“Precisely,” said Lord Agravaine. “A birthday celebration is the perfect opportunity to display Camelot’s might without insinuating any threat.”

Even though insinuating a threat was exactly what his father meant to do.

Arthur knew very little about the former baron who had muscled his way onto the Lothian throne three years ago. Just that a mysterious fire had wiped out the royal family while they knelt in prayer. The entire chapel had burned to the ground, and Yurien hadn’t even waited for the ashes to cool before he’d shown himself to the throne room and begun giving orders.

“Lothia is a small kingdom,” said Lord Howell. “One of barren lands, cold winters, and large debts. I have no doubt King Yurien will be thoroughly intimidated by his visit.”

“He’d better be,” warned the king, “if I am to suffer the man’s presence at my birthday celebration.”

Arthur braced himself against the sudden unwanted remembrance of his father’s previous birthday celebrations. Memories flooded forth, of riding in the carriage at his mother’s side, her warm hand squeezing his, her smile bright and happy as she gazed out at her subjects. Of his father, stony-faced and severe, dressed for battle rather than celebration, staring straight ahead, without so much as a wave.

His mother’s hand had always squeezed tighter whenever the people lining up to watch the parade looked particularly ragged or hungry. Or whenever the procession stopped, and the guards pressed into the crowd.

One year, his father had held an archery competition, and Lance had tried everything to be allowed to compete against the knights and nobles, though he was only a few months into his training as a page. Another, Arthur had been pronounced old enough to attend the ball, and had danced with the newly arrived courtier Lady Elaine, which, in retrospect, he thoroughly regretted. There had been the birthday he and Lance had snuck bottles of wine onto the roof and nearly fallen to their deaths climbing back in through a window. And the birthday that had come and gone in a somber cloud of mourning for everyone, except the freshly widowed king, who had taken Lord Howell’s wife to bed for his comfort, and made a habit out of borrowing his courtiers’ wives ever since.

Arthur sighed, thinking of Princess Guinevere, and how he’d be expected to keep to her side throughout the festivities, implying their kingdoms’ impending alliance. As if it wasn’t a match designed by their fathers, but a choice they had made on their own.

Lord Howell had switched to talking about a sword-fighting contest that would be held as part of this year’s entertainment. Arthur was still brooding about Guinevere, but then his father said something he didn’t quite catch about Excalibur.

“Sorry?” Arthur said.

“For the competition. So that you may enter the ring wearing it,” Lord Howell repeated.