“Let me? As if you have a choice. I am not the only one who plots against you. My husband has heard the legends of a High King who will rule over England. And there’s no one more convinced he’s the rightful ruler of all England than Yurien Vortigen.”

“I am the rightful king of all England,” Arthur insisted. “Excalibur proves it.”

Morgana scoffed. “You arrogant little princeling. The sword proves nothing.”

Arthur’s eyes darted toward Emry again. Her free arm was outstretched, and her eyes went wide, as though she was trying to tell him something. The sword, he thought. That had to be what she was reaching for. What she was trying to tell him. She needed his sword.

“When this door opens, I can make a thousand Excaliburs,” Morgana boasted, gesturing toward the stones. “A thousand scabbards. What will yours be worth then?”

“If Lothia’s army needs a thousand magic swords to defeat Camelot’s, I wouldn’t go bragging about it,” he said.

Morgana’s eyes flashed with anger, and Arthur took her moment of distraction to edge closer to Emry.

“I know why you’re here,” said Morgana. “But you’re too late to save your precious witch.”

“I don’t think I am,” Arthur said, hefting his sword. “And for the record, she prefers the term ‘wizard.’ ”

Morgana’s expression darkened, her control stretching thin. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t blink. She waved a hand, and Arthur hurtled backward, slamming into a boulder. Hard. Searing pain shot through his right shoulder and down his arm. He coughed, tasting blood. His sword lay in the dirt, and he scrambled for it on hands and knees. When his hand wrapped around the hilt, the agony in his shoulder receded, and he sighed in relief, pushing to his feet with a groan.

He stared hatefully at Morgana, knowing she had enjoyed herself. Behind her, the trees looked more solid, their fragrant boughs smelling of cloves and winter and tart cherries.

“This won’t end well for you,” she warned. “You can’t fight magic with a sword.”

“I can try,” Arthur insisted.

Morgana lashed out again. Dozens of crystalline rocks rose into the air and shot straight for him.

He twisted, shielding his face, but the stones tore at him like knives. White-hot pain ripped through his hurt shoulder. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath and struggling to keep his grip on his sword.

A rock cracked against his ribs, and Excalibur dropped from his hands, clanging as it hit the ground.

Morgana grinned. “Shall I keep going? Or have you had enough?”

Arthur’s eyes darted to his sword, mere feet away.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Waves of pain tore through him as he lunged for it.

The relief was instant. He pushed to his feet, pressing forward in attack. Morgana flicked her wrist, and the sword bent back, as if it had encountered an invisible blade.