Uther was neither in his bedroom, nor his sitting room, nor his private dining chamber. Instead, Arthur found his father at his desk in his study, a mess of parchment before him, a pair of tiny spectacles on the end of his nose. Arthur knew his father hated the spectacles, which was why he’d developed the trick of demanding members of his council deliver reports aloud.

Uther removed his glasses and gave Arthur a thin, tired smile. “The weapons master says you’re improving,” he said.

Arthur bowed his head, surprised by his father’s praise.

“There might be some hope for you yet,” mused the king.

“Don’t tell Gawain, he’ll be so disappointed,” Arthur deadpanned, the words tumbling out before he could stop himself.

“I believe that childhood rivalry has played itself out,” said Uther. Before Arthur could respond, the king went on, “If there is any threat to the crown, it will come from beyond our kingdom.”

No doubt his father meant the Duke of Cornwall or King Yurien.

“I trust your wisdom on such matters,” Arthur said cautiously. “But I hope I was clear: I’m not agreeing to marry a seven-year-old.”

He waited for a reprimand, but his father only shook his head.

“Perhaps that wasn’t the best idea,” the king allowed.

“It was an alliance worth considering,” Arthur said diplomatically, sinking into the chair across from his father’s desk. It was horribly stiff, yet somehow too springy. A devil of a chair. He knew his father kept it there on purpose.

“The day we need to call on help from the continent is not one I want to see in my lifetime,” said Uther.

“Nor mine,” Arthur agreed.

“Although that isn’t to say that a more suitable marriage prospect would be out of the question,” the king added, shuffling through the mess of scrolls atop his desk.

Outmaneuvered again, Arthur realized. “No,” he agreed grudgingly, “it wouldn’t.”

The king smiled, and Arthur suddenly had a very bad feeling about why he was here, and his father’s unexpected praise, and how he’d been quietly disarmed by it. He shifted in his seat, thinking that he’d never hated a chair more.

“You must remember King Leodegrance’s daughter, Guinevere,” the king went on.

Arthur tensed, sensing where this was headed.

“Barely. I was ten the last time I saw her.”

And Guinevere had been nine, with a penchant for purposefully whacking him in the shins while they’d played croquet. She’d drawn in one of his favorite books, and her apology had been forced and terrible, and Arthur still hadn’t forgiven her.

“I’ve arranged things with her father, and she’ll be staying with us for the remainder of the summer,” said King Uther.

“For any particular reason?” Arthur asked, trying to stay calm. Perhaps it wasn’t what he thought. Perhaps . . .