Chapter 16 #2
A slight tension flexed in his jaw, but he didn’t otherwise react.
Wordlessly, he led us into Camelot’s Entrance Hall, empty aside from a skeleton of guards.
At the sight of Sir Lancelot, they stood taller, straightening their pikes as if he had ordered them to.
He strode across the atrium, acknowledging each man courteously as we passed.
Halfway to the centre, I froze.
My escort stopped abruptly. “Come along. I do not have all day.”
I ignored him, my eyes fixed upon the tiled floor, and the vicious red dragon encircled with white.
The memory formed, quick and brutal: a long bier thudding onto the beast’s spiked back, draped with Arthur’s banner; the terrain of a body underneath, unmoving and unseen; my brother’s cold words echoing through the hall, seeking to tear me apart.
Sir Accolon of Gaul, slain by my own hand.
It felt like centuries ago, and yesterday all at once. Or maybe I had never truly escaped this spatter of blood-red tiles, hearing that the man I loved was dead.
“What is it?” Sir Lancelot’s voice broke into my reverie, softer than before.
“I lost someone,” I heard myself say. “He was killed, and they brought him here.”
“I know,” he replied. “A righteous punishment for your treason, I am told.”
His bland tone ignited my pain into a fresh white fury. “Good God, you have the measure of everything, don’t you?” I snapped.
He recoiled, as if the dragon beneath our feet had risen fully fleshed and scorched his skin. My temper had shocked him, which brought me a gall-black satisfaction.
“Come away,” he insisted, but his voice had lost its self-assured tenor. He changed course, keeping to the room’s edges and leading us out of the main door.
Warm wind circled the courtyard with an eerie cry, white cherry blossom gusting across us in sweet-scented puffs. I felt a sudden relief to be back out under the sky.
The knight forged ahead, marching us through the gatehouse and across the castle moat, past gliding swans and petals on the water. In the pearlescent afternoon he was even more remarkable: a star brought to Earth, carrying his own light.
Of course. Sir Lancelot was born to mortal parents, but raised to prominence under the fairy care of the Lady of the Lake. His gleaming presence was formed by her love.
“I know your adoptive mother,” I said. “Ninianne and I have a long history.”
He pulled an unimpressed face. “From what I’ve heard, you have a long history with a considerable number of people.”
“Yet more you know about me,” I said. “I’m rather flattered.”
He scowled. “Keep walking.”
We continued down the castle road until we reached the crossroads leading to the city’s four major gates.
He paused and let me move ahead, testing to see if I would remember the gate I had claimed to be leaving through—a subtle chess move that left me impressed.
There was more to Sir Lancelot than sword fights and the appearance of a god.
I smiled and sauntered off towards the west. The city was quiet, its squares almost empty, with just a few curious eyes upon us amid snatches of coy laughter.
If Sir Lancelot noticed the attention, then he didn’t show it, striding forth until the towering Welsh Gate appeared before us, carved with stone dragons.
He halted only when we had passed under the portcullises and stood officially outside Camelot.
“Let it be known that from now, Safe Conduct is no longer in effect,” he declared.
“My thanks to you for escorting me,” I replied. “You performed your duty with great thoroughness. I’m sure your dear Queen will reward you.”
Sir Lancelot crossed his arms, frowning handsomely along the road.
“You asked how I know so much about you,” he said.
“It is because, after all you have wrought, I made it my mission to learn as much as I could of your treasons and reputation, the threat you pose to the kingdom’s peace.
What I discovered is that you stand in opposition to every lesson, every tenet, every person I hold close to my heart. ”
I studied him as he talked, enjoying his speech, the seriousness that rendered him almost divine. When I made no reply, he glanced down at me.
“The disrespect you have shown to King Arthur and this realm made us enemies long before we could ever meet,” he continued. “And we will remain so after you leave this city and my sight.”
“What if I don’t leave?” I asked. “Word has it, in a few days you will have left Camelot yourself. You can watch me walk out of these gates now, but you cannot stop me from coming back in.”
For the first time in our brief acquaintance, Sir Lancelot smiled in full force, his face so transformed and devastating I had to look away and back again.
“You believe that, I’m sure,” he said pleasantly.
“But let me put it in terms you understand. There is no place so far I cannot return from. No circumstance that can prevent me from protecting this realm.” Unfolding his arms, he stepped closer, his shadow blending with mine.
“Think of a locked door, guarding the heart of Camelot. The strongest, most impassable boundary between Morgan le Fay and the High King and Queen. I am that door.”
I smiled wide at his arrogance, gazing up at his astonishing face until I felt lightheaded; not quite his adoptive mother’s dazzle, but fairy enough. I had no idea if he was aware of his effect on others or not.
“Is that so?” I said. “I assumed the King and Queen wouldn’t need you at all, considering their renewed union, and your great rift.”
His flinch was no more than briefly clenched teeth. “You should go now,” he said.
“Of course, good Sir Knight,” I replied. “Anything for you.”
My words travelled across him like a cloud, familiar, provocative. Obediently, I walked away, but a few yards down the road I felt the irresistible impulse to look back. The great du Lac stood in the same place, framed by the gateway, his eyes on me like first frost.
I held his gaze for one long breath, and another, then turned away.
This knight, the High King’s favourite, believed he had outplayed me, but it was what he did not know that would be his undoing.
Morgan le Fay held more complications than he could imagine, but from one overwrought speech and flex of his jaw, I had learned exactly where his weaknesses lay.
And in any game of strategy, everything began with understanding one’s opponent.
Sir Lancelot was not the locked door to Camelot, keeping me out—he was the key.