“This woman—” he continued, his voice filling the room without effort, “—stood beside you under the fictitious name of Sir Lioran.” There was a round of gasps and other remarks of shock, as anyone might expect. “That’s right,” he said, and then, lifting his hand, he subtly waved at me to come forward like I was his trusted dog.
Even though I was railing inside, anger mixed with humiliation mixed with self-pity, I wouldn’t let any of it to show. I wouldn’t let him win. No, instead, I’d hold my head up high, and I’d act as though this was a walk through the park on a sunny day. I took a step forward. And then another. Whatever Imight have been feeling, whatever was crumbling on the inside of me, no one would see it. I wouldn’t give this bastard the courtesy of my humiliation.
Fuck that and fuck him.
“She trained beside you. She ate at your table. She wore your brotherhood like a stolen cloak.” He beckoned me closer with two fingers and an expression of disinterest.
I stood straight, kept my chin level, and took another step. My eyes never left his face. Another step. It was as simple as one foot after the other. One more step. Very soon, I closed the distance between us.
“Sir Lioran does not exist.” Arthur stood up then. “Sir Lioran was a disguise. A story. A mask. The woman who wore that disguise, the woman who fooled not only all of you but her own king—”
“—you are not my king.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could do anything about them. And just as you might expect, more shocked sounds reverberated through the air around me. Arthur didn’t say anything for the span of a few heartbeats; he seemed as shocked as the rest of them.
“You will soon find, my dear,” he said finally, ice forming on every word, “thatI am everyone’s king.”
This time I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
He cleared his throat, his eyes burning into mine, promising retribution before they lifted to take in the hall once more. “The woman who stands before you is called Guinevere.” He paused, and that fucking smile took hold of his mouth once more. “And Guinevere is the daughter of...Merlin.”
At that pronouncement, it sounded like a blast of wind had suddenly blown into the room, or perhaps it was nothing other than the sound of my own blood rushing through my ears.
Arthur nodded as if to agree that everyone’s shock was warranted. “Yes, she is the daughter of Merlin. And she’s a spy. A traitor. And a witch.”
Even though I felt like I was visibly shrinking, I took the last step between us, standing so close now that I could see the faint silver threading through his light beard, so close that I could make out every hard line carved into his face. Perhaps a foot of cold air separated us. Maybe less. This close, I could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell wood smoke and something darker beneath it, something that made the back of my throat tighten.
Where formality demanded I curtsy to my king, where every instinct for self-preservation screamed at me to bow my head and make myself small, I planted my feet against the stone floor and held my ground. I lifted my chin, held his gaze, and let every drop of hatred I had—and there was a lot of it—rise up behind my eyes and burn there, steady and unflinching, like a flame that had no intention of going out.
He looked down at me, and every fiber of hatred I bore for him reflected itself in his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was a growl that was barely above a whisper, a tone that was meant for my ears alone.
“Bow to your king.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid, fighting between my own fear and something molten that had been building in my chest since the moment I’d walked into this trap. I swallowed hard, tasting my own anger and defiance, and made no move to do anything of the sort.
The silence stretched between us until I could hear my own heartbeat, could hear the rustle of fabric as people in the crowd shifted their weight, could hear the soft scrape of steel against leather as hands moved instinctively toward sword hilts.
Arthur moved in even closer until I could see the darker flecks of blue in his eyes, and could feel that heat rolling off his skin that made the air between us shimmer. He was close enough that when he spoke again, I felt his breath against my face.
“I said bow.”
The words came out in another low growl: dangerous, edged with the kind of authority that had bent kingdoms to his will, the kind that made grown men prostrate themselves on cold stone and thank him for the privilege.
I wouldn’t be one of them.
“I will not.”
After a protracted silence, he did something that surprised me. He laughed a short, low sound that was more contempt than amusement, and he looked away from me. Then, before I could take another breath, he reeled back around to face me at the same moment that his hand found my face, fingers closing around my jaw. He wrenched me around to face the room, his grip that of a man who had never once needed to ask twice. It was a heartbeat later that I felt it: the cold kiss of steel settling beneath my chin, the flat of his blade pressed against the soft hollow of my throat.
“I could end this spy, thiswitch’slife, right here and now. And I would have every right to do so. After the treachery she performed against not only her king but against her king’s people...”
From the corner of my eye, I could see Lance’s jaw tighten as his hand instinctively moved to his sword, which he always kept at his side. But I didn’t know if he was doing so in defense of me or in defense of Arthur. Perhaps he’d be the one to run me through with his sword after Arthur slit my throat.
“Merlin believes himself clever,” Arthur continued. “He plants his seed in our midst, cultivates his spy among ourbrotherhood, and waits for the harvest.” A pause. “He shall keep waiting.”
A murmur moved through the crowd like wind cutting through dry grass. But it wasn’t the sound of men eager for blood. The sound was nervous, uncertain. It was the hum of men who’d pledged their loyalty to a king who was capable of slitting a woman’s throat in cold blood. Whatever I was, spy, witch, or both, even hardened knights shifted on their feet at the sight of the king’s blade at my throat. Even the loyal and the cruel had their limits, and most men, it seemed, drew those limits somewhere around the public slaying of a woman. It didn’t make them good; it only made them human.
“Camelot hasn’t stood for centuries on sentiment,” Arthur continued. “We’ve endured Merlin’s tricks, his schemes, his philosophy of chaos disguised as righteousness.” His eyes returned to my face. “And we will also endure this newest of his threats against us.” Then he paused for the space of a few heartbeats before he pulled his blade from my throat. “The witch won’t die today.”
