Page 7 of The Sword & the Stone

At last we reached the keep, its massive doors carved with scenes from legend: the forging of Excalibur, the rise of the first kings, the coming of magic to the land. The captain raised a gloved hand, and the doors swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a cavernous hall.

I stepped inside and felt the weight of centuries pressing down on me. Tapestries adorned the walls, telling the story of Camelot in vibrant threads. My gaze was drawn to the far end of the hall, where a dais rose in three marble steps. And upon that dais was a throne hewn from a single block of gleaming obsidian, shot through with veins of gold.

The man who sat on that throne had a face both handsome and a bit terrifying, framed by a mane of silver hair that gleamed in the golden light. His eyes were the color of a winter sky. He wore robes of dark red, embroidered with the golden dragonsigil in shimmering thread. A heavy golden crown rested upon his brow, studded with sapphires the size of a coin.

Uther Pendragon was the High King of Camelot, the largest kingdom in all of Albion.

I stood on legs that trembled, forcing myself to meet his eyes. Up close, the lines of care and age that scored his face, the weariness that lurked behind the façade, were apparent. I wondered what Uther thought of me, a girl covered in mud and blood gripping Excalibur as if her life depended on it. And it very well might.

The massive doors at the far end of the hall swung open once more. A group of men strode in, their steps ringing on the flagstones. Each was clad in pitch black armor, with silken black cloaks swirling behind them.

The Knights of the Round Table. The men sworn to protect the wielder of Excalibur, to fight and die at their command.

They moved with the easy grace of the fae, honed over hundreds of years of their long lives. They were each impossibly tall and broad, a few of them with hair so long it reached past their shoulders, exposing pointed ears. As one, they knelt before the throne, fists pressed to armored chests.

"My liege," their leader said, his voice a deep, cultured rumble that had a slight, barely noticeable accent. "We came as soon as we heard. Is it true? Has Excalibur chosen?"

Uther inclined his head toward me. "See for yourself, Sir Lancelot."

The knight turned, his eyes widening as they fell on me and the sword blazing in my grip. Slowly, he rose to his feet; the others followed suit. I felt the weight of their gazes like a physical thing, assessing, weighing.

It took all I had in me to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. This was absurd.

"You’rethe chosen one?" he—Sir Lancelot—asked.

I held out the sword, the blade shimmering with its unearthly light. The runes etched into the steel seemed to dance and twist before my eyes, ancient and unreadable, in some language of the fae, no doubt. Lancelot's eyes widened as he took in the sight of it.

"Impossible," he breathed, taking a step closer. His gaze raked over me, taking in my bedraggled appearance, my simple tunic and leggings still damp with rain. "The sword was not supposed to choose a woman."

Something hot bloomed in my chest, and I narrowed my eyes at the knight.Who said the sword wasn’t supposed to choose a woman? Where was it written that a woman couldn’t possibly be worthy?

"And yet, here we are," I said dryly, an eyebrow arching. “The last time I bothered to check, I was still very much a woman.”

Lancelot circled me slowly, his steps measured and predatory. I turned with him, unwilling to let him out of my sight. The other knights watched in silence, their faces utterly devoid of any discernible emotion.

"Who are you?" Lancelot asked at last, coming to a halt before me. "What is your name?"

"Arthur.” The word echoed through the hall. "My name is Arthur."

Lancelot's brows shot up. "Arthur?" he repeated, incredulous. "That’s a man's name."

"Yes, I'm aware." I saw the question in his eyes and answered before he could ask. "I was raised in an orphanage. When I first came to them, I was so small and scrawny, they thought I was a boy. They called me Arthur and eventually it just…was. I can’t remember my given name.”

Lancelot looked at me long and hard. I perceived the doubt and disbelief warring in his eyes, the struggle to reconcile whathe saw with what he’d always been told. A woman wielding Excalibur?

But there was something else in his gaze too, something that made my breath catch in my throat. A flicker of admiration, of respect. As if, despite himself, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer audacity of it all. A scrappy orphan girl daring to claim a legendary relic.

“You’re a halfling.” His eyes darted to my pointed ears.

My face flushed, and I hated that he could see it. “I don’t know which of my parents was fae, but I grew up among humans.”

Halflings were common in Albion. During the war that took place between the courts in Avalon, fae from both courts fled through the portals to find safety with humans. Some stayed, mating with humans and raising halfling children. I never had the chance to know either of my parents. I could barely even remember their faces.

After a long moment, he gave a slight nod, as if to himself. "The king will decide if you’re truly the chosen one."

"Yes," Uther agreed, rising from his throne. He descended the dais slowly, his steps heavy and booming through the silent room. The knights parted before him like water, bowing their heads in deference.

He came to a halt in front of me, his eyes like chips of ice in his stoic face. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze, feeling suddenly…common and oh so ordinary. "This kingdom has waited centuries for Excalibur to choose its champion, but I never thought it would be a mere girl covered in filth and the gods only know what else."

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