Wonderly Wroth: The Swithen Book Five

By Scott Telek

Two formidable knights.
One deadly secret.
And the future king in the middle.

Arthur has pulled the sword from the stone—but he’s not king yet. A confused fourteen-year-old from a small town, Arthur suddenly finds himself considered the foretold king of all Britain. He struggles to grasp the enormity of what it means, except that it means he can’t go home, his brother and other boys—even men, and even kings—are bitterly jealous of him, and many people want to kill him while he’s still just a boy.

“Scott Telek’s Swithen series just keeps getting better and better.”
—Tyler Tichelaar, author, “Children of Arthur”

Put into training with Sir Ulfius and Sir Bretel—the knights that guarded Uther and Igraine, the former king and queen, Arthur learns to fight with swords, lay siege to a castle and understand the demands of kingship as he is drawn into the close friendship the two knights share. But one of them has a secret—a secret so dark and explosive it throws the formidable knights into a deadly feud, with the future king caught in their battle.

While this happens, the Lady of the Lake makes Merlin aware that he’s not the only power in the realm. Morgan le Fay discovers that the boy who ruined her mother’s life has been found, and lays a plan to entrap him. King Lot is not about to let the realm fall into the hands of a child, and gathers kings to plan a war to prevent it. And Arthur learns that a great wizard created him, molded him, and will soon arrive to assume total control of his life.

“A return to the best of T.H, White before it was treated to Disney's sickly saccharin kiss. My only honest criticism is we have to wait for the next.”
—Steve Gladwin, Stories of Feeling and Being, author; “The Seven”

In the fifth novel of the acclaimed Swithen series, the only Arthurian novel series to remain completely faithful to the real Medieval legend of King Arthur, the scope and action explode as characters that will play major roles in books to come begin to weave their stories. A vast world, featuring an intricately-woven society of characters whose stories will continue over the next twenty novels begins to take shape as the Realm of Logres attempts to process the appearance of the great king. Many will love him. Some will hate him. But everyone in this fully-realized world of beauty, myth and magic will be touched by him.

“The best telling of these stories I've encountered in any medium.”
—Amory, Audible Review

Author Scott Telek makes the blank archetypes of the Arthurian legend into real people with relatable emotions, helping us understand the intricate interconnections and subtle ironies that have helped this story endure for almost a thousand years. Join The Swithen for an unprecedented literary journey that tells one unforgettable, generation-spanning saga over the course of twenty-five novels, all leading toward a devastating, transformational, shattering climax.

With Wonderly Wroth, we’re one fifth of the way there.

“Telek is re-telling the Arthurian legend but filling in the holes while giving the originally piecemeal plots a contemporary feel and the flat medieval characters modern emotions and motivations.”
—H. Williams, Amazon Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Telek
• Release date: Sep 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989106219

Scott Telek

Scott Telek is a writer, artist and filmmaker. He has been writing professionally for over 20 years, while also writing fiction, film reviews, doing oil painting and creating films. He has always been interested in legend and folklore, which led to his obsession with the lore of King Arthur.Telek takes a different approach to epic fantasy, which usually invents new stories taking place in the Arthurian world. Telek's interest is in honoring the ancient tales by retaining the plot, story, and weirdness of the original legends from nearly a thousand years ago, but filling in the character and psychology in ways that are compelling to modern readers, but missing from the Middle English sources. That way, readers get to know the real King Arthur of lore, with all the grandeur, magic and romance that modern, made-up stories simply cannot match.You may think you know all about King Arthur--but you don't. Sure there's swordfights, honor and romance. But there's also a lot of magic, psychological intrigue, supernatural occurrences and unexplained phenomena that make this much more "Twilight Zone" than "Camelot." And the entire, decades-spanning plot, with multiple interlocking storylines, was completed over a thousand years ago--so it's all going somewhere, and it's all been thought through, right to the very end. No making up as we go along!Enter The Swithen at book one, which details the real origin story of Merlin--laid down 800 years ago! Book two finds Merlin preparing Britain for the coming of Arthur, and at the end of book three, Arthur is born. Get on for the ride as we see Arthur rise, unite Britain, marry Guinevere, form the Knights of the Round Table, be betrayed by Lancelot, and be there are the whole thing comes crashing down, in the most monumental, epic, intricate and moving tale of a civilization's rise and fall ever set down.

Book preview

Wonderly

Wroth

The Swithen: Book Five

By Scott Telek

Praise for The Swithen series

"After decades studying and teaching many versions of the Arthurian legends, this is the most realistic and compelling."

– Joanne V., Facebook recommendation

"Absolutely engrossing! It brings me into the medieval world as other versions of the Arthurian legend haven't."

– Starborne, Amazon review

"This has everything that the original legends needed without altering them. The author gives the characters a development and depth that tends to be lacking in ancient stories. Particularly, the motivations and machinations of female characters is often absent in ancient tales, leaving them with a very hollow presence. But, the books’ ability to make these characters compelling without altering the source of the legends make these a uniquely enjoyable read… You'll understand how these stories survived to inspire generations for as long as they have through this book series!"

– Amory, Amazon Review

"Really enjoyed books 1, 2 and 3. Couldn't put it down. It is written so well you become part of the story. Loved it. Bring on the next 20 odd books. Can't wait!"

– Amazon review

I have rarely known such richness and depth of psychology in nearly anything I've read, let alone anything Arthurian.

– Steve Gladwin, author of The Seven

"Too often, Arthurian characters become stick figures in modern retellings, but that is far from the case here.

– Tyler Tichelaar, Author Children of Arthur

"Makes the Arthurian legend readable and relatable for us."

– Alex S., Amazon Review

"If you weren’t fascinated by how Telek depicted Merlin in the first novel, I guarantee you will be here… What is fascinating about the novel is not the plot, but the psychology of the characters as the chain of events unfolds… Telek has created the most real and sympathetic version of Vortigern to date."

– Tyler Tichelaar, Author Children of Arthur

Copyright © 2022 Scott Telek

This is a work of fiction. The characters are in the public domain or invented from the author’s imagination. The base of the story is drawn from works in the public domain and enhanced by the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved under domestic and international copyright. Outside of elements drawn from the established source legend, all new story elements and characters are invented by the author and protected by copyright. Outside of fair use (such as quoting within a book review), no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.

Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9891062-1-9

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9996773-2-2

Swithen ‘S’ design copyright © 2023 Scott Telek

Cover design by Scott Telek

Knight photo reference: Pixabay

Boy photo reference: Pexels

www.theswithen.com

Facebook: TheSwithen

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Twitter: @TheSwithen

Table of Contents

Praise for The Swithen

In Previous Books

Character Index

Part One: The Marsh

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Part Two: The Fortress

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Part Three: The Land Laid Waste

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

Part Four: The Precipice

80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120

In the Next Book

Legend to Novel: Wonderly Wroth

Sources

The mission of The Swithen is to honor the original Arthurian legend by maintaining strict fidelity to the source literature, while fleshing out characters and scenes to make the thoughts and emotions of the characters clear to modern readers.

This novel is largely original, but refers to material from The History of the Kings of Britain, by Geoffery of Monmouth, of approximately 1150 A.D., Wace’s Roman de Brut of 1155, Layamon’s Brut of 1190, The Story of Merlin from the Post-Vulgate Cycle, written between 1215 and 1235, and the Prose Merlin of 1450.

---

Now Available

A Man of Our Kind: The Swithen Book 1

While tyrant King Vortigern drives Britain into ruin by inviting in the invading Saxons, a woman becomes the mother of the devil’s child. When she has him baptized, he becomes the powerful wizard Merlin.

The Sons of Constance: The Swithen Book 2

Merlin serves three successive kings while setting the pieces in place that will result in the conception of Arthur.

The Void Place: The Swithen Book 3

Merlin destroys two lives to create one—but that one is the future King Arthur. Meanwhile, a sword appears in a stone, unable to be drawn by any but the future king.

The Flower of Chivalry: The Swithen Book 4

Arthur’s sense of justice develops through the pains and joys of his childhood, until his path leads him to encounter the sword in the stone.

The Future of The Swithen

Book 6:

Arthur must wage war on those who dispute the reign of a teenage king and receives the sword Excalibur.

Book 7: 

Arthur forms the Knights of the Round Table, romances Guinevere, and begins constructing Camelot.

Book 8: 

Balin le Savage’s unlucky adventures leave the country under a curse that can only be repaired by achieving unity with the Holy Grail.

Book 9: 

Arthur marries Guinevere, and his knights depart on three mystic adventures.

Book 10:

Morgan Le Fay makes a daring attempt to destroy Arthur and claim his throne.

Book 11: 

The childhood of Lancelot in the Lady of the Lake’s hidden matriarchal society.

Book 12:

Lancelot joins King Arthur’s court and embarks on the adventure of the Dolorous Guard.

Book 13:

A mysterious new knight, Beaumains, is entrusted with a crucial adventure, while Sir Gawain fulfills his promise to the Green Knight.

Book 14:

Lancelot is torn between love for Guinevere, King Arthur’s wife, and fellow warrior Galehaut, the Lord of the Distant Isles.

Book 15:

Lancelot becomes ensnared in an affair that results in the birth of Galahad.

Book 16:

Lancelot wanders insane as Percival searches to bring him back and heal the court.

Book 17:

Over the course of one day, mysterious adventures unfold and the quest for the Holy Grail is enjoined.

Book 18:

The knights depart to seek the Holy Grail while Arthur and Guinevere’s marriage is in ruins.

Book 19:

The knights encounter death, destruction and despair as they seek the Holy Grail.

Book 20:

The few remaining knights stumble back to Camelot as three knights encounter the Grail.

Book 21:

Lancelot is drawn into a relationship that leaves Guinevere furious and another woman dead.

Book 22:

When Guinevere is kidnapped, Lancelot departs to save her while Arthur’s jealous rage grows.

Book 23: 

When Guinevere’s affair is finally exposed, the kingdom collapses and the aged Arthur goes to war.

Book 24: 

The distraction of the war allows Arthur’s bastard son, Mordred, to seize the throne—and Guinevere.

Book 25:

The death of Arthur.

Keep updated on new books and insights about the series at www.theswithen.com.

In Previous Books

This synopsis emphasizes elements most relevant to this book. For more detailed synopses, as well as character briefs and other reference material, please visit www.theswithen.com.

Merlin is the son of the devil and a human woman. Baptized at birth on the advice of holy man Blaise, he is a great and powerful wizard who serves God. He has decided that he can best use his powers to transform Britain through the creation of a king who will unite the people, bring civilization, and install Christianity as the dominant religion. This king is Arthur.

Merlin went though a very complicated process to create Arthur, culminating in the manipulation of brave and strong King Uther and virtuous Duchess Igraine to make a child he could take away to be raised by simple but decent country people, the Ectors, until he was of the age to pull the sword from the stone, identifying him as the future king.

Uther fell into obsession over Igraine, wife of his ally, Duke Gorlois. Uther’s foremost knight and best friend, Ulfius, was pressed into coercion of Igraine on Uther’s behalf. Finally telling her husband of the king’s advances, Gorlois, Igraine and their foremost knight, Bretel, fled. Uther went to war with them over this breach of loyalty. The war caused great damage to his own rule and the stability of the country.

Gorlois and Bretel fought Uther’s forces at Castle Terrabil, while Igraine remained with her daughters Margause and Morgan at Tintagel. Seeing a way to restore peace to the country, Ulfius contacted Merlin to get Igraine for Uther. Using a spell, Merlin changed Uther to look like Gorlois, allowing him to get into Tintagel and spend a night with Igraine, so long as he would give Merlin what he would later ask for. Ulfius was transformed to look like Bretel. The real Duke Gorlois was killed during the hours that Uther was with Igraine.

Arthur was conceived that night. Merlin told Uther that the child was the price of his night of pleasure. Gorlois now dead, Ulfius realized that Igraine would be ruined by having an illegitimate child and used this to coerce her to marry Uther. He also arranged for Margause to marry King Lot, and Morgan to marry King Uriens after spending years in a nunnery until she came of age. Morgan learned magic and necromancy in the nunnery, emerging as sorceress Morgan le Fay.

Telling her he did not know who the father was, Uther convinced Igraine to give up the baby. Merlin took him to be raised by a small-town country knight, Sir Ector and his wife Nerida, alongside foster brother Kay. Merlin made the Ectors promise never to tell Arthur that he is not their child. Uther died soon afterward. Igraine returned alone to Tintagel, while Bretel joined Uther’s court. Merlin advised Archbishop Dubricius that a sign would appear to predict the future king, and soon a sword appeared in a stone, unable to be pulled by any but the one destined for the throne.

Arthur was raised by the Ectors until he was fourteen. As this book begins, Arthur has just pulled the sword from the stone and found out that the Ectors are not his biological parents.

Character Index

Arthur: Fourteen-year-old boy who has pulled the sword that predicts the future king. Taken by Merlin from his biological parents, King Uther Pendragon and Igraine. Raised by foster parents Carlyle and Nerida Ector, alongside foster brother Kay.

Balan: Pagan knight passing as Christian. Brother of Balin.

Balin: Pagan knight passing as Christian. Brother of Balan.

Bedivere: Arthur and Kay’s friend and neighbor from their home town.

Blaise: Lifelong friend and confidant to Merlin. Lives a hermetic life in Northumberland. Wrote the True History of the Holy Grail, a book dictated by Merlin that chronicles the entire saga until the death of Arthur.

Bretel: Knight of the Duke Gorlois and his wife, Igraine. Joined Uther’s court after Gorlois’ death, when Igraine was coerced to marry Uther.

Dubricius: Current archbishop of the Christian church in Britain. Was instructed by Merlin to let only the one who pulled the sword from the stone become king.

Kay Ector: Arthur’s foster brother.

Sir Carlyle Ector: Arthur’s foster father.

Nerida Ector: Arthur’s foster mother.

Gawain: Oldest son of Margause and King Lot. Brother of Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth.

Igraine: Biological mother of Arthur with Uther. Mother of Morgan le Fay and Margause with Gorlois. Now resides alone at Tintagel.

Jordanus: Knight of Gorlois and Igraine alongside Bretel who joined Uther’s court at the time of their marriage.

King Lot: Prominent king, associate of Uther. Husband of Margause, father of Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth.

Margause: Daughter of Igraine and Gorlois, sister of Morgan le Fay, half-sister of Arthur. Wife of King Lot, mother of Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth.

Merlin: Fathered by the devil but baptized at birth on the advice of Blaise, his lifelong friend and companion. Son of Adhan, now dead. Merlin can see all events of the past and future.

Morgan le Fay: Daughter of Igraine and Gorlois, sister of Margause, half-sister of Arthur. Wife of King Uriens. Trained in magic at the nunnery where she spent her adolescence.

King Nero: King from the Land of Grasslands and Giants. Brother of King Rion.

King Pellinor: One-third of the family who attend the Holy Grail at Castle Corbenic. Brother of King Pelles and Garlon.

King Rion: King from the Land of Grasslands and Giants. Brother of King Nero.

Ulfius: Knight who was Uther’s best friend and was tasked with coercing Igraine into an affair with him.

Uther Pendragon: Biological father of Arthur. Former high king.

King Uriens: Prominent king, associate of Uther. Husband of Morgan le Fay.

Viviane: The current Lady of the Lake, leader of all non-Christian gods and spirits, many of whom live protected in the false lake she projects with her mind. Mother of Nimue.

Part One

THE MARSH

-1-

Usually, dancing rays of light shone down in straight lines that moved and rearranged constantly, but the morning was cloudy. Now only a pattern of wavering brilliance shone far above, on the surface of the lake. Viviane watched from her balcony, thoughts far away. It was difficult to direct her gaze downward to her realm without an overwhelming feeling of sorrow. It was so beautiful; castles and halls and streets with buildings of blue-green glass, with tall plants whose long leaves swayed back and forth in the endless currents. What a shame that all of it would be destroyed, dismantled and abandoned. The entire lake would have to go. In fifty years, yes, but that was not long at all. Barely enough time to enjoy it. They had only been there a few thousand years.

She shook her head, allowed her hands to run over her face, and sighed again. She turned and went inside. The room was lit with the cool green-white illumination of the glowfish that stuck to the walls and along the glass rafters of the ceiling. The baby slept in her crib in the annex straight ahead, past her bed, but she moved first to the right and picked up the new blanket. It was quite fresh and bright, with pinkish fuzz, while the one covering the baby was white with a bluish tint. The infant was quite well asleep, seeing as she was only twenty. Most of their babies slept the first few decades of their lives.

Viviane turned the sleeping girl and pulled the blanket from beneath her, singing her name quietly. Nimue, Nimue, Nimue, she sang, working her fingers under the infant’s shoulders as she removed the blanket from there. Nimue, Nimue, Nimue, she sang, gently removing the bluish blanket, then replacing it with the one with the pink glow. The baby didn’t stir or make a sound. Only her eyes moved beneath her pink lids, deep in the dream that would last her first few decades, during which her mind would be created.

Pulling the blanket free, she moved away from the baby and laid it out on an open area of the floor. She found her shears and stood over it, imagining Merlin’s form. She thought for a moment of where she must cut, in relation to the length and thickness of his limbs—in his most common incarnation. Once done, she put the shears away and ensured that she had enough brooches—ones she would be willing to part with—to hold it securely in place. She stowed these within her robes, then stepped to the door and opened it. An attendant waited outside.

I’m going to Northumberland, she said. I’ll be gone a few months. Nimue will need checking, but she should sleep through it.

Of course, my lady, said the woman. A few months, though? You’ll be walking?

I thought I would, yes, replied Viviane. We’ll never again see this land in such pristine condition, and I thought I would enjoy it.

Lovely, said the young woman, imagining it. Take your time, and of course, Nimue will be perfectly looked after while you’re gone.

Viviane smiled and nodded, then retreated back into her chamber. Looking about to see if there was anything more she needed for her journey or just to place away before she left, she leaned down and took up the blanket she had removed from the infant. Tying it so that it hung from her shoulder, she took a last glance around the room, kissed the baby goodbye, and moved out onto the balcony.

Her eyes drifted down to the city below as she stepped up onto the railing. The lights were just now coming up, hovering in the bluish distance where the forms faded into obscurity within the vast expanse of water. She looked on the beauty of her city for a moment and sighed. Then she turned and let her toes push off the railing, launching into the water to float above the hazy illumination of the streets below. Far above, straight shafts of sunlight danced downward from the shimmering liquid lenses of the water’s surface. The morning’s clouds must have moved away.

-2-

Merlin could not find Blaise.

He wasn’t in his room. He wasn’t in the kitchen or living area. The cottage hung quiet and empty, the morning sun starting to peek through the leaves and shine on the wood of the floor. That floor was once again neat and orderly, without clothes and blankets left on it, as it had been when Merlin returned to Blaise after the previous fourteen years, those spent with Arthur. The front door was slightly ajar, which caused Merlin to sigh, especially since he had just asked Blaise to be sure to close it, what with all the curious squirrels in the area. Merlin moved over to close it, then decided to step out into the yard. The air was cool and suffused with morning moisture. He swung his head around but didn’t see his friend anywhere. Then a pang of worry hit him. He moved further out—the dew of morning wetted his bare feet, but he wasn’t going through the bother of donning shoes—and moved further still, through the grass, to where the land fell away.

He walked to the ridge toward the front of the cottage, which dropped through a few dark vertical trunks into the deep valley beyond, where the mountainside remained in shadow. He moved along the top of the ridge, casting his gaze around the yard. Then, on the hillside to his right, something moved.

Something white. It was Blaise’s head.

He was in a small clearing down the hillside toward the side of the cottage. Merlin knew he should have shoes on to wander down there, and he stepped quickly back to the cottage to get them. He saw Blaise’s slippers sitting inside as well, and when he did, the tightness of worry pressed more firmly. He didn’t dwell on it, he grabbed them and headed back to his friend.

Blaise was standing against the edge of the clearing, where the pale dried grasses grew tall again. His long white hair hung down over his shift, wafting slightly on the light breeze, and his elbows moved out and back rhythmically, as he worried his hands over each other. Merlin bounded up behind him, but slowed, afraid to scare him. He hung quiet for a moment, eyes downcast, then took in a breath, straightened, and called out.

Blaise, he said quietly.

The old man’s head lifted, tilted slightly. He turned fully around. His chest rose in relief when he saw the wizard there. He looked Merlin in the eyes for just a moment before he cast his gaze downward. Then he turned away.

Merlin held quiet. He lowered his eyes too, saw the hermit’s bare feet. I brought your slippers, he said.

Hm? Blaise asked. Oh, he said, looking down. Yes, thank you. He turned to reach out a bony arm, limp hand hanging from it like a leaf. He took the slippers and dropped them onto the ground before him.

It’s a lovely morning, Merlin said. He had thought to ask if Blaise had been out walking but was afraid to hear the answer. He looked around at the treetops, as though admiring the sunlight on them. Blaise was hunched forward, the skin around his eyes wrinkled as he squinted through the black angles of bare branches.

Is the cottage far from here? he asked.

The cottage? Merlin cocked his head.

Where we live.

Merlin’s gaze wavered, and he had to look at his feet for a while. Then he raised it again to look at Blaise’s face and smiled. Not at all. Just around the bend. I’ll take you there. He reached out his arm.

Blaise didn’t look at the arm but put his fingers to his lips as he bent his head. His eyes were recessed into wrinkled pools of pale skin and white hair. The blue of his irises had seemed to frost over. I thought it was far away, he whispered. A wheezing lilt in his voice made it sound like he was about to cough.

Merlin cleared his throat, swallowed. It’s not. I’ll take you there and you can relax. He held out his arm again, rubbed his fingertips against the soft flesh clinging to his friend’s bone, and gently gripped him. Come on. It’s chilly out here. He tugged lightly, but Blaise resisted. Are you ready? Merlin asked gently.

Blaise remained with face away, looking through the trunks to where the morning sun was bringing a yellow light to the frosty blue sky. His eyes strained into the wavering spaces within. Then he lowered his head, moved toward Merlin, and said, Yes, let’s go.

-3-

King Rion had been having a nice day. The tournament had just begun, he had jousted a few times and done quite well. Enough to suggest he would do even better later. The weather was incredible. It was a crisp winter’s day—New Year’s Day—but sunny and not too hot; cool enough, actually, to help tremendously during the heat of the press. He had every reason to think it would be a great day.

And then that scream; It’s the sword!

He didn’t know who made it. He didn’t know, with certainty, which sword they were discussing. Yet at once, he knew, and he turned with open, shocked eyes. A shiver passed over him, like a ghost’s caress, and he thought for a moment he might cry. This would not do very well for an extremely large, extremely fearsome king who relied so heavily on his threatening looks. With his long, black beard, squared off at the bottom, ending just above the horizontal line of his pectoral muscles, the shining silver of his helmet, sword and other accouterments, he could rely on his fearsome appearance and size a great deal as a tool of intimidation. He and his brother, Nero, were the descendants of giants. His mystique was almost ruined by his gasp when he heard the scream and what it said.

He had tried to pull the sword the day before.

It’s not just that it did not move, but the degree to which it didn’t move. As if someone was saying—well, let’s face it, it was God himself, who had placed the sword there, saying—No, no. Not you. How could you have even thought? He had to have drinks and go to the hall with his fellow knights, and when he finally had a moment to be alone, really half a minute between one group going out and another in, he stood facing the wall. When his brother Nero emerged, eyes blazing with drink, and clapped him jovially on the back, it was so long after his failure with the sword, he didn’t show the shock. The chasm of emptiness that had opened. The only thing that got him through is that no one else had been able to do it. In fourteen years, not one other person had been able to move that sword the slightest shiver of an inch. But now—

His hands clenched into fists, brow bent to become angular, chest expanding outward as rage boiled within him. He found himself moving, almost before he knew it, and soon was stomping toward the voice, shoving people aside, steps growing faster, more powerful. He emerged into a clearing of people and saw an older knight standing before a puny boy who gaped with a stupid expression.

Where is it? Rion bellowed as he emerged into the clearing. He fixed on the sword in the man’s hand. Give it! he shouted and tried to rip it away. His hand closed on it for a moment, his fingers touching the pommel, and yanked it, the man’s hand still attached, closer to his eyes. By God, that was it. It was the sword. He held for a moment, eyes gazing over it.

The older knight slammed him with his shoulders and wrenched the sword back. Rion focused hatred on the man, an out-of-shape knight with a reddish mustache and scar down the center of his face. You pulled this? he demanded.

He pulled it, the knight said, and pointed to the boy, whose wide eyes gaped at Rion as though he were a monster. Brownish dried blood clotted the boy’s face, making his blue eyes stand out vividly. That detail almost sent Rion over the edge, and his vision clouded around the periphery as the heat of hatred rose within him. He could not pull the sword, but this… this insect was able to? Rion felt the urge to stomp his foot and squash the boy. He saw spatters of blood bursting out beneath his slamming boot.

"He did?" Rion sneered, pointing. Others around them had begun to notice. People were turning, staring. The boy looked from one to another as though caught stealing something. Rion glared at him, searching to find something in his manner that indicated valiance, leadership, bravery. He saw instead a cringing, pathetic creature, bringing his hand to shield himself. There was nobility in that? He turned again to the man.

He cannot be the one. A high king does not descend from a common knight.

But that’s just it, the knight responded. He was given to us to raise. He’s not actually my son.

Rion’s eyes turned to the boy, whose face went white.

I have no idea who his real parents are. He, the knight gestured at the boy, well, he could be anyone. This is my son. He reached forward and put his hand on another boy whom Rion hadn’t noticed. That one is not related to me.

Rion’s gaze focused on the boy, who now gaped at the scarred older knight. As he looked down, there came over him a rising wave of pure senseless rage. Before he knew what he was doing, he stomped over and gripped the boy under the shoulder, lifting him with one hand. His legs kicked out uselessly, like a crab.

"This boy?" His piercing eyes looked over the flailing lad, examining him like a caught fish. "This is to be our king? We’ve been had, people! He tossed the boy onto the ground, where he fell on his back. Others, who had been alerted by the commotion and saw the sword, began pressing in around him, while the older knight tried to get to him. King Rion felt a shiver of pure disgust for all the world pass through him, the way a cooling breeze touches wet skin. The scene before him, all the people crowding around the boy, one meaningless blur, and the world itself just that—meaningless. Worthless, senseless and stupid. It was all… it meant nothing. All his striving, his entire life, to be a fearsome, honorable and worthy king, that meant nothing too. Why be good? What was the point? He turned, clenched his fists and grit his teeth until he felt the hot tightness of his forehead that meant he was turning red, and shouted, Nero!"

He moved away, stomping through the crowd. The further he got, the fewer people had been alerted that the sword had been pulled, and everything seemed still normal. Nero! he bellowed again. His brother must be nearby. He pushed forward, shoving people aside, until he came to one sweaty peasant in a worn dirty tunic, standing in his way like a clod of earth. The peasant’s eyes were open in ox-like amazement. Rion gripped his shoulders, picked him up, put him to the side, and stomped onward.

For the past fourteen years—which is to say, since the age of five—what had motivated Rion to continue through life was the thought that one day he might grasp that sword. Might pull it. Might not just be king of the Land of Grasslands and Giants, but king of all the realm of Logres. King of Britain.

It wasn’t so much the fact that some snot-nosed boy would be king, but that he now knew, with finality, that he would not. Every hope he had sustained dropped, burned. That is why, in his eyes, the world was burning—was burnt, and useless.

Nero! he shouted. A knight near him made a gesture of his ear being blasted out by the sound and pointed across the way. There Rion saw his brother.

King Nero was twenty-one to Rion’s nineteen and his beard was equally long but cut into a triangular spike. They were both nearly seven feet tall. Nero also dressed to inspire fear and respect, only his surcoat was black with bright red in patterned lines from the neck and gloves, conveying the impression of dripping blood. The scarlet palms of his gloves gave the impression that his hands had been digging in a man’s guts. Rion stomped across the yard and shouted again, Nero! His brother turned to him with a laugh and upraised hand, until he saw Rion’s expression.

What is it? he asked upon coming near.

For a moment, Rion could say nothing, too overcome to even utter the words. Then they abruptly spilled out. Someone has pulled the sword. He couldn’t believe it as he said it. It sounded infantile. He lifted his hand as though to say more, but it fell to his side. A boy. Not more than fifteen. Has pulled the sword.

Nero stared as though he were speaking nonsense. His face remained placid for a moment, then his black brows knitted. "A boy… has pulled the sword? The sword?"

Rion brought his head down low, then brought it back up.

Nero’s brown eyes stared into his. They were disbelieving, then comprehending, then calculating. The brothers hung silent for almost a full minute as they thought on what it might mean.

At last Nero’s eyes narrowed, and he raised his head. What do you think we should do?

King Rion’s chest rose and fell as he stared at the ground, jaw set. Then he raised his eyes to meet his brother’s.

I think we should kill him.

-4-

Arthur heard his name.

He opened his eyes. He was there, still, in that small storeroom at the back of St. Paul’s church. His face was tight with the layer of dried blood, snot and tears. He lifted himself from the sacks of grain on which he lay and looked about in the darkness. He was alone. The man was gone. Arthur heard his name again.

It was outside. It was his father. Or—what was he to call Sir Ector now? Not father, certainly. Arthur’s cheeks rose in a snarl when he thought of him. That liar. To go that long—his whole life—saying Arthur was his son. To shut him down angrily when the boy would ask, although he had known, even then. A strong wave of enmity came over him, and his hands drew into fists. He could wait, let his father—who probably had his brother with him—go by. Eventually he would leave. Then Arthur… well, what then? He would go into the city of Logres, knowing no one, having nowhere to go. But others had done it. He wouldn’t be the first to run away and make it by himself on the streets of Logres.

He took a few breaths more, steeling himself, feeling his emotions grow cold. Then he stood, face grim, and moved to the door. As he opened it, the blast of brilliant sunlight made his eyes narrow. He saw his father wandering through the churchyard, long wrapped package in one hand, his brother Kay pulled by the other. Ector appeared all but desperate, and Kay’s eyes were wide and shocked. The sight of them did not inspire affection in Arthur, and he set his teeth even harder.

When his father didn’t see him, Arthur didn’t call. He pulled the door back and slammed it on its jamb. Ector turned his face to him, then stopped, yanking Kay back from where he’d continued walking. Ector’s eyes widened and he stared at Arthur in something like disbelief. The boy climbed the few stairs out of the sunken storeroom to stand in the bright sun. He looked back at his father with deadened expression. Ector dropped his eyes and stood, breathing, one hand holding onto the tunic of Kay, who stood beside him, limbs hanging loose. At last, he gathered himself and threaded through the stones to approach Arthur. As he came closer, the boy put out a hand.

Don’t touch me, he said.

Ector stopped in place. His eyes widened and wrinkles appeared around them. Come here, Arthur, he said, voice wavering. I want to see you pull the sword.

He moved off toward where the white marble block was, reaching out to pull Arthur, but stopping, hand holding in the air. He beckoned the boy after. They came to the block and, looking about to ensure they were unobserved, pulled the sword from within the cloth he carried. He grasped it by the pommel, placed the tip in the hole, inserted it into the stone. He let go, flexed his fingers, and gripped the handle again. It would not budge.

Kay, you try it, he said.

The boy stepped forward, eyes still vacant, and gripped the handle. He pulled at it, but the weapon did not move. He stepped away, eyes still lowered.

Arthur, Ector said. He stood back tremulously, and Arthur could see his shoulders rising and falling. He came forward and pulled the sword without effort.

Ector gasped with a sound like he had swallowed incorrectly, and his eyes were suddenly wet. Arthur turned the sword upward in his hand, feeling the balanced weight shift. He looked past it to see Kay glaring at him with an expression of shock and outrage. The man and boy stood absolutely still and silent for a moment, then Ector descended to his knees. He reached up and pulled on Kay’s shoulder, bidding him descend as well. Kneel, he said.

Kay glared in rage. To him?

He is our king! Ector said.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Get off it.

Arthur, Ector said, shaking his head in amazement, unless I am deceived, unless…. He again shook his head vacantly. Arthur, you are our king.

That’s insane, the boy said.

Ector laughed, a grim and joyless sound. He pointed to the stone. Put it back. Arthur did. Ector tried to pull it again. So did Kay. Ector opened his eyes, wide and imploring, toward Arthur and gestured to the stone.

Arthur pulled it easily.

Ector gasped again, touching both hands to his head. He looked at the boy with joy and came forward with both arms outstretched, but Arthur put up a hand.

You’re a liar, he said.

Ector’s face fell. No, Arthur, this is the sword! The one that predicts the new king, and you—

No! Arthur said. Not about that. You said you were my father.

Ector’s smile tightened into a grimace. He lowered his eyes.

You lied to me too, Kay said quietly.

Ector looked from one boy to the next. I did, he said. And I’m sorry. But if you let me explain, I’ll tell you. There’s no…. He looked around nervously, as though someone might be listening. The churchyard was bathed in bright sunlight, but most people were still at the tournament, the street lining the yard all but empty. Put the sword back. For now, he said. Arthur did, then Ector took them a few feet away. He knelt in the shadow of a tombstone and took Kay’s hand. When he reached out for Arthur’s, the boy stepped back. Ector sighed, the skin around his eyes tightening.

Boys, just a month before Kay was due to be born, I was called to meet with the high king Uther Pendragon.

"You met Uther Pendragon," Kay scoffed.

He summoned me, out of the blue, Carlyle said, shaking his head in amazement, and he made me this proposal. He lifted his eyes to stare at Arthur. He said that he would give us all the money we wanted if we would take this child—that’s you, Arthur—and raise him as our own, and he made us swear, and here he grabbed Arthur’s hand and looked the boy right in the eye, he made us swear that we would never tell you that you weren’t our own child. That’s why we lied to you, Arthur! He made us promise we would never tell you.

Arthur’s gaze dropped to the ground. He let his father hold his hand.

If not, we wouldn’t get any money, and to us, he shook his head, we were poor. We were under the control of Duke Moreland, and it—you boys weren’t alive when we were poor. The money came because of Arthur. But it would only come if we promised never to tell you, he lifted his face toward Arthur, and if your mother promised to nurse you herself, putting Kay to another woman.

Kay quietly removed his hand from his father’s.

Ector took Arthur’s other hand in his newly free one. The boy stared at the clasped hands.

That’s why we couldn’t tell you, Arthur. We never wanted to lie, but…. Ector shook his head in amazement, laughing and sighing at once. The king said that we’d have things we never could have foreseen, and my God…. But now I see, now, he reached forward and clutched Arthur’s arms below the shoulders, now it makes sense.

It doesn’t make any sense at all, Arthur said. His face scowled, jaw clenching tightly. You said I couldn’t even be a knight.

Ector scoffed. We had to! We had to hold you back, or you’d run roughshod right over Kay! He gestured toward his son without looking back. Kay had backed up slowly and sat on a nearby tomb. You remember when you heard us saying we couldn’t keep our own son back. We had to slow you down, or Kay wouldn’t have a chance!

Kay raised his face, eyes wide and unseeing, and brought his arms across his chest.

But now I see! Arthur, you must be descended from people, he shook his head, far more noble than your mother or me.

Arthur’s eyes were rimmed with red. I was happy to come from you.

"You’re better than us! his father said. You’re better than any of us."

Kay stood with a huff and walked behind his father. So am I even going to be a knight? he asked.

Ector looked confused. Of course, he said. Or…. He seemed to think. Then his eyes fixed on Arthur. He reached out to grasp his wrist. Arthur, you have to promise. He was still on his knees and crawled forward to the boy. I want you to promise, right now, that you will give Kay—me and Kay, he corrected, positions within your household and, his arm reached back and he pointed to his son, you can never—you have to promise—you can never let Kay go, whatever he may do.

Standing behind him, Kay’s fists came to rest on his hips, face scowling toward his father.

No matter if he messes something up or says something awful… you can never get rid of him. Or me. He nodded righteously. Me and your mother brought you up, every day, fair and square, and we deserve your care now. Do you promise me? Promise me that. He shook Arthur’s hand, and his eyes implored the boy.

Of course I would never, he shook his head in disbelief, get rid of you. Either of you. I don’t even know why we’re talking like this.

The sun was beating down into the churchyard. The ground, the stones were too bright.

Everything is going to change now, Arthur, Ector said. You will see, in a few years… his throat caught, and he looked away suddenly, you may not even remember us.

Arthur wrenched his hand away and he almost yelled. What are you talking about?

Ector didn’t move. He stared toward the ground and swallowed. Then he placed a hand on his knee to push himself to standing and, face dazed and voice low, said I need to find someone from the church. I have to… I don’t even know how this would work. His eyes gazed at the bright sun that shone on the wooden door. What a…. He shook his head in amazement. Then he looked down, saw Arthur there, and reached out to grasp his shoulder. Arthur, he said firmly.

The boy’s shocked face looked up to him.

I am sorry we lied to you, he said. Your mother is sorry too. She’ll tell you herself. We didn’t want to lie to you, but we had to, and, he let go of Arthur’s shoulder, I apologize to you. I’m sorry, it must have been confusing, and, he raised his gaze to look toward the church, I’m confused myself. He then inhaled a breath and took a few steps toward the church door. He turned back and pointed. I have to go get someone, he said. I’ll be back. Then he was off.

I’ll just wait here, Kay shouted.

-5-

Arthur watched him go. The sun was bright, and the muted colors of the churchyard glared. The surrounding streets were quiet and deserted. Nothing seemed quite real. Arthur turned to Kay.

His brother was staring at him, arms held straight down, hands clenched into fists. His shoulders rose and fell in time to his seething breath, eyes rimmed with red.

You, he said, voice low and bitter.

Arthur took in a long breath, raised his shoulders, and opened his hands.

Kay’s eyes narrowed, and his head started nodding. He looked at Arthur with spite. Perfect little Arthur, he said. His eyes fixed on his brother as he continued nodding bitterly, cheeks rising over his teeth. Arthur! Arthur! Arthur! Kay jabbed his pointing finger. There he is! There’s Arthur!

Kay, Arthur said, huffing out. Can you just hold on?

Kay turned. He was still in his mail armor. The rest of his things had been thrown down on one of the flat graves. He picked up his helmet. Bright and new, it shone in the sun. He held it in both hands and stared at it.

Arthur watched as Kay stood there, unmoving. Then he turned to see if his father was returning from the church. He saw nothing. He heard a loud bang behind him. When he turned, Kay stood, head lowered, in front of a tombstone. He pulled his arm back, swung his helmet by the strap, and bashed it down on the stone.

Kay! Arthur shouted. Don’t do that.

Kay turned. You stay away! he yelled, face red and sopping.

Arthur breathed in and sighed in frustration.

Kay swung the strap around with his arm and hurled the helmet across the churchyard. Arthur gasped, watching it. The bright sun gleamed on it as it arced through the air, falling to clang off a stone where it hit.

Arthur closed his mouth, then lowered his eyes to the ground. Clumps of grass around the graves wavered in the light breeze.

Kay’s hands came up, covered his wet face, and a wordless wail of anguish emerged as his knees bent and he collapsed downward to sit on the edge of a grave. The sound then stopped for a moment as he took in a new breath, his shoulders rose, and he let out another long cry.

Arthur sighed again. Kay sobbed, his shoulders throbbed, and he sobbed again. At last, the door of the church opened and his father emerged, grasping someone else by the shoulder of his robes. He pointed to where the boys waited.

Arthur turned to Kay, who had also seen, and stood. I don’t need to be here for this, his brother said. He ran.

Kay! Arthur shouted after him.

Ector came closer, pulling the young man from inside the church. He wore white robes, didn’t seem even sixteen years old, and definitely did not convey authority. He did, however, seem perturbed at having to be brought out into the glare of the churchyard when he was quite comfortable inside. His eyes wandered, and Ector had hold of his sleeve by the shoulder, pulling him forward. As they drew close to Arthur, his father tilted his head and they met next to the sword. Ector scanned the edges