Bone Dragon

Of all the possible things to daydream, this was the most ludicrous. The vibrancy of the vision, the delicious wrongfulness of the fantasy woke his body, stirring it to life while the priest droned on. The contrast between his lascivious thoughts and the sanctity of the rites made Arthur choke on a swallowed laugh. He snorted, drawing a scowl from his father.

The bench squawked as he shifted his weight, seeking a more comfortable position. His knees hurt despite the deep padding that wrapped the bench, afforded only to royalty. But it was his pants that made him uncomfortable. He eased his legs, thankful for the long tunic that covered his hips, hiding his reaction to the dream.

The private house of worship glittered and sparkled. Brilliant sunshine pierced the chapel’s polished stained glass, to embed itself in the southern exposure of chiseled stone wall. A kaleidoscope of light spilled onto the raised dais, striping the abbot’s spotless linen robes in rainbow hues. Dust motes danced in the heated air, absorbing the spinning colours. It seated less than a hundred people, but the interior warmed to an unbearable level when full.

On Prince Arthur’s left knelt his father, His Royal Highness Uther Pendragon. God’s Anointed and Chief Knight represented two of his official titles, but by far the most important one was the title King of Camelot. Arthur, heir apparent to the throne, shared the bench with his father. Uther’s sweating, balding pate was bowed in submission, awaiting the abbot’s offering of the sacrament. A plum silk cloak embroidered with golden dragons slid over his shoulders to puddle on the floor. His head was bare except for a circlet of gold perched on his crown of thinning hair. A jewel-encrusted ring impressed with the golden dragon crest of the House of Pendragon rested on the middle finger of his right hand. It declared his right to be king, symbolizing his ordination before the people and before God.

Arthur sneaked a peek across the room to the other kneeler. To their right, the ladies’ bench was graced by the Lady Morgana and a visiting member of the Camiliard royal court, Lady Guinevere. Both wore sheer veils over their faces made of the finest Venetian lace. Arthur could make out their features despite the delicate draping meant to conceal their beauty. It was a requirement that when ladies were in attendance of the king, before God, they must cover their faces, so as to not cause a vain distraction to His Highness or the abbot. Purity above all was the command of the church, and the strictures were enforced with a zealot’s fervor.

Abbot Gillon’s monotone drone floated through the chamber, inviting all to slumber. The still air was stifling, the result of an early spring heatwave, but the subject matter would have bored Arthur even if the interior of the chapel was as cool as a cave. A lazy buzzing filled his ears. He had heard it all before.

Since the attainment of his sixth birthday, he’d knelt in the chapel once a week to pray for the souls of the dead. As he had grown, the need to honour those who had died in defense of Camelot had been drilled into his being, and now, as heir apparent, he gladly prayed for their departed souls. Honor before duty, but duty above all. His father’s words echoed in his head as he clenched his jaw, swallowing the yawn that yearned to escape his lips. The heat was unbearable.

Lady Guinevere’s head turned in his direction, and she smiled, laughter alight in her leafy green eyes. He raised an eyebrow returning the smile, before breaking eye contact.

She is a pretty thing, Arthur mused. Auburn curls escaped her pearled cap and fell with abandon down the length of her back. Sea blue silk encased her youthful figure, displaying full curves and ample cleavage especially as she bowed her face over slim folded hands, resting on the railing of the kneeler. The slump of her shoulders pushed her blessings to the fore, and Arthur had to pull his gaze away from the riotous display. They had been friends since childhood, as close as siblings. Now Guinevere had grown into a beautiful woman.

The court gossip paired the two of them together. Uther had hinted that he would be satisfied with such a match, but Arthur had deflected the probing questions with the skill of an orator. He had no desire to marry despite being of age since the previous fall. Arthur knew he had to but ask his father, and the king would see to requesting Guinevere’s hand in betrothal from the Duke and Duchess of Caerleon On-Usk.

Arthur’s gaze rose to the luminous, ornate cross visible above the abbot’s golden miter. Commissioned specifically for the House of Pendragon, the crucifix was the largest in all of Camelot, larger even than the one that graced the abbey. It was sized true to life, the gilded cross a full ten feet tall. Created for the royal chapel when the new wing was built, the artfully clothed body representing Christ sagged from the cross members, his hands and feet nailed to grey marble carved to look like rough timber. The holy figure’s head drooped to one side, hair spilling over his forehead. Lines that represented whip marks crisscrossed the chest cavity where the bones of the ribs were carved so realistically, that Arthur wondered not for the first time if the artist had been working from a live model. It had scared him as a young boy, but now he just felt revulsion.

He studied the statue with a jaundiced eye, examining the contours the artist had so painstakingly carved to grace the king’s chapel. It wasn’t the gruesomeness of the carving that revolted him, nor was it the subject matter, the horror of the Lord’s crucifixion. No, what horrified Arthur was the weakness displayed by the characterization of Christ.

Arthur’s eyes swung past his father to the row of knights lining the walls of the chamber. Despite the heat, they were dressed in full armour. The only concession to the heat was the absence of their helmets. Their knees were locked in rigid attention, right hands poised over swords and the left clasped to their chest plates over the area where their hearts beat. Polished and pristine, their gleaming armour cast a brighter reflection than Abbot Gillon’s milky robes, and struck a far more impressive image.

Arthur’s eyes ran down the row of knights to pause on a face that he never grew tired of. The subject of his lascivious daydream, Sir Lancelot, stood a full head in height above the others. His lime green eyes crinkled with humour as their eyes met. He raised an eyebrow. Arthur offered a small smile in return, then pulled his gaze away. Despite breaking eye contact Lancelot filled his thoughts. Lancelot was simply the most handsome man he had ever seen.

Arthur’s mind wandered back to their last training session. It had been a long, hot and sweaty workout involving mace and shield practice. Delayed due to injuries, the overdue session had been satisfying in its rustic ruthlessness. Afterward, he’d invited the knights to refresh themselves in the hot springs that pooled in large marble-lined basins under the castle. Normally reserved for the royal family and their guests, Arthur had extended the invitation as a reward for an excellent session, but he had been unprepared for his response to the experience.

The knights were devoid of modesty. Offered the chance, Arthur was sure that they would go to battle naked for the sheer effrontery. There was no doubt that Arthur was distracted by the expanse of man flesh that splashed in the heated basins. The blush that rose on his cheeks he blamed on the temperature of the water, but he had a feeling that Lancelot knew its true source. Since that outing, he had gone out of his way to tease Arthur, sliding the subject of nakedness into every conversation. He could not walk five steps by Lancelot’s side without the knight commenting on a well muscled chest or pointing out a particularly tight pair of pants on a servant. He mixed the observations. Sometimes they were male, sometimes they were female. Arthur had the impression that Lancelot was testing him, teasing him, to see which he fancied.

If only Lancelot knew, thought Arthur, that it is him that fills my thoughts. I wonder how he would respond?

So wrapped up in his current daydream was Arthur, that he missed his cue from the abbot. A throat cleared. Arthur’s focus snapped back to the present, his vision filling with Uther’s lowered brow as he waited impatiently for his son. Panic surged in Arthur’s chest, but his face showed nothing of his thoughts. Long training had taught him to conceal his emotions, especially from his father’s nonexistent tolerance. Uther demanded perfection in public and held Arthur to the same strict standards that he required of himself.

Abbot Gillon proffered a simple silver plate with roped metal handles on which sat flat discs of bread representing the body of Christ.

“Corpus autem Christi,” he prompted Arthur in Latin, frowning at the young prince.

Arthur repeated the ritualized words. The audience filling the pews behind them murmured “Amen.” Satisfied, the stout abbot shuffled over to the ladies’ bench, offering the plate first to Lady Morgana then to her companion, Lady Guinevere. Murmurs rose from their lips and were answered by the people.

Uther leaned over and hissed in Arthur’s ear. “What has gotten into you lately, Arthur? This is not the first time you have been lax in your concentration, during an important public appearance.” His brows drew down in a frown, darkening his countenance as if he pulled an angry thunderhead over their location. “We will speak of this later. Do not embarrass me further, today.” Uther straightened, staring straight ahead at the body of Christ, his shoulders rigid. Arthur did not believe his father saw the carving.

Arthur let out a slow breath, mentally preparing an answer to the inevitable questions. Not a day went by when he was not drilled in protocol, reminded of his responsibilities as crown prince, or prodded to the path he would have to take as the future king of Camelot. Yet all of this teaching and preaching and preparation warred with his inner longings, and often was in direct conflict with his desires. Such as his desire for Lancelot. He admitted it to himself, if not aloud. To speak such a thing aloud was impossible. It was a passion he pursued in secret, in the privacy of his own mind, only in his dreams. Waking or asleep, the dreams were the same, one in which he and Lancelot walked side by side in life, sharing love, life, and family.

A crazy fantasy. It could never be, mused Arthur. He pushed the thought away, ruthlessly crushing the image until it shattered in his mind.

The abbot returned to the dais and completed the mass with a final blessing. The assemblage stirred from their collective stupor and made their way slowly out of the stifling heat of the tiny chapel.

Uther stood, groaning slightly as his stiff knee complained. It was the result of an old battle wound that had never completely healed. Arthur dared not touch his father to offer assistance. Uther loathed being treated as weak and any suggestion of the same, however courteously intended, was sure to attract his wrath. Instead, Arthur stood stiffly by his side, shielding the view of his father from the rest of the chapel.

Uther straightened then placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “I am ready,” he said, giving Arthur a gentle push to start him walking.

Arthur turned and his eyes immediately sought out Lancelot, who was making his way up the central aisle, his armour jangling in time to his steps. Laughter filled the confined space as the knights bantered, moving one at a time through the arched doors.

Lancelot paused in the opening, then turned back to address Arthur and Uther. “My king. My liege.” He bowed in turn, acknowledging the pair.

“What is it, Lancelot?” Uther spared hardly a glance at the bowing knight, as he peered past the prostrated man to the counselor who waited for him outside the chamber.

“I require Arthur’s presence in the armoury. I believe there has been a theft, my lord.”

“A theft?” Uther’s gaze swung to Lancelot, then to Arthur. “Arthur, you will look into this matter. If someone has pilfered from the armoury, I want the perpetrator caught and brought before my justice.”

“Yes, Father. It will be as you ask.” Arthur bowed his head to his father in deference. Uther left the pair standing in the doorway. Arthur moved up to stand beside Lancelot, watching his father stride away.

Reaching the counselor, Uther’s head lowered to hear what the elderly man had to say. They strode way down the wide hallway, deep in conversation with the Head of the Exchequer. Arthur’s task was forgotten by the time they turned the corner at the end of the wide hallway.

Arthur headed the opposite direction, toward the rear of the castle where the armouries were located. Lancelot fell in beside him as he walked, tall enough to block the heat of the sun streaming through the glassless windows of the walkway. “Tell me about this theft, Lancelot. When was it discovered?”

Lancelot’s white teeth flashed as he shot a grin at Arthur. “Well, that might have been a bit of an exaggeration. As you walked up the aisle of the chapel, your face had the look of a man sentenced to hang. I thought you could use a rescue.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Was it really that obvious?”

“Only because I know you so well, my lord. Your mind certainly wasn’t on the service.” He peered at Arthur with a sly glance, noting the slight rosy blush that crept under his skin.

Arthur puffed his cheeks then let the air whistle out through his teeth. His eyes scanned the vicinity to see who was within earshot. The corridor was empty. “It’s just that it’s always the same.” Lancelot’s tilted his head, curious, but did not speak. “This is going to sound horrible, but every time I look at our Saviour, hanging on that cross, all I can think about is how weak he looks. He’s not the least bit inspiring. It is a grand tale, but I cannot figure out why men of valor would follow such a weak image of a man? He does not have your strength.”

Lancelot chuckled. “I would say not. He was not a knight. You have seen my strength, every last bit of it.”

Arthur could feel the heat rising into his face. He turned his head away, hiding the deepening, creeping flush triggered by his words.

I can never tell you, Lancelot, how I feel. The words must never pass my lips.

“You must never speak these thoughts aloud to the others,” Lancelot continued, humour fading from his voice. “You can trust me but the other knights? They would report your words to the king. To speak out against the church is forbidden.” Lancelot grimaced. “You know the law. Uther would have no choice but to denounce you as a heretic. You would be branded in the public square, then banished from the kingdom, heir apparent or not. The authority of the church supersedes even the king’s decrees. Being the crown prince would not save you. Your property would be seized and your name stricken from the records. It would be as if you had never lived. That is, if Uther didn’t kill you outright.”

“I know,” muttered Arthur. His face had cooled during the tirade and he lifted his chin with pride. “I trust you, Lancelot, to keep the secrets of your prince. You are the one man I know would never betray me.” Arthur reached out and clapped Lancelot on the arm, squeezing the firm muscle under his grip. He swallowed, forcing down another blush that threatened at the contact. He stared up into the crushing intensity of Lancelot’s clear eyes. “Thank you,” Arthur said, pushing the words out of a dry throat. His voice croaked and he swallowed, as he dropped his hand.

Lancelot’s eyes twinkled with merriment. He held Arthur’s eyes for a moment then winked, pushing a stray lock of chestnut curls from his forehead. “Come on, we need to find the missing weapon before your father remembers that you were sent to investigate.” Lancelot broke contact and strode off ahead of Arthur. Bemused, Arthur watched him walk away. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered on the air stirred by his motion. Arthur inhaled deeply, then shook his head and followed the dark knight down the winding staircase.

Something is changing within me, thought Arthur. I am not sure what. Or perhaps I do know.

Dare I acknowledge it, even to myself? Because whatever this is, it involves Lancelot.

Arthur followed Lancelot down two sets of staircases and then out through an arched side entrance of the castle, set with a green painted door. Known as the Harvest Door, the cellars where food stuffs were stored over the winter lined the walls of the short passage, leading to the vegetable plots. Servants bobbed curtsies as he passed, but Arthur paid them no heed. Once outside the main castle and into the central garden, Arthur matched Lancelot’s stride. “How do you know a weapon has been stolen? What weapon is it?”

Lancelot glanced in his direction. “I did not detect any forced entry, sire. But there is something missing, nonetheless. Habin, the fletcher, saw someone leaving the armoury in the early hours of the morning, but he couldn’t see who it was. They were wearing a cloak with the hood drawn up, hiding their face. He wouldn’t even have mentioned it to me other than he saw that the door was locked when he reached it. He thought it was strange, as he hadn’t seen the person pause to lock the door. It was odd enough that he thought to mention it to me. I’m not sure if anything was taken. All the regular equipment is present and accounted for. You will see.”

Arthur frowned. If nothing was missing, why was Lancelot concerned? Arthur did not like mysteries and especially ones that involved things that could be dangerous, and everything housed in the armoury was a weapon of some kind.

“You mean,” he said, his voice hesitant, “it’s one of the other objects, stored in the back room? The items that my father suspects may be used for magic?”

“Yes, sire. Something is gone, but we don’t know what. I didn’t want to alarm the king, so I called it a weapon. You know how he feels about those forbidden objects.”

“Yes.” The curt word hung on the air, pregnant with promise. If there was one thing his father hated more than the ongoing war with Hengist the Horrible, it was magic.

The armouries were located on the north wall of the royal gardens, carved out of thick native stone. Built on two levels, the first floor was filled with every form of cudgel and cutlass known to the kingdom. The underground section was locked away behind an iron grate, requiring a key.

They arrived at the door of the armoury, and Arthur produced a key ring, thick with an assortment of black keys which he carried at all times on his belt. Finding the one he sought, he thrust it into the lock and turned it. The door opened easily, swinging back on silent hinges. Arthur ran his hand down the door frame, checking for signs that the door had been forced in any way. No pry marks or chips of any sort were found. Natural light spilled into the room from the open doorway.

The large room was filled with racks of ornate polished swords, shields bearing the crest of Pendragon and sharpened pikes in upright circular racks. Two walls were lined with giant fish hooks from which hung every sort of mace and flail imaginable. The third wall resembled a prickle of angry porcupines, stacked with rows on rows of arrow-filled quivers. The scent of beeswax hung in the air, mixing with the musky scent of cedar. Arthur inhaled deeply. He loved the smell of the armoury, especially on a humid day like today. But this first atrium was not their true destination. He led Lancelot across the room to a second door. He reached out and rattled the door handle. It was locked.

“How did you get inside this room? Did you lock it after you left?” said Arthur.

“Yes, it was wide open when I discovered the theft. I was afraid to leave it open, so I jammed the door.” Lancelot pulled a short knife from a sheath at his side then slid into the top of the frame, prying at a chunk of wood wedged tight between door and frame. It was stuck tight. Frowning, Lancelot pushed hard on the door. An ominous creaking accompanied the sound of cracking framework. Splinters of wood fell to the floor. Grunting, Lancelot fished out the remainder of the wedge then said, “Try the door now.”

Arthur turned the handle. As soon as he pulled, the heavy door groaned and twisted on its one remaining hinge, toppling into the room. The base of the door collided with Arthur’s shin, and he yelped with pain, stumbling back. His hand clasped the swelling, bone-deep bruise, as he limped to the side of the opening to lean against the wall.

“Sire! Forgive me. The door must have been weaker than I realized. Are you ok?”

“Yes.” Arthur straightened, smothering a grimace. “Grab a torch.”

Lancelot retrieved two torches, handing one to Arthur. Arthur limped over the door. The torchlight pushed back the shadow, revealing a dank interior covered in cobwebs. More of a mausoleum than a room, the vault was reserved for rare artifacts of unknown origin. Most had been acquired from the accused, those witches and wizards who had been executed by Uther’s command, their property and lands seized. Those same lands had been moved into the hands of lords and ladies raised to nobility, as trusted allies of Camelot and the church, and their goods confiscated and moved to the vaults.

As magic was forbidden by the church, the king naturally upheld the prim edicts against the use of magic. However, this naturally led to a problem. There was no one within the king’s inner circle who could verify if the objects were actually imbued with magic or spelled in any fashion—or they refused to identify the talent if they could. Arthur peered around the room in disgust. The walls were divided into cubicles, roughly five feet by five feet, and stuffed with an assortment of junk. Broken chairs, shredded pillows, and cracked clay pots fill filled the one closest. The wooden arm and head of a child’s puppet flopped over the edge of a milking stool, half of its hand painted face missing. In the cubicle next to it, burnt bolts of silk cloth jumbled in around a wax mannequin. The body was punctured and slashed, as though those who had brought the silhouette back to the castle had been afraid that it was bewitched. In a third cubby hung a mummified cat. He did not need to step closer to tell it had been alive when it was hung. Now the fur hung from the skeleton in tatters. As he passed it by, moths flew up from the cavity. Grimly, he marched on. Those items that were thought to be magical had been specially arrayed.

The firelight brightened the end wall as they approached. Behind an iron grate, figurines of various sizes and shape lined the end wall. Simple wooden carvings jostled for space with idols of stone, some gilded and others set with precious stones. Wooden crates, nailed shut, were stacked in one corner, and in the other leaned staffs of various sizes and configurations. Pewter bowls and bronze platters filled a trestle table in the center of the room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. Arthur fished out a second key and turned it in the iron lock. The hinges squealed as he pulled the metal gate open. Raising his torch, he moved it slowly across the ragtag selection. Lancelot raised his hand and pointed.

Perhaps the oddest thing was a collection of keys that hung in a row from a row of wooden pegs attached to the side of a cabinet. There were enough pegs to hold fifty or more keys, and one key was missing. Arthur stepped closer to the cabinet, peering at the empty spot in the middle. “Someone stole a key?” he said, incredulous. “From here?”

“So, it would seem,” said Lancelot. “Do you know, sire, what the missing key is for?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. No one knows what these keys do.” He frowned, then pointed at the floor. “Footprints.” He knelt by the print, examining it. The boot print was adult sized, but small. A young man, or perhaps a woman. He walked through the room, following the disturbed dirt, pausing where the thief paused, examining the items. Lancelot followed, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Layers of dust covered everything, making it easy for them to determine where the stranger had paused and touched an object. Nothing else appeared to be missing. Arthur returned to the cabinet and opened the door. A bare spot on the third shelf immediately caught is eye. “A box has been stolen, too.” A long, thin rectangle free of dust marked where the object had sat.

Lancelot moved up beside him, peering over his shoulder to see within the cabinet. The sweet smell of sandalwood filled Arthur’s nose and his nostrils flared. The warmth of his body seeped into Arthur’s back, pushing away the chill of the room. “Do you know what it was?” said Lancelot.

“The objects in this cabinet are believed to be used in performing spells. They are among the most dangerous objects in this room. Only a wizard or a witch could say for certain what their purpose is.”

“So, this theft is more serious than I thought,” said Lancelot.

“We cannot keep this from my father. He must be told. Stay here and guard this room. I will send a mason down to repair the door and reset it in the block.” Arthur moved his arm to search for a key on his belt, his elbow brushing Lancelot’s firm chest. Ignoring the surge of sensation that tingled up his arm, he retrieved the ring from his belt, removing the one that secured the vault. “Once repairs are complete, lock the door and return this key to me, immediately.”

Lancelot took the key. “Yes, my liege.” He bowed, then followed Arthur out of the room. Legs spread, he placed himself firmly in front of the empty door frame, right hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Arthur took the stairs two at a time and slowed to a more dignified walk at the top. He left the armoury and veered across the courtyard, heading for the council chambers. At this time of day, his father would be found there, deep in conversation with those charged with the varied tasks required to run a kingdom. The sessions filled the morning hours and generally ran until noon, after which the council dispersed to go about their duties.

Gaining the interior of the castle, Arthur moved through tiled hallways. The servants stood aside for him as he passed. An angry grimace creased his brow. The bad-tempered expression caused the servants to jump out of the prince’s way as he bowled his way down the long passage. He rounded a corner and collided with Lady Guinevere. Instinctively, he threw out his hands to ward off the impending collision. Guinevere gasped, and her arm swung. The slap echoed like a cannon blast, his face stinging with the strength of the blow. Outraged, he opened his mouth to speak, but the harsh reprimand froze on his lips when he realized that he held Guinevere’s large breasts in his fingers.

What a lovely handful, was the errant thought that flashed into his mind. He dropped his hands, throwing up an arm just in time to ward off a second slap and catching it on his forearm.

“How dare you take liberties with me!” she hissed.

“I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

“You pig. You filthy, rutting swine,” shouted Guinevere while Lady Morgana howled with laughter.

Arthur’s face flamed as did Guinevere’s, twin suns spinning around the same axis. Arthur eased his way to the right, slipping past Guinevere. With a sniff, she tossed her curls and nose pointed into the air, glided away, as regal as a swan.

Arthur’s hand found the stinging reminder of her fury, and a grin twitched onto his smooth face. He walked backward a few steps, watching their retreating backsides until they turned the corner with a swish of skirts. He resumed his path, arriving at the council chambers. Twin guards were stationed to either side of the double doors and looked at him quizzically. Arthur realized he was whistling a merry tune and stopped immediately. The guards chuckled and grasped the door handles, pulling them open for the prince. Arthur’s eyes flicked to each man, then he soberly stepped into the room.

A long rectangular table was set with seating for a dozen people. His father sat in a high-backed, ornately carved black oak armchair at the head of the table, and to either side the benches were occupied with his cabinet ministers.

“…to make sure that the grain fetches the best prices for Camelot. These foreign traders are dumping their grain in the markets, driving down prices. I believe we should place a tax on the sale of imported grain. The farmers we polled agree with this position.” Uther held up his hand to halt the speech. The minister in charge of agriculture paused, his head turning to see who had entered.

“Arthur.” Uther acknowledged his son’s presence. “What is it?”

“There has been a break in, into the vault under the armoury. There are two items missing.”

Uther’s stood, his eyes fixed on Arthur. “You are dismissed, councillors.” Chairs and benches scraped across the tiles. The men gathered their scrolls and shuffled from the chamber. Once the door had closed behind them, Uther gestured to Arthur to join him at the table. He took the seat to his father’s right.

“What articles are missing?” he demanded, reaching for a glistening pitcher sitting on a tray in the middle of the table and pouring mead into two cups. He handed one to Arthur.

“A key, and two boxes from inside the cupboard. I believe them all to be artifacts retrieved during the Pelinor Purge.”

Uther’s thick brows drew together, and he half rose from his chair. “The wand is gone? How did they get inside the vault?”

“The hinges were melted. I have never seen anything like it. I left Lancelot guarding the entrance until we can get a mason down to reset the door.”

“Do we know when this happened?” asked Uther.

“I would suspect that it was in the wee hours of the morning. It is the most logical time to attempt something so brazen. There is only a small guard that early in the day assigned to that area of the castle grounds. Father,” said Arthur, “I’d like to tackle this investigation, with your permission.”

Uther nodded, considering his son. “Magic is dangerous. Those that wield it would see us dead, and the church destroyed. Witchcraft has no place in a Christian kingdom. They would like nothing more than to lure us into a direct fight with them.”

“I know. But at some point, I must be tested. I must prove to the people, to the knights, and to you that I am fit to lead Camelot, as your successor. But mostly, I need to prove it to myself. I cannot hide from those who would use magic.”

“That is true, my son.” Uther stood, walking over to the open window to gaze down at the armoury door. He clasped his hands behind his back. The sun blazed across his face, sharpening the wrinkles creasing the corner of his eyes. Silence descended for the space of several minutes and then he nodded to himself. Turning back to Arthur, he said, “I agree. It is time you were given such a task. You will choose three knights to assist you in this quest. Track down the thief and return to me with the stolen items and the thief’s head.”

Arthur stood up, bowing to his father in acknowledgment of the command. “I will not disappoint you, Father. I will begin my investigation immediately.” He took two steps toward the door when his father’s voice stopped him.

“Arthur. Be careful.”

Arthur nodded, then left the chambers.