I’d revised that assessment twice already. I was revising it again now.
She was currently at the center of three separate crises, none of which she had chosen and none of which she seemed entirely aware of. There was Arthur and his dragon, which was becoming less a metaphor for temper and more an actual governance problem. Then there was Lance, the blackmail and the thing behind the blackmail, which was desire so strong it had eaten through his judgment like acid through cloth. And now there was Galahad, who had been an instrument of religious discipline and was tipping over into something that would require a different word.
Three crises. One woman.
And she hadn’t arranged any of it. That was the interesting part.
I’d known plenty of women who accrued power deliberately. Morgan Le Fay being the obvious example, though hardly the only one. Good thing that bitch was now dead, or so the rumors had insisted. Regardless, deliberate power had a texture to it, a smell almost. It was the particular quality of attention that came with sustained effort and intention. Women who worked for their position had tells the same way card players did.
This one had none of those tells. She wasn’t working any angle I could identify. She was surviving. That was all. And in surviving, she was becoming necessary to the stability of multiple men simultaneously, not because she’d maneuvered herself into that position but because circumstances had placed her there and she’d simply refused to collapse.
That was either a tool or a threat.
I walked out of the yard. The blood on the stones was already going dark. By tonight it would just look like old stone. By next week no one would remember exactly where Galahad had fallen.
I would remember, but that was no surprise because I always remembered.
-KAY-
The corridor outside Lance’s quarters was quiet. I’d chosen the hour deliberately; it was late enough that the torches had burned down to stubs, but early enough that the night watch hadn’t made its second round. That meant there was no one to witness my visit, no one to misread the visit as anything other than what it wasn’t.
I knocked once.
He answered faster than a man who’d been sleeping. His tunic was unlaced, his hair pushed back like he’d been running his hands through it. He filled the doorway like the castle had been built around him.
“Kay.” Not a question. And definitely not a welcome.
“Lance.” I let the silence do its work for a moment. “May I come in?”
He stepped back, not because he wanted to.
The room was sparse for a man of his rank: immaculate black armor on its stand, a single candle burning on the table, a cup of something untouched beside it. No woman, no evidence of the habits he’d been cultivating to try to forgether.
Interesting.
I didn’t sit. Neither did he.
“The council meets tomorrow,” I said.
“How do you—”
“—I’ve just come from seeing the king. He told me as much.” He nodded as I continued. “Arthur will put Galahad to the table, and I assume we will all discuss whether to strip his titles further.”
“Arthur said he’d already made up his mind where Galahad was concerned.”
“And yet you did not tell me of this?”
He cocked his head to the side. “I admit, this situation between us is taking some time to get used to.” Then he frowned. “And, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been… detained.”
I gave him a smile he didn’t return. “Don’t make the same mistake again.” He nodded as I cleared my throat. “Returning to the conversation you had with the king, I’m sure he’s already made up his mind, but he still has to make it look like we all came to that conclusion together, correct?” He nodded again as I continued. “No matter what happens, no matter your own outrage, I need you to stay quiet.”
The room went very still.
He was looking at me the way men look at something they want to hit. I’d seen that expression on better men than him, and it had never once troubled me so it didn’t trouble me now. His left hand had closed into a fist at his side. The knuckles were already split from his brutal attack on Galahad and they began to bleed once more.
He was clearly a man who was trying very hard not to feel what he was feeling. “You expect me to sit at that table,” he started, “and say nothing.”
“I want you to let me manage it.”
