Arthur stepped forward, staring up at the royal box, its colorful flags flying, one for each kingdom present. Princess Guinevere peered down at him, dressed more for a ball than a sporting competition. She sat between her parents and the Queen of Lothia, who wore a conical hat and veil, and held a pair of purple-tinted lenses attached to a stick, so she might see every move of the contest. At her side, her young son clapped and cheered. King Yurien looked annoyed at the boy’s enthusiasm.

“Your Majesties,” Arthur said, kneeling down with his helmet tucked under his arm.

This was it. The moment his father had arranged so carefully.

He pulled Excalibur from its sheath, the sword’s glow blinding against the soft morning light. Instead of pointing the blade down, he held it upright.

The nobles gasped, and the stands filled with whispers.

King Leodegrance actually made the sign of the cross, as though the sword was a holy object. The ladies from the Isles seemed confused. Guinevere pasted on a smile and applauded, and after a moment, her mother joined her, along with the confused princesses.

Underneath his black banner, King Yurien leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering, a satisfied expression on his face, as though a mystery had been solved. His wife seemed utterly astonished, and when Arthur met her gaze, her expression was calculating. Their son gaped, tugging on his father’s sleeve.

“Papa,” he said in a loud whisper. “Why is that sword glowing?”

King Yurien shushed him.

Arthur waited, kneeling there, his sword extended, for a moment longer. And then he straightened and looked up at his father with a sheepish expression.

“My apologies, sire,” he said. “In my haste, I grabbed the wrong sword. Perhaps you could hold on to Excalibur for me?”

At mention of the sword’s name, a gasp once again went through the crowd.

“Of course,” Uther said.

Arthur handed his father the sword for safekeeping, its sheath still fastened around his waist.

“Squire!” Arthur called. “My spare sword!”

Lance, who looked uneasy about his part in this, jogged into the ring and presented Arthur with an ordinary blade.

Arthur nodded his thanks, and knelt down properly. “Your Majesties,” he said again.

“Rise, Prince Arthur, and compete well for Camelot,” said King Uther, as he’d said to the previous combatants.

Arthur rose, tucking his spare sword into his scabbard. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his hammering heart. Next to him, the aging Sir Ban of Berwick was announced, and knelt without incident, but Arthur could feel the crowd’s attention still on him, still whispering about Excalibur.

Sir Ban straightened, and without warning, Arthur’s scabbard burned hot against his thigh. He grimaced, hoping it didn’t get worse. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the heat stopped.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the final contestant, Sir Olwen, kneel before the royal box.