Camelot’s grand Entrance Hall was already crowded when I got there, bodies pouring into the circular atrium from every compass point. White sunbeams sliced through the air, cutting across the swelling congregation, already vibrating with gossip and speculative gestures. I walked the crowd’s edges towards the main entrance; if Arthur was about to march through the doorway, I wanted to be the first thing he saw.
The sound of my name held me back.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Sir Kay’s expression was taut, worried. “You left my chamber so abruptly. What’s going on?”
“I could ask you the same question,” I said above the still-clanging bells. “Is Arthur coming?”
Kay glanced around the room like a guard dog on the alert. “I don’t know. I was called to the Queen soon after you ran out. She has concerns, based on things she’s been told. I’ve been ordered to treat the situation as one of grave seriousness.”
“Serious how?” I asked.
Before he could answer, a distinct hush fell in the atrium, crowd turning in a wave to the back of the hall, where Camelot’s broad main staircase curved grandly down. On the central stair platform, overlooking her courtiers, stood Queen Guinevere, a dozen of her women gathered behind. She studied the room slowly, her beauty drawn grave.
Kay’s hand fidgeted at his belt, and I realized that he was wearing a sword. “What is all this?” I demanded.
His eyes met mine, all guilt. “The Queen has ordered the castle locked down until she receives news of the High King’s arrival. She…ah…ordered that you, in particular, should be contained.”
“What!” I exclaimed, though the bells drowned me out. “One day I’m her guest and the next her prisoner? Queen or not, she invited me to stay under Camelot’s hospitality, and I have done no wrong. Whatever Arthur and I have to resolve, it has nothing to do with her. I’ll tell her exactly why she dare not ‘contain’ me.”
I charged forwards and Kay grabbed my elbow. He let go immediately and held up his hands in apology, but it was enough to give my temper pause. “Lady Morgan, listen. It would have been guards, but I said I would find you myself. Please, do not do this.”
His face was beseeching, urging me to hear that he was only trying to help—me, himself, the entire situation. But what good was this godforsaken trip if I could not retrieve the scabbard from Accolon, or if Arthur had time to fortress himself away from me?
Kay and I were still locked in a stare of unmade decisions when a murmur took up within the crowd.
“It’s a litter,” someone nearby said. “A horse bier with four knights.”
“Is it the King?” said another.
“They’re bringing it forth.”
Suddenly, the cacophony of bells stopped, leaving a quiet so profound that the entire room fell to silence.
“Make way for the bier!” came a shout.
The crowd rippled back and outwards, like a river cleaved by a boat prow. Sir Kay glanced at the Queen, still standing atop the stairway. Her tall body was rigid, eyes fixed on the movement near the door, as the air filled with a panicked buzz.
“All right!” Kay bellowed above the rising commotion. I watched him dive through the mass of bodies, shoving his way to the door. “Move back, make a path!”
Accustomed to obeying the Seneschal’s organizational orders, the court began to shift, making a wide opening down the centre of the hall. Loud, regimented footsteps emanated from the doorway and four half-helmed knights appeared, inching towards the wide circle in the centre of the Entrance Hall. I could only see their heads and shoulders, but their strained, controlled posture spoke of carrying a heavy load.
“It’s a bier draped with the King’s standard,” I heard someone say.
“You don’t think…?”
There was a great thudding boom as the unseen bier was placed on the floor, reverberating like thunder around the atrium.
“Queen Guinevere, and my lords, ladies and gentlemen of Camelot!” declared a crisp, commanding voice. A herald stood in the main doorway, his face solemn as a requiem. “His Royal Highness, Arthur, High King of All Britain, has been in a duel for his life.”
The room gasped, punctuated by a few small screams. Up on the stairs, the Queen staggered into the arms of Lady Isabeau. All eyes turned to the draped bier in horror, but the herald’s face yielded nothing.
“The King was grievously injured in the swordfight, but is alive and will be well,” he said, followed by a collective cry of relief. “His Royal Highness sends a direct message and requires all to listen closely.”
He surveyed the room with severity until there was hush, then began.
“To my loyal subjects at Camelot. By the grace of God and Excalibur, I live, after a hard-fought duel for my life, and now lie healing in an abbey under the care of godly nuns. Though I was almost cut down by the Devil’s treason, a fair maiden of great magic came to my aid, a pupil of my loyal adviser, Merlin the Wise, whose legacy lives on through her service. By the Lord’s righteous will, I proved victorious, and will return to Camelot stronger than ever.”
The congregation began to whisper with the same confusion I felt. Ninianne was with Arthur? How—and why? And if not Arthur, who was—
“Queen Morgan of Gore, come forth!”
My title of old was so alien to me that I didn’t immediately realize who was being called.
“Is she here?” said the herald. Several heads turned, a tentative hand or two rising to reveal my attendance.
“I’m here,” I called. “Let no one else speak to my presence but me.”
I strode forth through the parting crowd, carving a pathway to where the herald stood before the anonymous, knight-guarded bier. It had been placed in the centre of the atrium, atop the great red dragon tiled into the floor. Another long-clawed beast roared across the red-and-white flag that concealed the unfortunate soul beneath.
I stopped at the edge of the circle. “Well?”
“My lady, King Arthur wishes to convey a further message, publicly, to you.”
The herald cleared his throat and averted his gaze, holding a hand out towards the bier. Cold bright dread replaced the heat in my veins.
“Lady Morgan, once my loyal sister, now traitor to my Crown,” he intoned. “To you, I send Sir Accolon of Gaul, your lover in adultery and unwilling accomplice in your treason, dead, and slain by my own hand. His death pains me deeply, but you gave me no choice. By divine providence and the Lady of the Lake’s grace, your treachery has been revealed, the great betrayal prophesied by my loyal adviser, Merlin the Wise. Excalibur’s life-preserving scabbard, which I once entrusted to you and thought in my possession, was a counterfeit. The true scabbard you stole out of hatred, and gave to Sir Accolon with the treasonous purpose of bringing about my death, and usurping the Crown of All Britain.
“Though noble Sir Accolon was innocent of your crimes, the violence you would have done me, I visited upon your lover in a battle of swords, as a grave punishment to you. The blame for his bloody demise lies at your feet. And when I return, you will answer for your treason before me as your King, then before God in holy judgment. Let all hear and understand what you have done, Morgan—dark sorceress, traitor, she that I once called sister. Never will there be a betrayal so costly as this.”
The room held its breath, every pair of eyes boring into my bones, threads of fear and hatred weaving together until it was palpable as a hangman’s rope. I stood, airless, almost floating, all comprehension snatched from my mind.
“No,” I heard myself say. “Arthur wouldn’t kill a knight he loves and respects, not like this. He would never command you to bring such a message.”
Yet it was his voice within the herald’s speech, clear, cold and formidable, as if Arthur himself stood before me, his steel-grey eyes cutting into my soul.
“It cannot be. Not Accolon. He…” My voice cracked, breaking under the force of realization until it was a howl. “Let me see!”
I charged forwards, trying to claw my way past the bier knights, but they gripped my arms and held fast.
“Guards!” Guinevere commanded. “Arrest her! She has committed treason to this Crown and fulfilled the prophecy of betrayal the King was warned of.”
I tore away from the knights as armoured guards clattered forth. I held out my hands and halted them with a wall of air, the element obeying me so fast it felt innate. The crowd gasped, shrinking in unison.
“How dare you!” I said. “Bring me this prophecy and the proof of which stars foretold it. Show me where my name is written!”
Guinevere stepped forwards, regal and blazing. “Do not listen to the poison this woman spits. Queen Morgan of Gore is a traitor and an adulteress, and long has been. Her betrayals will be well proven at trial.”
“No,” I protested. “I loved my brother. I gave my mind, my skills, everything I had to help him and this realm—you all know it to be true. If I could betray him, then so could any one of you.” I pointed savagely at the Queen. “Merlin’s prophecy might speak of you, Guinevere. What could destroy Arthur and the realm better than a betrayal perpetrated by his beloved, trusted Queen? Your treachery could be on the wings of Fate yet to come.”
Guinevere’s face drained to a bloodless outrage. “You blasphemous witch. I thank God my lord husband will finally be free of you. You will burn in Hell for what you have wrought upon him.”
My spine prickled like the hackles on a wolf. “I will have my revenge, Guinevere. If you make a single misstep in your entire life, I’ll be waiting to rain chaos on your wrongs.”
“Guards!” she called. “Throw her in the darkest dungeon in chains!”
The knights moved but I remained, glaring at the Queen, pressure building within, the thrill of destruction crackling in my blood. I looked around the room: at the high stained glass encircling the atrium, so easily shattered with the force of the air, to rain vicious shards upon the upturned faces; the tile and stone beneath our feet that would yield to an earthquake. There were no flames in the hearth, but I didn’t need them—fire already lived inside me, driven by a rage that could never be doused. I could raze Camelot to the ground and burn the ruins in the work of a moment.
My hands lifted, the entire congregation cowering, and I returned my gaze to Guinevere, savouring her look of pale-green terror as I prepared to shut my eyes and damn the consequences.
An upright, matronly figure stepped out of the Queen’s shadow: Lady Clarisse, her wimple trembling slightly. She placed a hand on her daughter-in-law’s arm, but her eyes were on mine—wide and worried, like her son’s when he had found me. My heart leapt in affection, the urge for devastation slipping away, as the same son’s sharp tones cut through the roaring darkness in my skull.
“I have it in hand, Your Highness,” Sir Kay said. He waved away the enclosing guards, then took my elbow again. “I will escort Lady Morgan and secure her in her chambers. As a Queen herself, she must be kept in a manner appropriate to her rank.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Lord Seneschal?” Guinevere said tersely. “She seems a great risk to us all.”
“There won’t be any trouble if this is done lawfully, my lady. The High King would not wish for anything less.” He turned to me, urging me with his eyes. “Come along, Lady Morgan.”
The red roar in my head had not quite subsided. “You as well, Kay?” I hissed. “How many more knives must I endure in my back, when I could kill everyone in this room in a heartbeat?”
I tried to pull away, but his determination outdid me. On the staircase, Lady Clarisse drew the Queen’s attention long enough for Kay to whisper in my ear.
“Lady Morgan, I know you. I’m not fool enough to believe you want to kill everyone under this roof.” He gave me a sardonic half smile, the memory of which, and the time we had spent as friends, formed a bittersweet knot in my throat. “Do this quietly, and trust me.”
My eyes flickered to Lady Clarisse’s kind face, urging courage, then held my chin high and walked beside the Seneschal as he led me from the room, turning my back on the terrible, silent bier, and the whole gilded, rotten place.
We had almost reached the spur of hallway that led to my temporary chamber when a large figure stepped out from the shadows.
“I require a moment with my wife, Lord Seneschal,” Urien said, his eyes fixed on me. At Sir Kay’s hesitation, he added, “From a King to his Queen.”
Kay’s jaw tightened and he reluctantly stepped out of earshot. Urien leaned in and I resisted the instinct to recoil.
“Such a shame for your Gaul,” he said in low, quiet mocking. “A tragedy that so valiant a knight must fall for your treasonous sins. I must say, your theft of King Arthur’s scabbard was a fine touch to ensure your lover’s brutal end.”
He shifted closer, his breath hot against the side of my neck. In the blurring shadows his scars had vanished, as if I had never taught him a lesson at all.
“What a mess you’re in, my Queen,” he went on. “How will you solve your predicament?”
I met his eyes, stony and defiant, when in truth I felt hollow as a cavern.
“Are you finished?” I said.
His reply was a soft laugh, ever sure of himself. “One word, my darling wife, and you’ll be saved from all this.” He raised a hand, trailing rough fingertips down my cheek. “You know how to find your way to my bed. I’ll be waiting.”