The oversized royal box flew five banners: Camelot’s crimson, Cameliard’s green, Lothia’s black, Cornwall’s gold, and pale blue for the Isles. Only Northumbria’s white was missing.

“Merlin!” a cheerful male voice called, knocking on her door. “You in there?”

It was Lancelot. Instead of his guard’s uniform, he wore an elegant royal blue doublet with silver buttons. The sleeves weren’t puffed and slashed, Emry noticed, as was the latest style, but fitted. His golden hair was slicked back into a bun, and his face fresh-shaven. A signet ring glinted on his pinky, depicting a stag leaping over a fleur-de-lis.

He grinned at her, looking unmistakably like a nobleman’s son. Even if he did still have a guardsman’s sword belted around his waist.

“You look well,” she said.

“I look two years out of fashion,” he said wryly. “But thanks.”

“Did you need something?” Emry asked.

“I’m squiring for Arthur,” Lance explained. “In the sword-fighting competition. You should come down to his tent.”

“Did he ask for me?” she said, surprised.

“Not exactly,” Lance hedged. “Actually, he told me not to bother you.”

Emry sighed. Of course he didn’t want to see her.

“But you’re bothering me anyway,” she said.

“Whatever’s the matter between the two of you—” Lance broke off, pressing his lips together in a frown. “I need you to set it aside. Now. Because Arthur’s going up against knights even I’d be nervous to fight. And I hope nothing happens, but if it does . . .” Lance winced, his meaning clear.

“Lead the way,” Emry finished, reaching for her wand.

Arthur hurried onto the field, joining at least a dozen other knights and nobles. He spotted Sir Kay immediately—the only one vain enough to wear gold-plated armor—but was surprised to see his cousin Gawain, and Prince Gottegrim of Cameliard, who tipped him a friendly grin. The Duke of Cornwall had joined them as well. Arthur nodded a tense greeting at his formidable uncle, whose prowess on the battlefield was well-known. He hadn’t expected the duke to enter the competition, and judging from the whispers in the stands, neither had the crowd.

But Arthur didn’t have time to brood about the duke. No sooner had he taken his place than the herald announced them down the line.

Each competitor stepped forward at his name, and then knelt before the king and the royal guests, drawing his sword when he arose. Arthur, who was fourth from the end, waited nervously for his turn, knowing that this was the moment his father expected him to reveal Excalibur. Not just to the lords and ladies of Camelot, but to the visiting royals as well.

No pressure, he thought wryly, as his stomach turned itself inside out in anticipation of the spectacle.

“Prince Arthur of Camelot,” called the herald.