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I stared thoughtfully at Galahad, chewing my lip. What in the Three was I doing, hiding in here like a mouse?
If Florian did come back, I had no intention of being overpowered again. I had to be prepared. I had to be fit and strong. Not weak from idleness.
Before this, I had been training just as hard as Lancelet. But now it had all fallen by the wayside. I’d become depressed and discouraged. I had let Florian’s cruel words get right inside of me, twisting their way in and destroying my confidence.
That had to stop. Immediately.
If Florian tried to get into my room again. If he managed to get inside... Then I had to be ready. I might not be willing to let others fight my battles for me, but I would be damned if I would continue to play his victim. If he refused to leave me alone, then next time I would meet him head on.
I would fight my own battle. I would vanquish him.
“You’re right,” I said abruptly. “Let me get my things.”
Most of my training armor was already down in the shed by the courtyard.
But today I decided I would wear a different breastplate. One that Sir Ector had given me for my nineteenth birthday, a few months after I had begun training with him.
I crossed the room to the large oak wardrobe across from my bed and reached up to the top shelf, pulling down a beautiful black leather breastplate engraved with the Pendragon insignia. The rose on the insignia had even been embossed with real gold, as had the outline of the dragon and its swirling majestic tail. The breastplate fit me perfectly, snug as a glove.
I turned to face Galahad, holding it in my outstretched hands. “Strap me in?”
His expression confused me. He was looking not at the breastplate but at my arm. Quickly I tugged at the sleeve of the crimson tunic I wore.
“It’s no use, Morgan,” Galahad said, shaking his head. “I saw. When you reached for the armor. How did it happen?”
His eyes watched me, honest and steadfast as ever. I could not lie. Not to him.
“Florian,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “They’ve... They’ve mostly healed. Just scratches, for the most part.”
“Scratches.” He shook his head, as if he knew that for the brazen piece of fiction it was.
“Please. Will you strap me in?” I asked again. Suddenly I felt desperate. I couldn’t lose my nerve. Wind up stuck here in this tower bedroom again all day and all night.
Galahad seemed to understand. He stepped up and took the breastplate from my hands and helped me shrug into it, then began to buckle the leather straps on each side.
“Lancelet and I care about you very much, Morgan,” he said as he worked. “You know you can tell us anything.”
He sounded so parental. I almost laughed. But I knew he was serious.
“I know,” I said softly. “Thank you. I do know that. But... Things are complicated. I don’t wish to put either of you...” I nearly said “in danger.” “In an uncomfortable situation. With the Emrys’ or with...”
“The king?” Galahad finished. “There.” He let go of the buckles and stepped back. “Feel all right?”
“Yes, perfect.” I grabbed my sheathed sword from where it stood in the wardrobe and strapped it on. “Let’s go.” I was suddenly beyond eager to spend the rest of the day throwing my body into a fight.
We made our way down the hall to the stairs.
“Could you not tell your brother what is happening with Florian?” Galahad was careful to keep his voice low as we walked. “Wouldn’t he wish to protect you? Wish to intervene?”
I was quiet for a moment.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said finally. “You know Lord Agravaine is his closest counselor. Also...” How did I explain this? “The older Arthur and I get, the greater the distance between us. While I would like to believe he considers me with affection, the truth is...”
“He can be terrifying, can’t he?” Galahad met my eyes frankly. “It’s all right. We know. I cannot imagine having such a man for my brother.”
And Arthur was just barely a man. But I knew just what Galahad meant. Arthur was only nineteen years old, yet already he ruled with an iron fist and the shameless indulgences of a much older man. In many kingdoms, such a young king would have a fleet of advisors–even a regent. But not Arthur.
When our father had died, Arthur’s coronation had been held six weeks later.
