But the most unbelievable part wasn’t the legend. It was that, somehow, by pulling the sword from the stone, he’d managed to fail his father all over again, because no matter what he did, he was still himself.

Arthur was half convinced that his father had secretly kept a tally of all the times he’d brought a book to the table, or had been caught sneaking off on some misadventure with Lance, or had cheerfully skipped out on an archery lesson, only to turn up in the castle gardens with pockets full of herbs for Master Ambrosius. And he was pretty sure that no sword, prophetic or otherwise, would transform him into the successor Uther truly wanted—a son who would rather wield weapons than ideas.

And Arthur would never be that. No matter how much he tried. It was in his nature to question the king’s advisors, to believe the word of an honorable friend over a dishonorable royal, and to confront hard truths about how closed-minded the aristocracy could be. Ever since he was a child, he’d tried to use his status to help in any way he could, no matter how low or undignified the task.

But that wasn’t how a king behaved. King Uther was feared and respected. There were few who dared to cross him, and even fewer who would refuse an alliance with such a formidable ruler. And when the day came that Arthur inherited his father’s throne, he needed his people to see him as a symbol of power. Of strength.

The only thing he symbolized now was weakness.

Here he was, the pathetic prince who had surprised everyone by pulling the sword from the stone. He had prevailed where far greater warriors had failed, but not in a way that truly mattered.

His cheeks burned with shame as he remembered the scene. The cheering. The way people had knelt in respect. And how he’d been sick in the middle of it, in front of everyone.

A true king never would have done that.

He wished his mother were still alive. Wished she would ask him to pull up a chair and read to her while she rested. Wished she’d lift a cool hand to his cheek and smile softly, like she saw something in him that was steady and reassuring.

Not like his father, who had always looked at him as though he couldn’t quite work out what had gone so terribly wrong.

CHAPTER 10

Supper had ended hours ago, and Emry was sprawled across the foot of her bed reading a book she’d borrowed from the wizard’s workshop. There was a faint scratching at her door, and she glanced up, wondering if she’d imagined it. But then she heard the noise again.

“Merlin,” someone whispered. “Merlin, you awake?”

It couldn’t be. But oh, Emry had a sneaking suspicion that it was.