As the seconds ticked painfully by, Emry glanced around the anteroom, jittery and filled with dread. The castle was far grander than she’d imagined—the wood-paneled walls were not only carved, but hung with elaborate tapestries, and the ceiling beams were painted with delicate swirls of gold. It made Brocelande Hall seem plain by comparison.

She stared at the doors, swallowing nervously. Any minute now, she would stand before Uther Pendragon, the King of Camelot, disguised as her brother.

Please, she hoped, let this work.

Finally, the doors opened, and the page emerged, looking even more put-upon.

“King Uther will see you now,” he reported sourly, as though he’d hoped the king would refuse.

The Great Hall was the most lavish room Emry had ever seen. Her stomach clenched as she took in the size of the crowd that filled it. And she could feel every one of them staring curiously at her.

This is a performance, Emry told herself. They’re just the audience.

It didn’t help.

The timbered room was stifling. No wonder, she thought, noting the fire that blazed in an enormous fireplace, and the dozens of candelabra that lined the walls.

At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, sat King Uther. He canted languidly across a wooden throne, chin propped in his hand, his expression inscrutable.

He looked older than she’d imagined, and weathered, as though there had once been a lot more of him. Like Emmett had said, he was bald, but his black eyebrows were surprisingly thick, and his expression was stern and disapproving. A heavy golden crown encircled his brow, and despite the heat, he wore an embroidered velvet robe trimmed with white fur that was the finest thing she’d ever seen.

Here was the king at whose side her father had ridden into battle. A ruler who kept peace with neighboring kingdoms that he could easily conquer, even as King Yurien flexed his might in the north. A king whose laws were so strict and unyielding that she often wondered if everyone felt as stuck as she did.

Emry took a deep breath and walked forward, stopping in the open space before the throne.

Don’t curtsey, don’t curtsey, she thought as she sunk clumsily to one knee, doffed her cap, and stayed there.

“Emmett Merlin, Your Majesty,” announced the herald.

“Stand up straight, boy,” ordered the king.

Emry rose awkwardly, all too aware of the king’s scrutiny. She held her breath, waiting for him to declare her unsuitable, or worse, to see through her hastily cobbled disguise.

She’d been so focused on helping her brother that it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder what to do if she was caught.

Well, it was certainly occurring to her now.