8. The Titans

Terence

Terence didn't return to Camelot at once after escaping from Mordred. He had no news to report. He had already sent the hastily knighted young man Bede to tell Arthur where Mordred's armies were. Now Arthur would need to know where Mordred would move next, and when. So, mindful of Mordred's uncanny ability to sense his presence, Terence circled the army's perimeter, never staying long in one place, but never moving too far away either.

For weeks Terence played this game of hide-and-wonder-if-anyone-was-seeking while Mordred remained in the same place, obviously waiting for something, as he had said. Mordred had patrols out almost constantly, and Terence knew that if he stayed still too long, he would be discovered, so he kept on the move and never slept for more than two hours at a time. Terence grew exhausted, but he never had to worry about oversleeping on account of the hunger that gnawed at him continuously. Then one evening, Terence found a stream teeming with trout. He waded into the water, waited for the fish to grow used to him, and then, one by one, flipped four large fish onto the bank. He had always had good reflexes. Building a fire was dangerous, but so was starvation, so Terence made a tiny fire with the driest wood he could find and feasted on fish. When he was done, he moved more than a mile away before he looked for a place to sleep. The sky was clear and the night brighter than Terence could have wished—there was a luminous half-moon—but he had to rest. So, his stomach satisfied at last, he closed his eyes and fell at once into a deep sleep.

He was awakened by Mordred's voice. Not ten feet from where he lay, Mordred was talking quietly with a dark figure. Terence froze, at any second expecting the flashing blow that would end his life, but the voice went on, as if Mordred was unaware of his presence. Turning his eyes to the sky, Terence saw by the moon's position that he had slept without moving for at least six hours.

Mordred said, "She promised she'd send word soon. How much longer am I to wait?"

"Has our Good Lady ever let you down before?" wheezed a dusty voice. It was the crone who had been with Mordred before, Hag Karnis, but her voice sounded weaker and more querulous than Terence remembered.

"Let me down? You don't want to get me started," Mordred said, his voice dripping with bitterness. "Oh, I'll grant you, she's always done her part in one of her own plots, but she was a damned bad mother, you know."

"Your Highness!" gasped the hag. "Never have I heard you say such a thing about our Good Lady!"

"Yes, well, it never occurred to me until just now, but it's true. She never did one thing for me that wasn't really for her own benefit, and so I'll tell her when I see her next. I'm tired of jumping to her command."

"Sire, please! She has ways of hearing what others say! You mustn't even think such thoughts!"

"In all my years I never have," Mordred said. "And now I can hardly think of anything else."

"You are bewitched! Some evil sorcerer is ... planting these rebellious thoughts in your head by magic!"

Mordred grunted. "Hmm. I wonder. Or, to look at it another way, maybe there was an evil sorceress using magic to keep these thoughts from my head." Hag Karnis didn't reply, but her outline against the sky shifted uncomfortably. Mordred went on. "That's it, isn't it? Mother's had me in a spell to keep me from questioning her. Well, it isn't working anymore."

"Please, Your Highness," the hag said. She definitely sounded frail now. "Do not be restless. Your mother wishes to make you king! Give her time. Wait a few more days. You'll see. There is no one who can stop our Good Lady now."

Mordred hesitated, then said, "All right. It won't hurt to let Arthur besiege Joyous Garde a few more days. I'll wait until the full moon, then march—whether Mother has contacted us or not! And, yes, my dear cringing crone, you're coming with us. Back to camp now. You go first."

The hag began to shuffle away, and as soon as her back was turned, Mordred calmly drew his long dagger and sank it into the crone's back. She shrieked with pain, and then again with what seemed like amazement. "You've ... you've killed me!"

"So?" Mordred replied indifferently. "You looked more than half dead anyway. But since I knew you were planning to send a message to Mother, yes, I've killed you."

"But ... I can't die! I've tied my life to hers ... it's impossible! She's immortal! Oh, my Lady, what has ... you said you could never die and ... oh, my Lady!"

The hag collapsed, and Mordred, having retrieved his knife from her back and wiped it on her robe, stepped over her. "It's fitting, really," he murmured, "that you should be as incoherent in death as you always were in life."

He disappeared into the bushes, and Terence slowly rose from his spot. A quick check confirmed that the hag was indeed dead, and then he took a deep breath and thought. He didn't understand all that he had just heard—the hag's last words were as incomprehensible to him as they had been to Mordred—but he had learned a few things. First, Mordred seemed to have lost his supernatural awareness of Terence's presence, which might mean that Morgause's power was cracking. Second, Arthur was at Joyous Garde—although why he should be besieging Lancelot's English home was beyond Terence's imagination. And third, Mordred would be marching on Arthur at the full moon. Terence brushed himself off, took his bearings from the stars, and headed north, toward Lancelot's castle.

Dodging Mordred's patrols and once trapped for four days in a cave with the White Horsemen camped outside, it took Terence nearly two weeks to make his way to Arthur's siege camp at Joyous Garde. It was worth it, though, because the first person Terence saw upon arriving was Gawain. Terence's relief at seeing his friend alive was quickly tempered with concern, however. If he hadn't known every line of his friend's face and every inch of his armor, he might not have recognized him. Gawain's expression was entirely changed. He sat staring bleakly into a campfire, his face drawn and bitter and his eyes somehow both empty and wild. "Milord!" Terence called.

Gawain turned, and for a second the savage emptiness of his face abated, and he said, "Thank God. At least I still have you."

"What is it, Gawain? Where have you been? What have you seen?" Terence demanded urgently.

"Gary and Lynet are dead," Gawain said dully. "And Gareth and Agrivaine, too, for that matter."

"Gaheris and Lynet?" Terence whispered.

"Lamorak killed Gary. I was there. I killed Lamorak, but I was too slow to save Gary."

"Lamorak?" Terence repeated blankly. "But why?"

"He was my mother's new consort and was protecting her. But Gary killed her."

"Morgause is dead?" Terence demanded.

Gawain nodded. "Ay."

Terence took his friend's arm and led him away from the rest of the camp. "Tell me," he said. "Every detail."

In a voice nearly devoid of expression, Gawain told Terence all that had taken place since they had parted in front of Camelot. First he summarized the events that had divided Arthur and Lancelot and had led to the siege of Joyous Garde; then he recounted his own experiences, from the siege of Orkney Hall and Gaheris's faked death to the moment when Gaheris and Lynet had died together beside the Enchantress.

"And this would have been the night of the half-moon?" Terence asked when Gawain had finished.

Gawain shrugged. "Ay, somewhere about then."

Terence nodded, murmuring half to himself, "That's it, then. Gaheris broke all of Morgause's spells when he killed her. That's why Mordred didn't feel my presence." He saw that Gawain was no longer listening, but only staring unfocused at the ground. "Milord, Gaheris saved my life."

Gawain glanced at Terence, a flicker of interest in his eyes.

It wasn't much, but it was enough for Terence. Holding Gawain's eyes in his own gaze to keep him from turning away again, Terence said, "You see, Mordred had a magical ability to sense people's presence, even at a distance. When I got close to his camp, he knew it, and I was captured."

"Captured?" Gawain repeated.

"But I escaped. Say, remember that knife you gave me before we fought the five kings? Where did you get that knife?"

But Gawain's attention turned within again. Terence repeated the question, and finally Gawain said, "Oh, Mother gave that to Father. I got it after he died."

Terence nodded and continued, "Anyway, I escaped but stayed nearby to watch Mordred's armies. Then, the night of the half-moon, I fell asleep and would have been captured again, but Mordred had lost his powers. So Gaheris saved my life."

Gawain nodded. "I'm glad of that, anyway."

"But Mordred is on his way here. We need to tell Arthur to forget Joyous Garde and start preparing for the real enemy."

Gawain said nothing.

"Well?" Terence asked. "Don't you agree?"

"I don't care who we fight," Gawain said after a moment. "I just want to fight someone. I think Arthur feels the same. Arthur's not the man he was a month ago. Neither of us are."

"Let me talk to him," Terence said calmly. He tried to sound confident, but his heart sank. If Arthur had changed as much in the past few weeks as Gawain had, there was no knowing whether he would listen. "Come on, milord."

To Terence's dismay, Arthur was even more changed than Gawain. His face was haggard, and the spark of humor and compassion that always lurked in his eyes was utterly absent. Terence reported Mordred's plans, but the king barely seemed to notice. After a moment, Terence said, "My liege, tomorrow night is the full moon. If Mordred leaves Abingdon then, he should arrive in a week. We can set a trap."

At last Arthur spoke. "I have no troops to spare."

Terence hesitated, then said, "You could withdraw from Joyous Garde." Arthur's eyes flashed, the first sign of energy that Terence had seen. Terence went on, "I don't know why you are besieging Lancelot, but—"

"Don't you?" Arthur asked grimly. "You haven't heard Lancelot's been betraying me with my wife all these years and now has joined with Mordred to steal my throne?"

"I don't believe it," Terence said calmly.

"You don't want to believe it, and so you don't," Arthur said bitterly. "As king, I don't have that luxury. I have to believe the facts."

"Belief isn't about facts," Terence said. "That's knowledge. Belief is what you know without facts, and I believe in Lancelot. He's a man of honor, and he's loyal to you."

"You don't believe he had an affair with my queen?"

"Yes, sire. He did that, and it stained his honor. But he ended it and gave up his knighthood. Only when he had restored his honor—by rescuing the queen and restoring her to you—did he return. Since then, he has been faithful."

"That's what I thought, too," replied the king dully. "I was even willing to believe Guinevere when she said she had been tricked into meeting Lancelot in her chambers at midnight."

"What?"

"Oh, haven't you heard that bit? They were found together in the queen's chambers. Guinevere claimed they'd both received forged letters asking the other to meet—but of course neither letter was ever found. Lancelot fled, killing Agrivaine and four other knights on his way out. Even then, I tried to excuse those murders as self-defense. But when he rode into Camelot to steal Guinevere away one more time, I had to face the truth. Lancelot's turned against me, and I won't stop until he's crushed."

The king's voice was quiet but implacable. Bowing, Terence turned on his heels and left the king's tent. He knew when there was nothing left to say.

"Any luck?" growled a gruff voice. Terence looked up into Kai's black eyes. He shook his head. Kai swore softly and said, "Then it's over. He won't listen to me or Parsifal. Gawain won't even try. Bedivere's gone. There's no one else he might listen to."

"You don't believe Lancelot's a traitor?"

"Do you take me for an ass? Of course not. Lancelot would die before he'd betray the king. And if it didn't involve Gwen, Arthur would know that, too. But when it comes to her, he can't see around that old blasted affair."

"I didn't know he still carried that with him."

"No more did I," said Kai, nodding. "But it was there all the same."

"We can't give up," Terence said. "Mordred's on the march, and he knows where we are. A week and he'll be here."

"Who's giving up?" Kai snapped. "I've sent for a mediator—Bishop Nacien from Glastonbury—and I've been trying for two days to call a parley with Lancelot. But so far no response either way. You told Arthur about Mordred?"

Terence nodded. "He didn't seem interested. At any rate, he refused to pull troops off to set a trap."

"At least we can warn everyone," Kai said. "Which direction?"

"He's been at Abingdon, by Oxford," Terence said. "But who knows which direction he'll attack from."

Just then a young man in chain mail came hurrying up. "Sir Kai," he said quickly.

"Yes?" Kai said.

"You told me to report as soon as anything happened at the wall."

"Yes?"

"A knight hails us."

"Who is it?"

"They say it's Lancelot himself."

Terence suddenly recognized the youth. "Bede?" he asked.

The young man turned and looked at Terence for the first time. "Sir Terence!" he said. Kai disappeared into the king's tent to report to him.

Terence said, "I'm glad you made it to Camelot."

Bede replied, "I didn't, actually. The army was already on the march when I joined them. The king didn't seem interested in my report." Then Bede added, "Sir? I've kept your sword and armor. They're in my tent. Sir Kai gave me gear of my own."

"And my horse?"

"Yes, sir. I'm glad you're alive, sir."

Kai and Arthur emerged from the tent, the king's face harsh and set in rigid lines. In the daylight, Terence was surprised to see how anger had aged him in just a few weeks. Arthur led the way toward the castle walls; there, on the battlements over the main gate, stood Lancelot.

"My liege!" Lancelot called, bowing his head respectfully.

"Liege?" Arthur demanded. "If I am indeed your liege lord, then you would obey me!"

Lancelot nodded. "Command me, sire."

"Give me my wife!"

Lancelot bowed his head again. After a moment, he looked up. "So you can execute her? I am sorry, sire. Though I die for it, that I cannot do."

For a long moment the king and his knight looked at each other. Then Arthur said, "Then I shall tear down your castle, stone by stone, and take her."

Lancelot was silent.

"Do you mean to stay there forever?" Arthur demanded. "Eventually, you'll have to fight."

"Yes," Lancelot said. "But I will not until I must. I will never raise my sword against you, or let the knights who are with me do so, until we have no other choice."

"That time is now," Arthur said. "You can't hold out against us, and when the fight begins, you can't win. Do you want your knights to be killed?"

"Do you want to kill them?" Lancelot replied immediately. "Bors? Lionel? Ector de Maris? They have ever been faithful to you. Which of them do you wish to kill?"

Now it was Arthur who was silent. Terence's gut felt heavy as he imagined fighting against these old friends—calm, dependable Bors; laughing, mercurial Lionel.

"I want to kill no one," the king said. "But I will have my queen, though I have to kill everyone standing in my way."

"That is I. No one else," Lancelot said calmly.

The king looked up, his eyes aflame. "Then I challenge you to single combat, Lancelot, to the death! If you win, you take her. If I win, she is mine!"

Lancelot shook his head. "I will never lift my sword against you. Never."

Then a new voice broke into the parley. "What if the king chose someone to fight in his place? Would you accept single combat then? Will you fight me instead?"

It was Gawain.

The rest of that day was like a nightmare for Terence as the arrangements were made for a single combat between Gawain and Lancelot. A part of his mind refused to accept the notion that his two friends—and two of Arthur's most loyal knights—would prepare for a fight to the death. Terence thought he knew what had prompted Gawain's offer: Gawain had always tried to relieve deep pain through fierce activity, and avenging his brothers' deaths on Lancelot would certainly do that. But why had Lancelot accepted Gawain's challenge? At first, Terence was bewildered by this, but as negotiations for the battle drew on, he began to understand. Lancelot set only two conditions. First, whatever the result of the battle, Guinevere was to go free. If Lancelot won, then Guinevere would be restored to her former position and held to be innocent. If Lancelot lost, she would at least be permitted to live. His second condition was that all the knights who had followed Lancelot to Joyous Garde were to be held innocent of treason and restored to the king's favor as before. Lancelot asked for nothing for himself, and so long as the king agreed to those two terms, Lancelot accepted every other condition. He didn't protest when Arthur suggested that the battle be fought with swords only, even though Lancelot's greatest advantage was in his superior jousting. He didn't even blink when the king called for the battle to begin at nine in the morning.

This last condition was significant, more than even Arthur knew. At the beginning of his career, Gawain had received a blessing from a holy man, by which his strength was tied to the sun and would increase as the sun rose. Only Gawain and Terence knew about this blessing, but everyone at court was aware that Gawain was at his best before noon. For years—before Gawain and Lancelot had stopped participating in tournaments so as to give the younger knights a chance to shine—a tournament held in the morning had been called a Gawain Tourney and one held in the afternoon a Lancelot. A swords-only contest in the morning gave Gawain a clear edge, but Lancelot made no demur. Terence suspected that Lancelot didn't care if he lived, so long as Guinevere and his friends were given their freedom.

Terence said nothing to Gawain that evening about the upcoming fight. At this point recriminations and arguments were useless. A challenge had been offered and accepted, and neither knight would dream of backing out now. Instead, Terence and Gawain sat around their fire in silence. With the prospect of action, some of Gawain's bitterness had lifted, and though Gawain still spoke little, Terence no longer felt excluded by his friend's melancholy.

Gawain glanced at Terence and said, "Wondering if this is the last night you'll see me alive?"

Terence shrugged. "Not really. Remember the life we've led, milord. I've had that thought off and on for twenty years. I suppose I must have worn it out by now."

Another long silence was followed with another question. "What do you suppose will await me after I die?"

Terence stared into the fire for a long time, watching the wood change into light and warmth, before answering, "In our journeys to other worlds, we've met some who left this world by dying out of it. Some of those people seemed alive; some didn't. I don't know what awaits anyone. All I'm sure of is that this world isn't all there is."

Gawain poked the fire with a stick, and a log crumbled into a heap of coals and glowing embers. "Everything falls apart," he said.

"But nothing is ever lost," Terence replied.

The battle began promptly at nine, with Lancelot immediately pressing a furious onslaught. He was clearly hoping to take Gawain by surprise and negate his morning advantage, but Gawain was waiting for this and matched each lightning blow with an equally swift parry. Gawain ended this opening assault by slipping under a swing and landing a solid blow on Lancelot's breastplate, which sent the French knight staggering backwards. Gawain followed up quickly, but Lancelot desperately deflected one blow with his sword and a second with his shield. A chip the size of an oak leaf flew from the edge of the shield, but the shield held, and Lancelot regained his balance.

After that, Lancelot grew more cautious and deliberate. Having failed to achieve a swift victory, he seemed content to reserve his energy, keep himself from serious harm, and watch for openings. Since Gawain was as skilled and experienced as Lancelot, such openings were brief and few. Over the next hour, Lancelot's shield became more and more chipped as Gawain grew stronger and pressed his attack. Gawain was fighting brilliantly, judging every blow to a hair and deflecting all of Lancelot's counterattacks without apparent effort. Twice Lancelot managed to clinch and throw Gawain staggering backwards, but in neither case did Lancelot have the strength to follow up. Instead, he backed away and drew in great, gasping breaths while Gawain recovered his balance.

The crowd watched the battle without shouts of encouragement, but rather in awed silence. Even Terence, with all his years of experience, had never seen such skill at arms. Again and again he witnessed some amazing pass that perhaps only two knights in the world were capable of executing. These two knights.

Beside him, Kai's gruff voice muttered, "Good Gog! Are they even human? It's Hector and Achilles."

After a moment, Terence whispered, "But which one will be Hector?"

Kai didn't answer. Terence glanced up at his friend's face and saw tears streaming down his cheeks, dancing over his bristly gray beard, and splashing on his shirt. The clang of sword on sword, the shuffle of feet, the gasping and wheezing, and the dull thud of sword against shield continued without interruption. Terence could count on one hand the number of swordfights he had witnessed that had lasted even an hour. This one was now approaching three.

And then, as the sun neared its zenith, Gawain threw himself into a new attack, suddenly appearing as fresh as when the battle had begun. Lancelot was helpless to do anything but desperately deflect blows away from vital areas and absorb them on his arms and shoulders. He was taking tremendous punishment, but he stayed on his feet until a colossal swing, aimed at his neck but landing on the back of his helm as he tried to duck beneath it, sent him sprawling, stunned. Gawain stepped up to the prone form and raised his sword for the blow that would end it. Terence closed his eyes, but all he heard was the soft crunch of a sword being driven into the earth.

"No, not like this," Gawain gasped. "Not helpless. No man should die helpless, least of all this man." He looked over his shoulder at Lancelot's escort. "Bors! Lionel! Take him!" Then Gawain removed his helm and looked into the eyes of King Arthur. "We'll finish this tomorrow," he said. Terence's heart leaped. The blankness of grief was entirely gone from his friend's eyes. Gawain was himself again.

Bors and Lionel each took one of Lancelot's arms and raised him, dazed and weaving, to his feet.

Gawain said, "We'll pick up tomorrow where we left off." Bors and Lionel nodded, and Gawain added, "We start at noon."

That afternoon, after Terence had treated his wounds and rubbed liniment into every muscle in his body, Gawain lay down and slept the deep and motionless sleep of the exhausted. Terence stationed himself outside their tent and kept people from disturbing him. More than one man asked him why Gawain had set the next day's battle at noon, but Terence evaded the question. Even when King Arthur himself, his eyes still betraying the grim emptiness that Gawain's had finally lost, asked that question, Terence only replied, "Gawain didn't say, sire."

"And why didn't he end the battle?" Arthur asked.

For a moment, Terence didn't answer. Then he said, "Would you have done so, sire? Struck down Lancelot while he lay stunned?"

The king turned on his heel and strode away.

Gawain slept for six hours, awoke and ate a hearty meal, then went back to bed, not so much to sleep as to avoid people. He and Terence talked quietly inside their tent for several hours, mostly about Gawain's faery wife, Lorie, on the Island of Avalon, until at last, sometime after midnight, Gawain went back to sleep.

Terence woke his friend at ten, which left enough time for him to eat well but not feel heavy from the meal at noon. They made the rest of their preparations in silence, and when Lancelot emerged from Joyous Garde at midday, Gawain was armed and ready. The knights nodded to each other, waited for the signal, then threw themselves into battle.

The contest was more deliberate than the one the day before. Both knights moved more slowly, even stiffly at first, but Gawain clearly held the early advantage. He continually pushed Lancelot backwards and once even drove him to his knees, but Lancelot escaped by lunging forward toward Gawain and making him stumble, rather than trying to avoid Gawain's sword. A blind parry behind his back deflected Gawain's off-balance stroke, and then Lancelot rolled to his feet, ready to fight again.

Terence shook his head with awe. No other man, driven to the ground before a swordsman such as Gawain, could have escaped unharmed. In fact, Terence was surprised that even Lancelot had survived. Had Gawain hesitated? Frowning, Terence began to watch more critically. Within another half-hour, Terence was certain. Three times Gawain had had a slim opening and had either missed it by hesitating or had simply let it pass.

Then the tide of the battle turned. Gawain's strength began to flag, and his blows were neither as swift nor as precise as they had been. Lancelot, encouraged by the signs that Gawain was faltering, seemed to find renewed strength. Now Gawain was on the defensive, fighting as Lancelot had the previous morning. Unfortunately, by nature Gawain was a less patient fighter than Lancelot, and thus was less adept at the defensive stance. With one perfectly aimed blow, Lancelot split Gawain's shield in half, rendering it useless. Gawain tried to defend himself with the largest half, then tossed it behind him impatiently. Lancelot stepped back and let Gawain recover his breath, then calmly threw his own shield aside.

Gawain attacked; Lancelot parried. Gawain dived to one side and swung at Lancelot's legs; Lancelot leaped over Gawain's blow without losing his balance and landed a counterblow on Gawain's side. Gawain hit the turf hard and rolled to his feet, more swiftly than Terence would have imagined possible for a man in full armor, but Lancelot was waiting for him as he rose and knocked him backwards again. Lancelot lunged, clinched briefly, then threw Gawain to the ground. Gawain sat up and, with his sword, deflected one blow aimed at his helm, then a second one. He managed to get his feet under him, but as his sword arm lowered, Lancelot finally landed a heavy blow on Gawain's temple. Gawain sprawled to his right, nearly rolling over completely. His helm flew from his head and his sword to the ground, yards away from where he lay. Dazed but unconquered, Gawain pushed himself up and climbed shakily to one knee, but there he stopped. Lancelot stood before him, his blade at Gawain's throat.

"Do you yield, Gawain?" gasped Lancelot.

Gawain said nothing.

"Do you yield?" Lancelot repeated.

Gawain shook his head.

"Damn it, Gawain! You're disarmed! Yield, I say!"

Finally Gawain spoke. "Sorry, Lance, but I don't fight for myself. I fight for Arthur. You'll have to kill me."

Lancelot raised his arms, and for a horrible, sick second Terence thought he was about to see Gawain die, but Lancelot only tore off his own helm and threw it on the ground behind him. His cheeks were streaked with tears. "No, by God! I will not! I'll die myself first!" Then he let his sword drop to the ground and knelt beside Gawain. "Forgive me, my friend."

His own eyes wet, Gawain embraced Lancelot. Then he pushed him away and looked into his eyes. "Whatever I have to forgive is forgiven," he said.

"I suppose we might all be wondering where we go from here," interposed a quiet voice. A slight man in black robes stepped out of the crowd of onlookers into the very center of the battleground. It was Nacien, Bishop of Glastonbury.

Arthur rose from the chair where he had sat watching the combat. "Bishop Nacien," he said dully. "What brings you here?"

"I sent for him, Arthur," growled Kai. "To serve as mediator."

"And if I might presume to correct you, Your Highness," Nacien said, "it is no longer Bishop Nacien. At least I don't think so. A few days after I served you at the queen's trial, and just one day after you left Camelot, I received a letter from the Holy Father appointing me Archbishop of Canterbury."

"Archbishop, then," Arthur said impatiently.

"I only mention the fact," Nacien continued, "because if I choose to accept this dreadful position, I will have the job of doing my utmost to preserve the peace of God in England. Do you mind if I give it a go right away? As official representative of the pope, I mean?"

All this was said in such a deferential, almost apologetic tone that it took King Arthur a few seconds for the import of it to sink in. "Do you mean to say that you've come as a papal legate to mediate peace?"

Nacien smiled. "Yes, actually. If you don't mind."

"Does it matter if I mind?" Arthur asked.

"No, but I'd rather have your approval."

Arthur scowled, but after a moment he waved his hand resignedly. Even the king of England had to recognize the authority of the pope in mediating disputes. Nacien turned to Gawain and Lancelot, who had both struggled to their feet, holding on to each other for support. Nacien spoke to Gawain. "I heard you say, Sir Gawain, that you have forgiven Sir Lancelot. I'm very glad to hear it. What exactly had you to forgive?"

Gawain took a breath, then said, "He killed my brothers."

"Brothers?" demanded Lancelot, his eyes widening. "I knew I killed Sir Agrivaine, but—"

"The man you killed at the gate when you rescued the queen," Gawain interrupted. "That was Gareth."

Lancelot's face grew still and empty. Then he bowed his head. "I did not know," he said at last. "In the heat of an attack ... but still, I am sorry. I loved Gareth, you know."

"I already told you. You're forgiven," Gawain said, then he added, "Gary's dead, too."

Lancelot swallowed. "Sir Gaheris?"

"Your cousin Lamorak killed him," Gawain said. Terence blinked, then nodded. He had forgotten that Lamorak was a distant relative of Lancelot's. Gawain continued, "I killed Lamorak. I ask your forgiveness as well."

Lancelot reached out and rested his hand on Gawain's shoulder. "My friend," he said.

"So far so good," interposed Nacien calmly. "But I take it there is another rift to heal. Sir Lancelot, will you come with me?" Taking Lancelot's elbow, Nacien steered him toward King Arthur, who lifted his bleak eyes to glare challengingly at the knight.

Lancelot evidently needed no prompting. Sinking to his knees at the king's feet, Lancelot said gruffly, "Sire, I have never begged your forgiveness for betraying you with your queen. I thought it best to let it be forgotten, but I was mistaken. A wrong that is never forgiven cannot be forgotten. Can you forgive me?"

All who stood within hearing held their breath. Then the king said, "Do you speak of an old betrayal or a current one?"

Lancelot looked up, surprised. "Sire, my relations with Queen Guinevere ended years ago, when I left the court. I thought you knew that."

"And yet she is in your castle now, kept away from me," Arthur said. "What am I to make of that?"

Lancelot's eyes narrowed. "Sire, you cannot think ... I only rescued her to keep her from being unjustly executed."

The king raised one eyebrow. "You thought I would unjustly execute my own wife?"

"But Sir Kai said—"

"Sir Kai said what?" demanded Arthur.

"He sent me a letter saying that you were going to try her for treason and that you meant to have her hanged."

Now Sir Kai stepped in. "I sent you a letter?"

Lancelot nodded and rose to his feet. "Bors? Do you have the letter?"

Sir Bors stepped forward, bringing a sheet of parchment and handing it to the king. Arthur examined it for a long moment, then reached into a pocket in his robe and produced another sheet of parchment. While all the court watched, Arthur looked back and forth between the two letters. Then his head sank to his chin, and for a long minute no one spoke. At last the king looked up, his eyes bleary.

"This letter," he said, "purports to be from Sir Kai, telling Lancelot that I have gone mad and intend to kill the queen. It begs him to come and rescue her and promises that no one will stand in his way."

"Arthur, I didn't—" began Kai.

"I know you didn't write it, Kai," Arthur said. "I know your writing, and this is not it. It is, however, identical to the writing of the letter found on Lancelot's desk after he left the court."

"A letter?" Lancelot asked.

"A half-written letter from you to Mordred, promising to join his rebellion."

"No, sire! I never—"

Arthur waved his hand. "I know, Lance. I haven't been thinking clearly for several weeks, but I have enough wit left to realize that we have all been played for fools. Someone—Sir Mador, I would imagine—has been busily writing letters under false names, trying to split up the Round Table. Doing quite a good job of it, in fact."

Terence sighed with relief and heard others around him doing the same. The war between the king and Lancelot was over. But then Nacien cleared his throat gently. "Your Highness?" he said.

"Yes, your excellency?"

"I am glad we have cleared up the confusion, but the matter is not over. These letters ... neither of you would have believed them for a moment had there not been a division between you. We still need to deal with Sir Lancelot's betrayal."

"But all that was over years ago," Lancelot said.

Nacien smiled. "Didn't you say yourself, just a moment ago, that an unforgiven wrong is never forgotten? You're right. In fact, that's quite insightful. Have you ever thought about becoming a priest?"

"Me? A priest?"

"Or a monk. I don't care. You have the aptitude. But that's not the issue now. The issue is that you betrayed the king many years ago and never confessed and were never forgiven."

"I do confess it now, then," Lancelot said. "Before all these present, I confess my sin."

"And I," Nacien said, "receive your confession and assign you penance. You must go from here on pilgrimage. For three weeks, go to every shrine, every hermitage that you can find, and there confess your sins to those you meet. And then, when you have completed your pilgrimage, you must leave England."