CHAPTER 1
Arthur Pendragon kept his head down and his hood up as he crossed the bustling market square. The mouthwatering scents of roasted chestnuts and meat pies filled the cold night air as a street busker sawed merrily at his fiddle. Crowds pressed in from all directions, eager to warm their hands with a mug of spiced cider, or to trade a coin for a prediction of their future.
In his plain wool cloak, scuffed boots, and leather jerkin, Arthur did not earn a second glance from anyone, which was exactly what he was going for. It was a chilly evening in late January, and that alone was enough of an excuse to bundle inside a hooded cloak.
When he’d traded his royal finery for more suitable garb and announced he was going out, his guards had sighed but had stood aside without protest. All except for Tristan, who had insisted on coming with him, for protection.
And, Arthur suspected, for a night out. His friends had left for the tavern directly after supper, and he’d promised to join them when he could. Which had taken longer than he’d hoped, since nearly half the court wanted a word with their king. Thankfully, some quick subterfuge was all it had taken to slip away. Well, that and an outright lie about a guest waiting in his chambers, which would have everyone speculating for days. But that was Future Arthur’s problem.
Current Arthur’s problem was Tristan, who’d promptly forgotten about their destination in favor of buying snacks from the market stalls. Arthur pressed back a sigh. They were late enough as it was.
“I never get leave on a market day,” Tristan enthused, his mouth full. “Want some?” he asked, proffering a cone of spiced, roasted nuts. Arthur felt a stab of guilt for his impatience. He forgot sometimes that he wasn’t the only one for whom the castle was both home and prison. He plucked up a roasted chestnut, popping it into his mouth.
Sard, it was good. Perhaps Tristan was onto something. Lightening his purse here would disguise his true destination. He’d learned that if he headed out with his friends after supper, any nobles who desired a word trailed them to the tavern. No doubt a few enterprising courtiers were already waiting at the Gilded Lion, which he was avoiding for that precise reason.
He drifted toward a bookseller’s stall, sifting through the worn copies of romance and adventure stories until he found a few that looked interesting.
Tristan joined him, wiping crumbs from the front of his cloak. “Aren’t there enough books in the castle library?”
“I’ve read all of those,” Arthur deadpanned, and for a moment, the young guard believed him.
He picked up a thick novel, catching a glimpse of the book beneath it, entitledCornwall: A History. He winced at the unexpected reminder of the last thing he wanted to think about. It had been two months since his disastrous wedding, or lack thereof, when the Duke of Cornwall had used the cover of the festivities to lay siege to the unsuspecting castle. The losses had been staggering. And it was only through Emry’s quick thinking and imaginative magic that they hadn’t been worse. Arthur still had nightmares of his father dying in his arms. Of picking up a sword and doing what King Uther couldn’t—killing the Duke of Cornwall and putting an end to his deadly grab for the throne.
But with the duke out of the way, Arthur’s worries focused constantly on an even bigger threat—King Yurien. The worry ate away at him as paperwork piled on his desk, and council meetings had him terrified that he would make the wrong call.
Not that his advisors afforded him the opportunity to make any decisions at all.
What was it Lord Agravaine had said just that afternoon? No one expects you to run the kingdom straight out of the gate. Take your time.
Still, two months felt like enough time that he should be doing more than signing preapproved legislation and doodling in the margins of his parchment during council meetings. Every time he tried to voice a concern to his council, they dismissed it, making it clear he didn’t know what he was talking about. And he worried they were right. That he wasn’t truly ready to lead the kingdom, and that, if he pushed, he’d only make things worse. So he fretted in silence, and when his friends asked, he pretended he had it all under control.
His friends! Sard, they were still waiting for him at the tavern. He paid for his books and hurried across London, Tristan rushing after him and grumbling about getting indigestion. When the spire of St. Paul’s came into view, sticking up above the London rooftops at a slightly crooked angle, Arthur tried to push away the memory of how that had happened. He slipped down the alleyway that separated the churchyard from a tavern, passing the slab of stone that sat in the courtyard between them.
Almost two years ago, on a drunken night out, he’d pulled the sword from the stone. Back then, he’d been convinced that the people of Camelot wouldn’t want him as their king. That, no matter what he did, he’d never be able to prove himself.
And he still worried that he wouldn’t. Even though he’d recovered Excalibur, made an ally of the King of France, defeated the Duke of Cornwall in combat, and even signed a peace treaty with the King of Cameliard after narrowly avoiding marriage to his daughter, Guinevere.
Despite all these victories, he still felt like the unwanted spare who was never supposed to inherit a kingdom.
London had dozens of taverns far better than the Crooked Spire. Yet Arthur found himself drawn to this one. In the dim light of the candles that dripped indiscriminately over table and patron from the iron chandelier, the whole place had a cozy glow. Better yet, the barkeep made sure no one bothered him, or his companions, and let them hold on to their weapons instead of leaving them by the door.
When Arthur entered, he spotted his friends playing cards at one of the round tables by the back staircase. Lance was talking animatedly, and Percival was beaming at him. Emry rolled her eyes and said something that twisted her mouth into a smirk.
Arthur’s heart squeezed at the sight of her. She wore a black dress that laced up the front, her hair falling in dark waves to her shoulders. Black makeup was smudged around the corners of her eyes. She looked fierce and powerful and entirely magic, even just sitting there laughing.
When she spotted him, she grinned as though he was exactly the person she wanted to see most in the world. And something deep within him fluttered, feeling the same.
“Look who finally showed up,” she teased.
“We weren’t sure you’d make it,” added Lance.
“Then you highly underestimate my ability to sneak around like a castle rat,” said Arthur.
“Wait, are those books?” Emry gleefully pointed at the stack under his arm. “Did you bring books to a tavern in case we’re poor company?”
Arthur bristled. “Of course not. I bought them on the way here.”
“But if we’re really boring, I bet he’ll read one,” Lance said, as though issuing a challenge.
Percival grinned. “Now, what’s everyone’s favorite type of door? I personally prefer wooden ones.”
“The kind with bolts, or the kind with locks?” Lance inquired.
“I suppose it depends on the thickness of the door in question,” Perce said thoughtfully. He turned toward Arthur, the picture of innocence. “What’s your opinion?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “You do realize I’m the ki—”
“Kind of person who prefers ones with enormous knockers?” Emry finished brightly as Tristan quietly had a coughing fit.
Arthur glanced toward the bar. “Shall I get the next round?”
“Obviously, since you were late,” said Lance.
“Extremely late,” Emry added.
“Lance drank your ale,” said Percival.
“How was it my ale when I wasn’t even here?” Arthur asked.
“It was in the least chipped mug,” said Lance.
Fair enough. Arthur headed toward the bar, and when he returned to the table with extra mugs and the pitcher of ale, he slid into the booth next to Emry, leaving no space between them.
“We’re in a tavern,” he said, smiling, as his leg pressed against hers.
“We are,” she replied solemnly.
“Which means no one will mind if I do this,” he finished, tilting her face toward his for a kiss that would’ve made courtiers whisper with envy or disapproval, if only they were there to see. But they weren’t. It was only his friends, and Emry, wonderful Emry, whose fingers slid through his hair and whose sigh as their lips brushed made his trousers feel unbearably tight.
He had only meant to kiss her hello, but somehow, he was kissing her far more deeply. He didn’t want to stop. Except he knew they had to.
When they pulled apart, Lance’s head was resting on Perce’s shoulder, and they were both grinning shamelessly.
“Don’t mind us,” said Perce. “Just pretend we’re on a completely separate date.”
“Oh.” Tristan’s cheek turned pink. “I, uh, didn’t realize I was crashing a double date. I could wait outside? Keep watch in case anyone unsavory tries to come in?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Emry. “Everyone trying to come in here is unsavory.”
Arthur snorted. She wasn’t wrong.
“Stay,” Lance insisted. “There’s plenty of room. And ale.”
“If you insist.” Tristan eagerly reached for a mug and swallowed deeply.
“Are you drinking on duty, in front of your guard captain?” Percival asked sternly as Tristan paled in horror.
Perce’s frown cracked into a grin as he said, “You should have seen your face.”
“It’s not funny,” Tristan complained while everyone laughed.
This, Arthur thought, was what he’d been terrified he’d lose by gaining a kingdom. Casual nights out with his friends, who were his chosen family. Flirting with his wizard, who was just as likely to make fun of him as she was to make out with him.
He was slowly starting to move past the enormous fog of grief that had enshrouded him since his father’s death. Some days were better than others. But no day went by without a dozen painful reminders of what he had lost, and what he had now become.
And he worried that, as king, he was accomplishing nothing of consequence. He knew what his advisors saw: a nineteen-year-old boy who had no idea what he was doing. And they weren’t wrong. But he could learn. He would learn. He was going to get this right, because he owed it to Camelot.
But tonight, he owed his friends his company. So he bought the next pitcher of ale, and laughed at their antics, and grumbled as Emry beat them all at cards and swore she wasn’t cheating.
When the hour grew late, they stumbled out into the cool night air, their breath clouding in front of them. Arthur reached for Emry’s hand, pleased that she let him take it. But then, they weren’t at court. Here, on the streets of London, no one watched and gossiped about what he did. Here, they weren’t a king and his court wizard. They were simply a girl and a boy holding hands.
A couple of tentative snowflakes drifted down, dusting the shoulders of their cloaks. Candlelight glowed in the passing windows, and even though it was the bleakest, darkest month of the year, for a moment it didn’t seem that way.
Emry pressed a kiss against the side of his neck. “We should do this more often.”
“What, pretend you weren’t cheating at cards?” Arthur teased.
“I wasn’t, I just know all your tells,” she protested. And then she bit her lip, as if debating whether to say the next part. “I meant spending time together.”
“Away from the castle,” Arthur finished, knowing she’d left that bit unsaid. And he hated how hard it was to feel normal. How much effort it had taken just to have this one night, this barely-even-a-date.
“If you’re not sick of me yet, wizard, you could always come back to my apartments,” he offered.
Emry wrinkled her nose. “Better idea, you could come to mine. I hate Lucan barging in on us.”
“He promised to knock,” Arthur said.
“Knocking isn’t the same as leaving us alone. It’s just barging in politely,” Emry argued.
Lance, who was walking behind them with Perce, snickered.
“Something amusing, squire?” Arthur asked.
“You never knock,” Lance accused. “I bet you could describe the birthmark on Perce’s butt in detail.”
“He doesn’t have a birthmark on his butt,” Arthur said before he could think better of it.
“Which you know how?” Lance crowed.
Emry laughed. Perce looked furious. Tristan looked as though he wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.
They crossed the empty square where the market had been set up earlier, and Arthur noticed a man outside the castle gates making a fuss. One of the guards was blocking the man’s passage with his halberd. Arthur reached for his own blade, then hesitated. The man didn’t seem dangerous so much as indignant. He wore a shabby cloak that was far too thin for the chilly weather, and he carried a traveler’s pack over one shoulder.
“Like I told ya, the kitchens stopped handing out leftovers hours ago,” Morian said, brandishing his halberd. “Go home, if you have one. At the very least, go have yourself a bath.”
“I am no vagrant!” the man retorted imperiously. “And I certainly have no desire for kitchen scraps. If you cannot inform the king that I wish an audience, then have someone fetch the court wizard. Immediately.”
“Right,” said Morian with a nasty sneer. “I’ll just go an’ do that.” He didn’t move.
“You mock me,” the man accused.
“With pleasure,” Morian returned.
“You’ll regret that,” the man said, plunging a hand into the folds of his cloak as though to draw a weapon.
“What’s going on here?” Arthur called in his most royal tone, striding forward. 
“I’ve got it under control, sir,” Morian promised.
Somehow, Arthur doubted that. And then he got a better look at their visitor and went still.
The man was in his forties, with shoulder-length hair just starting to go gray at the temples, a pointed beard, and an unmistakably familiar face.
“It can’t be,” Arthur muttered.
Emry stepped forward, her voice wavering. “Father?”