CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
"—no need." I waved him off, lifting the saddle from Nero's back.
The weight settled comfortably across my forearm as I turned to face the disappointment in the boy's eyes.
"I prefer to care for him myself," I further explained as I reached into the drawstring leather purse tied to my belt and tossed the boy a copper coin.
He caught it with wide eyes and a wider smile as he looked up at me.
"Th-thank you truly, m-my lord!"
I gave him a chuckle. "Off you go then."
He bobbed his head and retreated, calling out to his fellow stable boys to tell them of his good luck.
While it was true that any of the stable boys would have handled this duty gladly, grateful for the honor of tending a knight's mount, I'd cared for Nero since he was a colt.
Some habits ran too deep to break, and the truth was that I preferred the silence of the stables to the chatter of the court.
I grabbed a brush and set to work, guiding long strokes across Nero's flanks that raised dust in the early morning light. The rhythm freed my mind to wander where it had circled all evening—the new knights, the strangers now sleeping under Camelot's roof.
Some I knew, of course, from when we had all formed the original Knights of the Round Table—Kay, Agravaine, and Galahad.
Agravaine, with his hard voice and calculating eyes, had not changed in our time apart.
He was still just as competent, ruthless, and utterly disagreeable as he always had been.
I'd watched him maneuver through court politics like a viper through tall grass, always positioned to strike when an advantage presented itself.
Kay was no better. Arthur's foster brother wore his bitterness like armor, his tongue sharp enough to flay skin from bone. Also competent, unfortunately. His ability to spot weaknesses made him valuable, even if every word from his mouth tasted of vinegar.
Galahad presented a different problem—too devout, too pure. Conversations with him circled endlessly back to righteousness and divine purpose. Useful in battle, but insufferable at dinner.
As for the others?
Percival remained an enigma. Something ancient lurked behind those earnest eyes, something that didn't match his boyish features or awkward manners. I couldn't read him yet, which bothered me more than I cared to admit.
Gawain, at least, was straightforward—loyal, strong, predictable.
As was his brother, Gareth. Both from the well-known Orkney clan, they came from the western reaches of Logres.
As was true of the West, the brothers placed importance on functionality and subtlety rather than showiness. I approved of them both.
As I did with the rest of the knights remaining. They were either known to me by reputation or family or known to Arthur. The point being—they were known quantities.
But Tristan and Lioran?
Complete unknowns.
My brush stilled against Nero's shoulder.
Both Tristan and Lioran had appeared from nowhere, with no connections to Camelot's noble houses, no shared history with Arthur's inner circle.
Tristan, with his exotic features and that death magic that made all around him uncomfortable.
And Lioran, with his ice sculptures and those unsettling eyes that seemed to see too much.
Strangers in Arthur's hall. Strangers with considerable power.
My thoughts regarding Lioran hadn't changed—even if he was magically powerful, he still did not bear the physique necessary to be a knight.
Were he to face another man in battle, he would be cut down.
And if he served under my command, I would perpetually fret about his inadequacy in combat and find myself protecting him—a situation far from desirable.
No, a knight needed to be able to defend himself.
Further proof was Agravaine's tendency to want to pick on the knight.
It was an example that would continue, I was afraid.
The bigger and stronger always seeking out the weaker.
That did not mean I condoned such behavior.
The way Agravaine had deliberately sought to humiliate Lioran during our hunt, targeting him with unnecessary and sneering comments about his low birth—well, that had upset me more than I wanted to admit.
Such conduct went against everything I believed about knightly honor, regardless of my reservations about Lioran's combat readiness.
In truth, it sickened me. All the constant jabs about differences in birth rankled against my sense of justice.
A man's worth should only be measured by his actions and character, not the circumstances of his parentage.
I'd seen nobles born to privilege who couldn't hold a sword, and common-born fighters who could best any knight in single combat, myself included.
The truth of the matter was that Agravaine's bullying revealed more about his own insecurities than any perceived weakness in his target. A truly strong man had no need to prey upon those he deemed lesser—such behavior was the mark of a coward hiding behind his position and connections.
I returned to brushing Nero with long, methodical strokes, but my thoughts remained fixed on Lioran.
Throughout the hunt, I had caught him watching me.
Not the casual observation of knights sizing each other up for combat, but something more intent.
His gaze had lingered on my hands as I drew my bow, tracked the movement of my shoulders when I dismounted Nero.
Each time I glanced in his direction, those strange pale eyes had been there—studying, assessing, watching.
But it was more than just that casual observation between warriors. Within Lioran's gaze resided something I recognized all too well—unveiled want. Desire.
I had seen that look countless times before—in the eyes of noble ladies at court functions, serving girls in darkened corridors, courtesans, even the occasional merchant's wife when I had traveled on Arthur's business.
The slight parting of lips, the way their gazes would trace the line of my shoulders or linger on my lips.
I knew desire when I saw it; I had learned to read its subtle signs with the same focus I brought to reading an opponent's sword work.
Yes, it was desire, pure and simple. And that realization settled in my gut like a boulder.
Perhaps Lioran preferred men?
The thought didn't shock me. I had spent enough years in military camps and court to know such appetites existed.
What bothered me was the possibility that he had set his sights on me specifically.
I had seen how he kept company—only with Percival, really, or wandering Camelot's halls alone.
Never joining the other knights when they sought entertainment among the castle's ladies.
Never glancing at the serving girls who had been eyeing the new arrivals with obvious interest, Lioran included.
Of course, I had noticed Elenora's interest in him. Did that bother me? No, I was not a jealous man. In fact, I had shared a woman on more than one occasion with Arthur.
But Lioran?
My jaw tightened.
If Lioran harbored expectations in my direction, he would find himself disappointed. My appetite had always and would always exclusively include the softer sex, and I had indulged it thoroughly over the years. More than thoroughly, if I was honest with myself.
Still, Lioran's fascination with me remained peculiar. Unnerving, even.
I moved to Nero's other side, working the brush through his mane.
Beyond the matter of his preferences, I could not get past the fact that Lioran simply did not fit the mold of a knight.
Yes, he possessed magic—surviving the Summoning and the Labyrinth had proven that—but magic alone would not save him if blades met in earnest combat.
Pair him against someone of equal magical strength, and it would come down to pure sword work or brawn.
He wouldn't last five minutes against Agravaine's calculated brutality.
Galahad would break him in half with righteous efficiency.
Even Percival, for all his awkwardness, possessed the raw physical strength Lioran clearly lacked.
And were he to find himself against me in battle, I could simply breathe on him, and he'd blow over.
The problem was that Lioran was entirely too feminine. Truly, he was the most feminine man I'd ever met. Dress him in a gown, grow his hair longer, and he could pass for a woman without difficulty. I would even wager he'd be a beautiful one.
He was just too small, too weak, to be a knight of Arthur's Round Table. Truly, I didn't understand why Lioran was even still in the running. But Arthur wanted to allow him to prove himself. So, here we were.
I shook my head, forcing my attention back to Nero, back to the familiar rhythm of grooming that usually brought clarity of mind. But my thoughts refused to settle. They continued to circle back to Lioran and the expression in his eyes when he looked at me.
Think of something or someone else, for fuck's sake! I yelled at myself.
My thoughts then returned to something else that had been bothering me: Arthur's story regarding the girl who had apparently pulled Excalibur from the stone. The one who had vanished before Arthur could secure her, leaving him with nothing but a phantom who was now haunting him night and day.
Equally disturbing was Arthur's mention of the dragon's growing influence—how its alien thoughts were beginning to weave themselves through his own like poisonous threads.
The way he had spoken of it, so matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather rather than his own gradual dissolution of self, was concerning.
It was the identical curse that had claimed Uther in his final years.
We had all watched helplessly as the dragon that had granted him immense power slowly devoured his sanity from within.
Uther had died raving in his chambers, clawing at his own skull as if trying to dig the beast from his mind.
Of course, there were only a select few of us who had known the truth.
The official story spoke of a strange and rapidly advancing illness that was claiming him, but those of us who had witnessed his decline knew the truth—the dragon had consumed him piece by piece until nothing remained but scales and flame wrapped in royal flesh.
And now Arthur walked the same cursed path, each day bringing him closer to that inevitable end. I didn't know if I had the strength to witness it again—but this time in my closest friend and my king.
I sighed my own frustration and turned my thoughts back to Arthur's assertion that a serving girl had pulled the sword from the stone.
I didn't know what to make of it. Arthur's desperation had been real enough, the frustration rolling off him in waves as he'd recounted the tale.
But a mysterious girl appearing at the sacred lake, claiming the sword?
It sounded like something from a bard's song, not reality.
At least we'd have answers soon enough. Arthur had announced the festival in honor of Logres's maidens, a transparent excuse to gather every eligible woman in the kingdom under one roof. Somewhere among them, he'd find his lake phantom.
Or he wouldn't, and we'd learn he'd been hallucinating.
I didn't know which was worse.
I finished with Nero, gave him a final pat, and hung the brush on its hook. My muscles ached pleasantly from riding, and my mind still churned with unanswered questions.
But Elenora would be waiting for me in the Great Hall, where I would order her to my chamber and allow her eager hands to cover every inch of me.
Eager hands that demanded nothing beyond the moment.
I could lose myself in her, forget about strange knights, dragons, and phantom girls, and the weight of loyalty that pressed constantly against my chest.
I left the stables, already anticipating the distraction.