From time to time after she left I tried scrying, sitting cross-legged on my chamber floor in the darkness and gazing slantwise at the circle of brass. But I saw only hints and cloudy shapes, like a gathering storm. Once I saw black wings, and once I saw a white falcon flying hard against the wind. I did not see King Arthur again. I think I did not want to see him first in this round of yellow metal. I did not trust it. After a while I stopped looking in it; I would dream my own dreams.

Time passed. Garet turned fifteen years old and rode away toward Camelot with excitement reddening his cheeks. In a few years it would be my turn to serve King Arthur. Meanwhile I was much alone. Days, I went about my tasks and my lessons. At night, warm in my bed and not yet quite sleeping, with Gull curled by my chest, I dreamed.

In the dreams I was a knight of the Round Table, defending King Arthur’s honor and spreading his fame. In daylight and in fact I loathed fighting, but at night, in my dreams, I was King Arthur’s mightiest champion. When he was unhorsed in battle I slew the opponent riding the finest steed and presented it to my liege. He gave me a quest for a magical sword or an enchanted cauldron, something important, and I brought it back to him—no, wait, I was wounded in my side, and fell down in a faint, and he healed me with his tears and the touch of his hands. I was the fairest knight of his Round Table, purer than Sir Galahad, more valorous than Sir Lancelot. But no, wait—I was not just his knight. I was his son. My father, King Arthur, had no other son—for almost as many years as I had been alive, Queen Guinevere had failed to bear him a son or a daughter. Would he not be glad to have me now, would he not welcome me to Camelot as his son and his prince? When I rode to Camelot, King Arthur would ride out to meet me on a white charger, he would stop his horse next to mine and reach across the small distance between us and embrace me. Before a gathering of all his lords and barons he would place a princely crown on me with his own hands. I could be a good prince, I knew I could, if my father loved me; I had almost forgotten that I had ever hated him. Guinevere would be jealous of his love for me but I would be kind to her. I would be gallant and wise. And when my father, King Arthur, died, I would rule the kingdom and the people would call down blessings on me: Bless the goodliness of our liege King Mordred.