Where is she? Tirry’s

voice mingles with the crunch

of footsteps on frozen turf.

It is dusk now,

and I have since returned

from the bedsides of the wounded,

where I gently washed away dried

blood, where I administered tinctures

of feverfew and marigold for fever,

where I applied ointments

of calendula and willow,

poultices of yarrow and comfrey

to cuts and festering sores.

Sometimes, as I sit at the

bedside of one of the injured,

nursing a sword or arrow

wound, I cannot help but

wonder at the magic of it —

the flowers and weeds of the

moorlands and meadows

are endowed with such purpose.

Such perfect purpose.

These unassuming leaves, these

unknowing roots.

And it is for me to wield them.

Me!

Elaine of Ascolat, plain and ordinary.

But when I mix the powders

and draw out a tincture,

I feel as though some measure

of the magic has gotten in me.

Now my healing tasks are done, and

I have been waiting since

the sun finished its course,

for my father,

my brothers.

Elaine?

My father’s voice,

ordinarily so gentle,

is filled with fear

and tinged with something I have not

heard in nine years.

Sorrow.

Father?

I poke my head out of the tent flap

just as Lavain pushes me aside and

charges into the tent.

He begins to light more candles,

then paces up and down the length

of the tent,

his fists and jaw clenched.

My breath catches.

Something is wrong.

Tirry and my father follow Lavain

into the tent, and

my father sits heavily on the

wooden dining bench,

his elbows leaning

on our roughly hewn table.

Each has blood,

dark brown spots, spattered

and streaked

across his face,

his hands,

his tunic.

The sight of it turns my stomach,

and I swallow back a thick,

sour taste from my mouth.

It coats my tongue.

Strange how the blood of my

patients does not sicken me.

Father, Tirry,

what has happened? I ask.

Elaine, my father begins, then

his voice wavers,

watery eyes betraying him.

My stomach catches in my throat,

again,

but the three men of Ascolat

are all here, safe.

Our men won the battle at Breguoin.

What could be wrong?

Please, tell me. What is it?

Tirry?

I look to my elder brother.

He returns my gaze,

Aurelius is dead.

Poisoned by a Saxon spy.

Ambrosius Aurelius,

dux bellorum,

leader of all Britons,

the general whom Arthur follows,

whom all of us follow — murdered?

As the meaning of those words

slowly becomes clear,

I hear the roar

of voices and the thudding

of boots.

Not a minute to rest from battle.

Everyone is running.

Running toward the center of camp,

to hear the news

of the death of

Britain’s hope,

our gentle leader

our fiercest warrior.

What will happen to us?

I ask.

The Saxons, those beasts,

they will pay for this.

We will avenge this murder,

and the ground and the rivers

will run red with Saxon blood,

Lavain growls.

There is a wild look in his eye,

as if he were not now

wholly human, as if

the animal nature that lurks

in every soul,

has taken possession.

His anger fills the room,

smothers the air.

I cannot breathe.

What hope do we have left,

when the head is cut

from the body and

all the men, like Lavain,

become possessed by rage,

fear, and hatred?

When order and

faith

splinter?

Father? What will happen?

He shakes his head and

his shoulders shake.

Tirry rests a hand on Father’s arm

then turns to look at me.

Hot heads, and he glances at Lavain,

will serve none of us well.

A new leader must be chosen.

As if an angel has heard us,

Arthur is coming! Arthur!

a man calls from outside the tent.

My friend’s name is spoken

across the camp,

spreading like cool salve on a burn.

Arthur — he could lead us, couldn’t he, Father?

I ask him, plead with him, beg him.

Please

say it is possible,

say we may be

saved.