But most of the magic was gone, no matter how many stone henges—or sacred sites—remained. Now magic only surfaced if it was already in your blood, and many of the old families had died out.

Apparently wizards were more likely to blunder into danger than to settle down and raise children. Cornwall’s wizard was little more than a charlatan, and Cameliard had none at all, though that was more out of religious preference.

Arthur was reminded suddenly of the terrible apprentice who had come to Castle Camelot a few years back. He’d defaced the library’s magic books before admitting he barely had the ability to light a candle.

With the exception of young Merlin, that was how magic ran these days—in trickles rather than streams. Enchantments like the one on the sword in the stone were a thing of the past. Which was why he’d thought of Avalon. The tiny isle was home to an ancient order of priestesses, led by a direct descendant of the sorceress who had set the sword in the stone in the first place. Or, if the rumors were true, by the very same sorceress, having lived for centuries.

“It’s a four-day trip at least,” said Arthur. “And if I don’t go now, I can’t imagine when I’ll have another chance. As you said, I’ll need to show Princess Guinevere how much Camelot has to offer.”

Arthur stared hopefully at his father. Perhaps it was too much, to ask for this. But he couldn’t stand the thought of doing nothing. Of politely welcoming Princess Guinevere, whose imminent arrival felt entirely like a reprimand for his refusal of Princess Anne. He assumed he had Lord Agravaine to thank for it.

“You’d go straight there and back,” said Uther.

“Of course, Father.” Arthur couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“And you’d travel with a company of guards.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, his father added, “Not Lance.”

“Dakin and Brannor, then,” Arthur allowed, naming his two humorless guards. “And Lance.”

Uther nodded his agreement. “And take that wizard with you,” said the king. “Merlin’s boy. What’s his name? Emric?”

“Emmett,” said Arthur, hardly able to believe his good luck. “So I can go?”

“You can go.”

“Focus,” warned Master Ambrosius.

“I’m trying,” Emry grumbled.

“If you’re complaining, you’re most certainly not,” the old wizard retorted.

Emry barely resisted the urge to sigh. It was early evening, and Master Ambrosius had her working on a sleeping spell. He’d hung birdcages the length of his workshop, and was determining the farthest distance from which Emry could accurately put his canaries to sleep.