"And Sir Lancelot."
"And did either of them speak to you?"
"No, my lord."
"Then what in the bloody hell did you do while you were in there?"
She seemed nervous at my lack of patience, her throat clearly working as she swallowed. The girl's eyes darted between my face and the ground, as if seeking escape from my penetrating stare.
"We were escorted in," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "Walking in a line, one of us after the other. The guards positioned us just so, ensuring we could all be seen clearly." She paused, wrapping her arms around herself despite the warmth of the day.
"Go on then."
She nodded. "We were brought to stand before the king. He sat in that great wooden chair—the one with the carved lions on the arms—"
"Get to the bloody point, girl!"
"Apologies, my lord!" She appeared on the verge of tears, her lower lip trembling and her eyes growing glassy. That was the absolute last thing I wanted to deal with. Women and their bloody tears! I had neither the time nor the patience for such feminine theatrics, especially not when I was trying to piece together whatever strange game Arthur was playing with his parade of potential brides.
"What happened then?"
"He looked at us, my lord. Not the way most men do, but as if he were searching for something specific in each of our faces. His eyes moved from girl to girl. Then he shook his head, just once. The guards stepped forward, and we were dismissed. That's all, my lord. Nothing more happened."
"What did they say to one another? The king and his companions?"
"I heard... snippets, my lord." She glanced toward the chapel and lowered her voice. "From what I could understand, it seemed the king was looking for someone specific. He said something about a certain shade of hair—silver or white, I think it was. And he was looking for violet eyes. None of us had the right combination, so we were all excused."
I knew not what to make of that at all. "Is that all?"
"Aye, my lord. That's all I know." She shifted, tucking the coin into the laces of her kirtle before something seemed to occur to her, and she looked up at me once more. "Has the king selected his bride, then? Will there be an announcement?"
"How the bloody hell should I know?" I waved her off. "Get on your way."
She scurried past, as if afraid I might strike her, skirts rustling. I remained beneath the trees, staring at the chapel's weathered stone as I wondered what in the bloody hell had gotten into Arthur.
White hair. Violet eyes.
Did this have anything to do with that peculiar incident from weeks past—the night Arthur had torn through Camelot like a man possessed, searching every corner of the castle for some elusive servant girl? I hadn't witnessed the spectacle firsthand, naturally, having been sensibly abed while my foster brother descended into whatever madness had gripped him. But by dawn, the whispers had reached me. Yes, it was most important to have a cultivated network of informants—maids who owed me favors, guards who'd learned the value of my coin, kitchen staff who knew which side their bread was buttered on.
The tales they'd brought me painted a picture of a king gone mad. Arthur had roused half the household in the dead of night, demanding to know the whereabouts of some girl who'd apparently vanished like smoke. He'd searched the servants' quarters personally, something unprecedented in all his years of rule. The guards had been sent to scour the grounds, the stables, even the crypts beneath the chapel.
And yet, despite all this frantic searching, no one could quite describe who they were looking for. The details had been maddeningly vague—a serving wench, some claimed, though others insisted she'd been a scullery maid. Young, they all agreed, but beyond that, their descriptions dissolved into contradictions and uncertainty. And no one knew her name.
Now, here was Arthur again, gathering women with specific physical traits. White hair, violet eyes—features so distinctive they couldn't be coincidence.
Was he going mad? Following in Father's footsteps?
Was this how it had started for Father? Chasing phantoms, seeing enemies in shadows? He'd died muttering about dragons coming for him, about fire in his veins, about crowns that burned.
What madness was slowly overcoming Arthur?
-LANCE-
Arthur and I walked the long corridors in silence, boots striking stone as Camelot faded behind us.
Minutes later, we were in the saddle, heading for Thornhallow Forest—Arthur’s favorite refuge. The trees rose around us, their tall forms swaying gently in the evening breeze. The air was cool and damp, thick with pine and loam.
Nero moved steadily through the undergrowth, hooves muffled by a thick blanket of needles. Behind me, Arthur rode in silence, the fury in his posture slowly easing beneath the forest’s quiet hush.
