Your eyes went black twice in the last hour.”
I said nothing.
“Not only that, but you hit through my guard on the third exchange. Not around it.Through it.” He paused. “I’m good enough that no one goes through my guard.”
The wind moved across the yard and scattered a handful of dead leaves across the cobblestones.
“Lance—”
“—I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see it.” His voice was still even, still flat. Even though I permitted him to speak his mind with me, sometimes I regretted giving him that freedom. Especially because Lance didn’t frighten easily, and he didn’t dress things up in softer words to spare either of us the shape of them. “Whatever is going on with Guinevere, it’s running back up the chain to you. You’re not leashing the dragon. You’re feeding it.”
“I’m aware of the situation.”
“Then be better at concealing yourself before someone other than myself begins to tally the number of times your eyes go black and how many times there is smoke on your breath.”
He took his leave without any formality, and I hadn’t bid him goodbye. He was the only man I allowed such casualness, and I was left standing there, wondering why I permitted him what I did.
I stood in the empty yard for a long moment. Above me, the north tower’s high narrow windows, seemed to peer down at us. The dragon pressed its nose against my ribcage and purred.
-ARTHUR-
The Hall of Lineages was cold at midday.
But that was no surprise; it was always cold. The stone held winter the way old bones do: like it was deep and permanent, resistant to any fire lit in the corridor sconces. The Pendragon tombs ran the full length of the eastern wall, carved effigies lying with their hands folded and their stone faces smoothed into expressions of serene authority that no living Pendragon had ever actually worn.
I walked the row slowly.
There lay my grandfather, then his father before him. The line reached back further than reliable record, the older tombs worn to near-featureless slabs by time and damp. All of them were kings, all of them buried with the confidence of men who had never once questioned whether the crown had been rightfully theirs.
I stopped at the far end of the line, where the wall was bare.