/ know what happened and why, but it matters so little now. Fruitless to yearn for what might have been. She is ours and beautiful and we love her.

Fulvia Ygema. My mother.

I folded the letters carefully and put them back in their rosewood box, feeling—It’s hard even now to write of what I felt then-, but the last piece of my fragmented life was cemented firmly in its place.

Brother Coet is delighted, of course. He has the instincts for drama, if not the style, and this fits his highest concept of a British royal chronicle. After all, Saxon kings claim descent from divine ancestors, and our own heroes are sometimes sprung from the union of mortal and boucca. So Arthur, like ancient Merlin, becomes the son of prince and spirit.

But they’re people, Coel.

Hell, write what you please. We Britons tend to be lyrical

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anyway, and it doesn’t matter now. If the future cares at all, perhaps by then the running and the hunger and the tears will have faded so that only the-magic remains.

We had no proper Yule that winter, mere wasn’t time. One blustery day I was drafting a letter to the Ordovices and Comovii in the far west.

We hear you call us tyrant and compare our rule to the sterner days of Vortigern and Ambrosius. We put it to you, where is a family’s strength when irresponsible children have none but an indulgent parent to lead them? As for my predecessors, one bargained for your lives and the other fought for them. Wherein tyrant?

Gareth rapped on the open door. “My lord?”

“Yes, Gareth-fach?”

“Prince Kay’s barge has docked on the quay, and will you receive him now?”

“Send him here to the scriptorium. Is the evening rider in from Badon?”

“A bit late, sir. Expected this hour.” My stubby little captain jiggled with ill-concealed exuberance.

“With the news so bad, it’s good to see one man so cheerful, Gareth.”

He was smug with it. “King of a hundred battles, forget the news. Not all Britain’s deserted you. You have friends of old, devil if you do not.”

“That’s good to hear. Tell the prince to hurry, I’ve missed him.”

A few minutes later I heard voices along the gallery outside, Kay’s and a deeper one I couldn’t quite place. Then Kay hurried into the chamber, flinging his cloak and sword onto a chair before he hugged me like a fat, affectionate little bear.

“Damn, I’m cold. Let me get by the fire.”

Kay presented his spreading rump to the firepit with audible pleasure. “Ah, that’s good. We weren’t half frozen.”

We caught up quickly on family news. His wife and children sent their love and were coming by barge with Kay’s entire household.

“Are you ready to march, Kay?”

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“With a few hundred horse, all that are loyal. Mother’s with me.”

“Flavia? Why?”

“I couldn’t leave her, not in conscience.”

“Kay, what’s wrong at home?”

My brother turned back to the fire and now I heard the strain and frustration in his voice. “I’ve only got half a tribe left, that’s what. The rest are siding with the Parisi. They say it’s because of Guenevere, but they’re really paying you out for Pwyll.”

“Pwyll? But that’s years ago.”

“Small minds, long memories,” Kay growled. “Old ways, blood ties. They know Peredur*s against you, and that senile shit Marcus is sitting on the fence as usual.” He threw down his heavy gloves. “Cerdic will love this, right enough.”

Kay turned to me, a chunky little man in the corpulence of well-fed middle age. Jowly, with more white in his beard than I remembered.

“I’ve shipped the family because if we lose the battle, the Dobunni will choose another prince. If I go down, I want to know they’re safe.”

“Fools. If we go down, the Dobunni won’t choose anything, they’ll be too busy running.”

“Well.” His round face creased suddenly in a sidelong grin. “It’s not all black as night, brother. I’ve a surprise for you.” He gestured to the door with a flourish. “Imperator, the King of Orkney waits on you.”

“I turned. “The King of—?”

Gawain filled the doorway side to side and top to bottom, grizzled, dour as ever, squinting dubiously at me. It was a moment before I could speak.

“Well, now. Am I forgiven at last?”

“I would not say that entire,” Gawain allowed, “but did think it was time to put in my say.”

He lumbered forward and bent his knee before me, huger than ever if that was possible. He must have needed one of his little islands just for a throne room.

“Long life to the Emperor of Britain. The sovereign isles of Orkney place their sword in your hand.”

I swallowed hard. “And we thank Your Grace for this—for— oh, get up. Get up, you great, lovely ox! It’s too much happiness for one day.”

I put an arm around both. “Brother and friend. By the gods, it’s been ages since I felt so good. How many men, Gawain?”

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“Five hundred horse.”

“So few?”

“All I could ship round the north cape to Solway. They’re with Kay’s men up Severn, waiting the order. Did send to Agrivaine, but he stays with Peredur.”

“And hates me still?”

Gawain shook his head. “Apples grow sweeter—my brother went from green to sour. There’s no reasoning with him anymore. The hell with him. What’s right is right.”

Kay calculated. “There’s us here and Lancelot and Maelgwyn sitting on Badon. What are the odds now?”

“Four, five to one,” I hedged, guessing they were more.

“Why did I bother then?” Gawain wondered airily. “That’s bnrely five apiece.”

I laughed aloud; it was a moment when comet hopes and laughter went well together. “Right, old friend. Geraint said that once when the odds were much worse. And still we won, and we will again. Dobunni and Orkney? How can we fail?”

Gawain moved to the fire, spreading his hands to its warmth. “Not that I wholly trust the sly ways of you. You were a pain in my heart, Arthur. But did think and think on it and decided I’d deal with the Saxons once and for all. We can’t have such rabble calling the turn. Rabble, by God! Mark me, Arthur, the commons can be dangerous, they do lack proportion and respect. Look you what they call a king. Cerdic, is it? Is he a nobleman? It is grave and getting worse, so I came to set it right, knowing you’d never do it alone.”

Though he’d make three of Geraint, they were spirits of one breadth. “And I am grateful, Gawain.”

“Well you might be,” he snorted, “with your odd and liberal ways. Na, I’ve heard of this roil with Guenevere. You gave her too much power. You should have kept her in at door to knit with her women.”

I clapped them both on the back. “My good lords, such as we are, we’re full strength. No sense waiting. Send to your captains and tell mem—”

An agitated trio of voices exploded in the gallery outside my scriptorium, two^determined, one plaintive and resisting. Lucullus was shoved unceremoniously through the door by Bedivere and Gareth. The Roman was livid and shaken.

“Artorius, I protest. I protest vigorously. This is a breach of courtesy and an intrusion on my office.”

F looked to Bedivere. “What in heli is all this?”

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“Lords.” Gareth ducked his head to Kay and Gawain. “Sir, the post rider’s in. Cerdic is breaking camp.”

“Readying to march?”

“Looks it, sir.”

I spun on Kay and Gawain. “Send for your squadrons now, tonight. Give them a point to meet with us on the way to Badon. Hurry.”

“Forget the barge,” Kay muttered to Gawain as they pushed by Bedivere and out the door. “We’ll send by fast horse.”

I turned to the ne\* problem. “Now, Lucullus?”

“I protest!”

“So you said. Why?”

Bedivere shoved him further into the room. “Artos, this bastard—”

“If you please, Bedivere. Our ambassador from Rome.”

Bedivere bit the words off, slapping a folded letter into my hands. “If my king says so. Lancelot intercepted this on its merry little way to Cerdic.”

“Hands off, sirs.” Lucullus shook himself free of the restraint. “An embassy has some privilege.”

“Yes, there’s no need to clutch at him, my lords. He won’t disappear.”

I read the letter carefully as it was couched in extraordinarily careful language. A simple greeting from Rome to Cerdic, praising his repute and accomplishments. It promised nothing, compromised nothing, made no mention of me or any other Briton. On the other hand, it shut no doors in the face of Roman-Saxon accord. A masterly letter, the sort all ambassadors write as groundwork for the bargaining of powers. Ours is an amoral vocation. The sin is not in plotting, only in getting caught. Lucullus and I both knew this.

“Of course,” I said to him, “no one could ever prove you advised him to attack now.”

Lucullus made a scoffing noise. “You know that’s absurd.”

“Of course.”

“Rome’s friendship—”

“Warms me so that 1 would not be without it in winter. Lord Bedivere, provide Lucullus with armor, weapons and a good horse. I’m taking Rome’s friendship to Badon so that, like a friend, he may share my fortunes.”

Lucullus went a little pale.

“And Lord Gareth, tell my stewards that every comfort will

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be provided the ambassador’s consorts while he adds honor to his name.”

Gareth suppressed a giggle. “The dears will be coddled like prize geese.”

Lucullus moved forward. “This—is—intolerable! The first embassy to touch Britian in years, and I am treated thus? Cousin, you are not naive. You can’t view that letter as the work of a spy.”

“I’m not and I don’t.” I snatched my cloak from a chair and slung it over one shoulder, moving to the door. “Since Rome is interested in Saxons, you will now have the chance to observe them minutely. When we’ve won, you’re at liberty. Till men, cousin, I would not part with you.”

LuculJus saw it was inevitable and with an effort retrieved some of his grace. ”Let. it be then. A good horse and the best sword, if you please. It’s been years, but I know something of war.”

“Good,” I saluted him. “We’re wretchedly shorthanded. Lords, I’ll be at Prince Kay’s.”