They step out into an arcade that leads into the heart of the castle and then to a great door that opens into a central room. In that tapestry-draped room the castle noises are muffled, and a dozen or so men—and women, Isaac notes, women in armor—are gathered around a great table. They’re in the midst of what seems to be a heated argument.

“Where is His Majesty?” asks Isaac’s knight.

“Sir Bedwyr,” answers a woman knight, “he will not listen to us any longer.” She gestures toward a closed door.

Bedwyr moves toward the door.

“You enter at your peril,” the woman says.

He pauses. “We’re all in peril so long as the bewitcher holds him in thrall.” He moves on and Isaac follows close behind, entering a chamber lit only by a low fire. Bedwyr closes the door softly.

Slumped in a chair before the fire is a man wearing a crown and a filthy cloak that drags on the floor. The room smells of smoke and sweat and grime, and even with the fire the air is chill.

“Your Grace,” Bedwyr begins.

The king (as Isaac supposes) waves his hand. “No,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Go away.”

After a moment’s silence, Bedwyr says, “Your Grace, it is time for you to remove that which troubles you.”

The king stirs. “And how do you judge that which troubles me, Sir Bedwyr?”

“I would judge it to be in part the Myrddin, Your Grace.”

Myrddin. Isaac wracks his memory, for he’s heard that word before.

The king stands, swaying a little. “What if I judge you to be wrong, Bedwyr?” He looks up, his eyes sharp. “What if I judge you to be the source of my troubles?”

Isaac’s knight, Bedwyr, drops to one knee. “You may have my head, if it please you.”

Isaac sucks in his breath.

The king paces. “The Myrddin gives me advice. The Myrddin is all I have left.” The king’s voice cracks. “Treachery is all around me.”

“The Myrddin is possessed, some would say, by an evil magic. They call it ‘bewitcher,’” says Bedwyr quietly. “It tells you what you want to hear, not what you should.”

“And why is that wrong?” the king asks, petulant. “Do you call it bewitcher? Do you betray me, too?” He moves suddenly toward Bedwyr, drawing his sword.

Isaac pushes backward, tripping over his own feet, pressing his back against the wall.

Bedwyr does not move but bends his head, waiting.

The king raises the sword in one swift swipe, and Isaac throws his hand over his mouth to stifle a cry.