“Come on,” Arthur said, “let’s get you fixed up.”

Two cheerless guards stood at attention outside the prince’s rooms. They opened the double doors with a crisp bow, and Lance slunk inside with a sheepish expression, as though he wasn’t meant to be there, which surprised Emry. She’d assumed he was Arthur’s personal guard, the way they were so often together. But clearly she’d assumed wrong.

Arthur’s bedchamber wasn’t quite what she was expecting. It was twice as large as her own, and the bed was more elaborate, with rich velvet drapes and intricate carvings. The ceiling was painted with constellations, and a handsome tapestry of an enchanted forest hung across one wall.

The rest of it was pure Arthur, from the overlarge desk piled with books and papers to the windowsill crammed with potted plants. A trailing vine sat on top of the wardrobe, hastily discarded riding gear littered the floor, and an extremely battered leather chair had been dragged next to the fireplace. Over the carved mantel, with zero fanfare, hung the sword in the stone.

Emry stopped short, staring at it. “This is the sword?” she asked.

“This is the sword,” Arthur confirmed.

She stepped closer, examining it in fascination. The sword wasn’t magical, but it was far from ordinary. The blade was laced with the faint traces of faded spellwork, almost like a scar. The only time Emry had ever seen anything like it was at the gates of the castle. It took a truly powerful piece of magic to leave behind an echo like that, and she made a mental note to ask Master Ambrosius about it.

“They even got the vomit off,” said Lance.

“Don’t,” Arthur said tiredly.

But Lance, who had already flopped onto the prince’s bed, grinned. “Come on, it’s a great story.”

“Well, now I have to hear it,” said Emry, taking pleasure in Arthur’s scowl.

It was a great story. Especially the way Lance told it, with the two of them sneaking out of the castle to get drunk, only to find themselves cornered by the arrogant Sir Kay.

The food arrived midway through, and Lance cheerfully stuffed his face with cold meat and bread while he explained about the barmaid spilling beer all over Arthur and ruining their disguise.

“Sir Kay is your uncle?” Emry cut in.

“Unfortunately. Behold the family resemblance.” Lance raised his chin and puffed out his chest, adopting a pompous, sneering expression.

Emry had only seen Sir Kay from a distance, but now that Lance mentioned it, they did have the same golden hair and oversize build.

Which meant Lance was wellborn. And Arthur had said they’d grown up together. He certainly didn’t act like a common guard, especially the way he was lounging across the prince’s bed, getting crumbs everywhere. But then . . .

“Why aren’t you a knight?” Emry blurted.