Arthur’s heart hammered, and he wondered if he really could do it again. The whole thing felt like a dream—surreal and dizzying—or maybe that was the pitcher of ale he’d downed.

He once again stepped up to the sword, grasping it with a single fist. This time, when he pulled it free, he didn’t stumble. Instead, he held the gleaming blade high.

The crowd went to their knees.

Here was their one true king, a leader who would unite the Britons, the king to defeat all kings.

“Hail, Prince Arthur! Rightwise King of England!” someone cried.

Arthur grimaced. He didn’t want to be King of England—to be honest, he didn’t even want to be King of Camelot. And he certainly didn’t want any of this.

All he’d wanted was to slip away from the castle for one night. To kick back and down a few drinks with a friend, shedding his troubles and his responsibilities—not gaining more of them.

But it was too late. The crowd took up the cheer, and as Arthur surveyed them, he felt sick.

He’d set something in motion, something he didn’t know how to take back. He looked for Lance, expecting to find him leaning against the side of the tavern with a smirk, but his friend had taken a knee along with the rest of the courtyard.

Arthur stared out at the sea of bowed heads and deferential faces, at the people who, for the first time, truly wanted him as their leader, and his stomach heaved with alarming force.

Oh no, he thought, as he turned and vomited all over Sir Kay’s gleaming armor.

CHAPTER 2

Everything was going to be fine.

Emry Merlin staggered out the back door of the theater and gulped down the warm summer air. It wasn’t much cooler outside than backstage, but at least it didn’t stink of unwashed armpits. She hunched forward, hands on her knees, willing her heart to stop pounding.

There was no reason to be nervous. She’d filled in for a missing player plenty of times before. Besides, Pell’s was a small part. A few lines, a skirmish of swords, a quick death halfway through the first act. And it was only the town theater—it wasn’t as though they were performing for their patron, the Earl of Brocelande, at his manor.

And yet, it was dangerous. There was nothing wrong with employing a girl to help with the special effects—so long as Emry stayed backstage. But the theater troupe would be in trouble if anyone discovered she was also their understudy.