He held out a hand. I accepted it, pulling myself to stand. “At the time and place of my choosing. Not like this.”
“You are not alone.” Arran squeezed my hand. “You never will be again.”
Oh, Arran.
I would not be alone. But he would.
There were no sarcastic comments to dull the sharpness of that realization as it lodged between my ribs, as devastating as any blade.
I would confide my fear to him eventually. My intentions. He deserved that much. But in that moment, Annwyn had to come before my own selfish desire to live.
So I squeezed his hand back and let him lead me through the doorway to join the rest of our court.
Lyrena paced the length of the room, her Goldstone armor freshly polished, hair plaited with gold, more rings than I’d ever seen on her fingers. Gold, gold, gold. She was practically glowing with it. Armor of a kind, I supposed.
By comparison, Cyara was so pale she looked like she wanted to disappear. She was back in white, the color she’d always worn in the goldstone palace, though the cut of her gown reflected our terrestrial sanctuary. Her skin was nearly as pale as her wings. The only splashes of color were the copper of her hair and the bright red ringing her eyes. She’d been crying.
As Arran and I moved into the room, the outer door swung open and a little tornado burst in.
Osheen was half a step behind his ward, snagging her by the back of her wool dress and tugging her backward. “Maisri,” he admonished. “Out with you. A war council is no place for a child.”
Maisri squirmed from his grasp in the way that only a child could manage. “But—”
“I summoned her,” I said sharply. I heard Arran’s dry chuckle behind me. Everyone else was silent.
“Osheen, come forward,” I said, stepping up to the rectangular table that had been serving as our meeting place since our arrival at Eilean Gayl. My voice softened. “I thought you’d want Maisri here for this.”
All eyes were on me as I lifted my hand and placed Excalibur on the table. For months, I had been unable to touch it, knowing it had been the weapon in my hand that delivered Arran’s near-fatal wound.
But I understood now that I could not run from the curse of my Pendragon blood—and that included the sword that had been passed down from parent to child for more than seven thousand years.
Osheen’s throat bobbed as he looked first to the sword, then up at me. “Your Majesty?”
“This is not the Round Table. But these are my Knights.” I gestured to the others assembled before me and Arran. Then I unsheathed Excalibur. “I should have done this months ago.”
I felt Arran step up to my shoulder, and it was he who said, “Kneel.”
With careful grace, I lowered Excalibur’s swirled amorite blade to Osheen’s left shoulder. “Do you swear fealty to Annwyn, to protect the Terrestrial and Elemental Kingdoms of the Fae, and to offer your true and wise counsel when called upon by the High King and Queen?”
His eyes were not on me as he spoke the vow, but on Maisri. “I do.”
I lifted the blade over his head to rest on his right shoulder. “Osheen, I dub thee a Knight of the Round Table. For all that has been and all that will ever be. Rise.”
The rectangular table was nowhere near as auspicious as the one Guinevere had gifted me. But as Osheen rose, the others stepped forward to encircle it, taking their places as they might have taken their seats.
All except one.
“A table of destiny,” Gwen whispered.
She’d stepped in behind Osheen and Maisri. She stood with her back pressed to the door. Her face may well have been hewn from the same stone as the wall on either side of her for all the emotion it showed.
Cyara finished for her. “Five shall be with you at Mabon. One is not yet known, but the bravest of the five shall be his father. When he comes, you will know that the time for the Grail is near.” Her voice caught, just for a second. “The last is the Siege Perilous. It is death to all but the one for which it is made—thebest of them all—the one who shall come at the moment of direst need.”
As she spoke, the fine hairs on the nape of my neck rose. I’d heard too many prophecies in the last year—and suffered their rewards and consequences. Merlin had made this one when Guinevere first gifted me the table.
Merlin—the Shadows, Igraine, killing Parys. The determination that had settled in my chest threatened to crumble.
“After the Tower of Myda, we were five,” Lyrena said. She lifted her hand and began ticking off names. “Arran, Parys, Lyrena, Cyara, and Guinevere.”
