“Do you know what he’s doing?” Arthur murmured to Vera, but the noise was enough to draw Grady’s attention. The log froze in midair before it tumbled to the ground.
“Your Majesties! I—I’m sorry. I lost track of time.” He glanced eastward at a beam of shining pearl running up the length of the castle wall like an iridescent stripe of paint. Only it wasn’t paint, it was the same material as all the orbs and lights throughout Camelot. And beside it were distinct markings: the first one a third of the way up signaling daybreak, another third for midday, and at the top, sunset. It was a clock—one of Gawain’s many additions to Camelot over the past four weeks in collaboration with none other than the castle priest, Father John.
Vera hadn’t thought to wonder how Father John could time chapel services perfectly with the sunrise each week, but it so happened that was his gift. He knew the sun’s position in the sky at all times—how many hours it would be visible overhead and how long before it returned overnight. The pearly strip was lit from the ground up to between the first two notches, signaling it was midmorning. There was a magic clock down in the village and two at the castle.
The boy scurried into the stables, shouting apologies over his shoulder. Gawain held the log in front of him with one hand as he stood and examined it.
“What were you doing?” Vera asked.
He handed her the log as if that was an answer. It was lighter than it should have been and felt hollow. She passed it to Arthur as Gawain said, “Grady removed almost all the moisture from that log.”
“Grady did that?” she asked. “Did you give him that power? I thought he just had the power to move wood.”
Gawain eyed her with scathing suspicion, extending his hand to reclaim the log. “I didn’t give him anything. Most gifts are more complex than they seem and can be used in far broader ways than their recipients appreciate. People haven’t been taught to explore the boundaries of what their gift can do, and seldom few figure that out on their own. You look at Grady now and think he has multiple gifts when he’s simply learned to use his one power to greater benefit. Outside of studying at the Magesary where we mages are trained, there’ve not been opportunities for anyone to learn about that. The select few young people who are identified as having multiple gifts and sent to train as mages usually only have one power to start … but those few happen to have a more thorough innate understanding of their single gift’s breadth—not because they truly have more than one. That comes later.”
Vera had so many questions to ask, but Gawain carried on, hardly pausing for a breath.
“Grady can now control the amount of moisture in the wood: he can ring it out like a wet cloth. He can also increase its porousness and absorption, compress any piece of wood, split it in two … If he continues to practice and hone the skill, I don’t see any reason why he won’t be able to shape and sculpt any wooden material as finely as a carver with a sharp knife.”
“That could be an impressive weapon,” Arthur said with a frown. “Shaping spearheads and having the power to send them flying through the air …”
“Hm,” Gawain said. “I hadn’t thought of that, Your Majesty.”
“What did you have in mind?” Vera asked.
He blushed and swallowed heavily. “Erm … very fine flutes.”
Collaborative creation guided Gawain’s every move, and the ripples from it crested into a tide that swept through Camelot. The town had never been a stronger community. And Vera and Arthur followed suit in ruling, which they very much did together.
Arthur held to the ideals he’d had since they formed the kingdom. His ultimate aim was for the power that came with lordship to not be based on riches and instead on merit. But the structure had already been built atop a foundation when the lords were made such because they had the money to fund building a kingdom. Altering course would be a slow process. Through many hours of idea sharing and discussion—even bringing in the other members of court and trusted townsfolk, they came up with a first step. They would create a new position of power. Akin to knighting a soldier who has performed beyond the highest standard of expectation, they would do something similar for citizens who served their local communities especially well, bestowing upon them the honor of town steward.
They wouldn’t rule their town. Instead, they would oversee the popular election of a local council. The lords could maintain their position of oversight while the crown discreetly dispersed more power to non “noble” folk.
Between ruling, jousting lessons, running with Lancelot (albeit less frequently), and training with the king’s guard, Vera grew stronger by the day. None of it happened as quickly as she would have hoped. She liked to arrive early to her sessions so she could catch the end of the proper king’s guard drills. She learned loads just from watching these men who had been fighting and training all their lives.
Arthur usually came to escort Vera to the training field, so he was never a part of the sparring matches. Today, though, Vera met with Randall before her lessons to be sized for her own armor. He worked especially quickly as she gushed about the perfect Yule gown he’d made her, and the attention made the armorer visibly uncomfortable. He hurried her out and led the way over to the training field, leaving her more time than usual to watch the king’s guard.
Each knight was recognizable by their armor’s variations or the small ways they’d personalized it. There were two soldiers locked into an intense sparring match. Vera recognized Lancelot’s form and shining helmet straight away, even from a distance, but it took her a second to realize that the fighter in the darker armor opposite was Arthur. She hurried to close the distance and stood next to Percival.
She’d only seen Arthur teaching before today, his pace slowed, but this was different. Damn, he was good at this: faster than his bulkier frame would indicate, strong, and very skilled. When both must have been exhausted after minutes of carrying on at top speed with heavy swords and cumbersome armor, there was an opening, and Arthur lunged a shoulder into Lancelot, sending him toppling onto his back. He pinned Lancelot’s sword arm to the ground with his knee and simultaneously thrust his sword into the dirt directly next to Lancelot’s face before rising without any fanfare and offering a hand down to his friend. Lancelot yelled a growl of frustration from the ground. He accepted Arthur’s hand to help him hop up and pulled his helmet off, already shaking his head as he grinned.
“Dammit!” he yelled, dropping his hands to his knees while he caught his breath. The rest of the king’s guard, who’d spent plenty of time being bested by Lancelot, were quick to pile on in good-natured ribbing. Arthur said nothing as he set his helmet aside, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Yes, well …” Lancelot tugged at his gloves, plucking them from his hands a finger at a time. “When you’ve watched a person fight their whole life like Arthur has with me, you’ve got a bit of a leg up.” He fixed them with a smug smile.
“Haven’t you watched him fight his whole life, too?” Vera asked slowly.
Wyatt, the oldest and also most enthusiastic member of the king’s guard, positively howled. Lancelot stared at her in stunned silence as Percival clapped him on the shoulder. Even Randall let out a full-bellied laugh.
Arthur looked at Vera appreciatively. “What’s that thing you and Lancelot do?” He took a few steps toward her and held up his hand for a high five.
“Now that is some horseshit!” Lancelot scrambled between them, grabbing Arthur by his upraised wrist and holding an arm out stiffly behind him to bodily keep Vera back. “That’s our thing, Arthur, and you can’t have it!”
The next two months were, unquestionably, some of the best days of Vera’s life. She had never been in a situation where she so constantly ran into people who knew her and wanted to talk with her. Whether it was Margaret from the kitchen, who was thrilled by Vera’s interest in available ingredients; Father John, who checked on her with somewhat regular frequency; townsfolk enjoying their queen’s attention; or one of her many friends.
Many friends … and more by the day as she grew closer with the members of the king’s guard. She wasn’t used to it and expected that any moment, she’d pass Percival, Wyatt, or any of the others on the road, and they’d see her as a stranger.
And then there were the evenings. One night, Arthur came back to their room after meetings to Vera and Matilda rolling with laughter amid a game of Never Have I Ever. He started making an excuse to give them privacy, only to have both shouting so emphatically that he couldn’t possibly understand a single word of what they were saying—and only by their excitement and gesticulation knew that they wanted him to stay. Two became three.
