Ari stepped down a fur runner, gathering attention as the room quieted, all eyes on her.
And that’s when she spotted Gwen, safe in a circle of ornately dressed women, head craned to see over their protective ring. Ari wondered if Gwen could feel her taking in every single curve of Gwen’s neck, cheek, lips from beneath her helmet. When Gwen blushed, Ari felt certain her lady could. Ari stopped at the center of the room, unsure of where to direct herself since the throne was empty. Arthur slid out from the crowd of nobles, as skinny and small as Merlin was these days. He grinned at the sight of Ari, which was not what she expected at all.
What the…
Arthur was little more than a child.
“You’re alive!” he cried. “I thought for certain Sir Kay’s blow would have finished you.”
Ari genuflected. Once on her knee, head bowed, the young king lifted her arm, inspecting the spot where the rounded dagger had punched a hole in the circlets of her chainmail. Ari nudged him off, feigning pain. In truth, Mercer’s pill had knitted everything back together so well she only felt tightness this morning. “Your Sir Kay should work on his aim. His blow did not meet its mark.”
“A good thing. He was wrong to attack a defender of my kingdom.” Arthur glanced at the knights with a hard scowl, and Ari watched the one called Sir Kay turn his back pointedly. Arthur beckoned her to rise and walked to his throne. He hopped onto the large seat and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Would you remove your helmet, good knight?”
Ari did as she was told, tucking it under her arm. She managed to refrain from looking back at Gwen, but only just. Ari couldn’t seem to find words. Why in the hell was Arthur so young? Had they completely botched the time jump? By the looks of him, his eighteenth birthday—and the moment the chalice was set to appear—was solid years away.
“I surprise you,” Arthur said, ruddy-cheeked.
“You have no beard,” Ari said, unable to suppress a bout of what Kay had loved to call Ari Brand Honesty. “I heard you were older.”
Arthur smiled, which was oddly adorable. Slightly gap-toothed and far too earnest. “You and me both, I’d say. Although how I envy your great height, Sir…?”
Shit. She’d forgotten to think of a decent moniker.
Ari gave Arthur a slight smirk.
“You conceal your name from the king of Camelot?” he asked, more curious than accusing. He stood, holding her gaze even though she was an entire head and shoulders taller than him—and most people in this time period. He circled her, and Ari felt his studying eyes everywhere. “You are odd. You speak to a king as if he is your equal. You wear the blue armor of Normandy but your skin is darker than a Northman. More like the southern Franks. You travel without servants, your accent is very strange, and your armor is too short at the knees. Quite the ill-made knight… Sir?”
Again, Ari merely smirked. She could not name herself Ironfist; that was a lie too far.
Gwen came forward, pushing through the ladies. She stood at Arthur’s side, taking his elbow in a way that made him sort of… shiver… and Ari pound all over with jealousy. “King Arthur has asked you here, good knight, to thank you for your services in yesterday’s battle. I believe you saved my life.”
Arthur smiled at Gwen and then returned his scrutinizing glare to Ari. “Yes, I owe you a debt and would like to invite you to assemble a team to fight in my melee in three days’ time. Alas, if you will not share your name, I must imagine you to be suspicious.”
A word slid forward in Ari’s mind as if pushed across a polished table by a steady hand. This was Arthur. Not the child king in front of her but the bonded presence she’d begun to doubt since crash-landing in the past.
The proffered word crystallized. Not a word; a name.
“Lancelot,” Ari said, surprised to find that it left her mouth as lightly as any truth. Gwen’s eyes flew wide. “I am Sir Lancelot.”
“Stay invisible! Don’t engage! Leave the legend alone. Are none of you hearing me?” Merlin yelled the next morning. He’d slept on it, by request of Lam, but was still dizzy with the affront of Ari naming herself Lancelot. He’d called an emergency meeting, pulling them all into an empty tower. Apart from Gwen, who could not be separated from her fleet of handmaidens.
“Careful,” Lam warned. “Merlin’s going to start ranting about moths.”
“Butterflies,” Merlin said, mentally arranging a lecture on the introductory physics of time travel.
Ari stopped him with a harshly pointed finger. “You’re the one who should explain, Merlin. You said eighteenth birthday celebration. Eighteenth. That ‘king’ is a baby! Gwen has been married off to a thirteen-year-old!”
“Arthur always lied about his age,” Merlin said, “quite unabashedly. Like most commoners in this time, he doesn’t know precisely when he was born, and he was crowned at a tender age. A lot of rush to grow up. To prove that he can be a man.”
“He told Gwen he’s nearly sixteen,” Jordan added unhelpfully.
“He could be fifteen,” Lam said. “Val would say he’s fifteen, but he’d laugh into the back of his hand the whole time.”
“Arthur’s celebration will happen soon, thus his true age doesn’t matter.” Jordan’s stare sliced off further opinions. “Plus the only important measure of time is that he’s young enough not to have figured out that Gwen is pregnant, yet old enough to stare longingly
