CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
-GUIN-
I entered the Great Hall through the double doors with measured steps.
I'd dressed in my best—in honor of my defeat of Balan.
My tunic, crafted from high-quality deep blue linen, was embroidered with silver thread around the cuffs and neckline—tiny Celtic knots that seemed to shimmer and dance with each step I took.
Above that, I wore a surcoat of midnight blue velvet, and hose of black covered my legs, helping to ward away the cold night air.
All of my clothing was, of course, courtesy of Merlin's tailors.
Sir Lioran, the rising star of Camelot's court. I was well aware that all eyes would be on me tonight—something that didn't excite me in the least.
The hall buzzed as nobles who once flinched at magic now animatedly reenacted the day’s most dramatic moments, arms flailing as they imitated spells they barely understood.
Servants wove between tables heavy with venison, braided breads, and pyramids of sugared fruit.
The air shimmered with the scent of spiced wine, melted candle wax, and perfume.
Heads turned as I passed, and whispers followed. Where once I’d gone unnoticed, tonight brought nods, raised goblets, and appraising glances. My defeat of Balan had elevated me in the eyes of the court. And with every new acknowledgment came a sharper edge of risk.
Success had made me visible.
Each smile was another chance to slip. Each toast, another opportunity for my illusion to falter. Respect was dangerous because it came with scrutiny.
I moved deeper into the crowd, watching the delicate dance of power and politics unfolding all around me. Even the seating arrangements whispered their own truths: a new hierarchy shaped not by bloodlines, but by how each knight had performed in the duel.
Gawain, whose earth magic had proven devastatingly effective, now sat at a table surrounded by merchants from the western provinces, all eager to secure patronage from a rising star.
One such lady had positioned herself beside him, her aged fingers occasionally touching his arm to emphasize whatever advantageous connection she was proposing.
For all I knew, she could have been inviting him to her bed.
Given her rather rat-like appearance, I felt sorry for him if such were the case.
In stark contrast, one whole table was now empty—a reminder that those knights who did not fare well in the Duel Trial had been excused from Camelot. Now, only eighteen remained.
"The great sorting," Percival murmured as he came to stand beside me.
"Sorting?"
He nodded. "After each trial, Camelot redistributes its favor like a deck of cards being reshuffled."
"And where do you stand in this shuffle?"
He smiled faintly. "Healers occupy an odd middle ground—never the heroes, but never entirely forgotten either. I suppose we're considered useful but not heroic enough to lead the charge."
"Well, I think your magic is not only impressive, but it's crucial. And Arthur would be lucky to have you among his elite."
Percival gave me a look of surprise that told me he wasn't accustomed to compliments. "Perhaps I could persuade you to have a word with the king on my behalf?"
We both laughed at that, but the moment was regrettably short-lived.
"Sir Lioran!" Lord Carlisle shouted from across the room, gesturing to an empty seat at his table as he briefly nodded to Percival in greeting. Almost immediately, his hawkish gaze returned to me. "Join us! We were just discussing your remarkable victory."
I sighed out my own dread, and Percival chuckled.
As much as I didn't want to make conversation with any of them, I remembered Merlin mentioning that we might well find allies in the northern houses of Logres.
And allies were good to have. So, I swallowed down my lack of enthusiasm and forced myself forward.
"Wish me luck," I said to Percival.
He nodded, and I made my way to the northern baron's table. The invitation wasn't unexpected—Carlisle had been watching me since the Summoning Trial.
"My lord, you honor me," I said, taking the offered seat.
I found myself among a table full of nobles, those whose lands bordered the mists of Annwyn.
"Allow me to introduce our little company," Lord Carlisle said, gesturing to the others at the table.
"Sir Edwin of Easthollow," he nodded to an enormous man with fiery red hair and an out-of-control beard that looked more like a red-tailed raccoon.
Edwin raised his goblet in greeting but said nothing.
"To your left, Lady Tamsin of Highglen," Carlisle continued.
She was an older woman, perhaps in her fifties, with an unusually elongated neck that gave her an almost swan-like elegance.
Her graying hair was swept up in an elaborate arrangement of braids and pins, set with small silver ornaments that caught the torchlight.
When she inclined her head in greeting, her pale eyes sparkled with intelligence, and her smile carried the weight of someone who had witnessed many court intrigues and survived them all.
"And of course, my nephew, Lord Brynmor," Carlisle finished, indicating the young man seated directly across from me.
Brynmor possessed the kind of refined handsomeness that came from comfortable living—perhaps close to my own age, with dark hair carefully styled in the current court fashion and keen eyes that missed nothing.
His jawline was clean-shaven, and his doublet bore the subtle but expensive embroidery that marked him as someone with both wealth and taste.
While he had a pleasant face, it lacked the raw masculine power that made Arthur so commanding.
Nor did it possess the devastating beauty that made Lancelot impossible to ignore.
Instead, Brynmor looked every inch the ambitious noble—intelligent, calculating, and eager for tales of heroics that might further his own advancement at court.
There was a hunger in his expression as he studied me, the kind of keen interest that suggested he saw opportunity in my recent victory.
"Sir Lioran," Brynmor started, "your victory today was nothing short of remarkable. Sir Balan is not easily bested."
I gave a modest nod, careful to watch every single word that exited my mouth. "I had luck on my side, my lord."
"Luck and skill, surely," Lady Tamsin chimed in, her gaze unblinking.
"Aye, but pitting you against Balan seemed deliberate," Edwin interjected, casting a skeptical glance at Carlisle.
"Deliberate?" Carlisle repeated. "In what way?"
"In the way of trying to get rid of me," I answered as Edwin nodded emphatically.
"Historically, the north has not been openly courted by Camelot's favor," he said.
Carlisle frowned at this, his expression growing stern. "Come now, none of that talk," he warned. "We are here to enjoy ourselves and offer congratulations to our champion." He smiled at me.
Edwin shrugged but said no more, turning to sip his wine instead.
These northern houses clearly harbored reservations about Arthur—they always had, even before his recent crackdowns.
The borderlands bred a different kind of nobility, one that remembered when magic flowed freely through these lands, when the old ways weren't relegated to whispered conversations and careful euphemisms.
“Such fine control and display of water magic is rarely seen these days,” said Lady Melisande, her voice rasping but clear.
Her pale eyes glittered beneath her violet hood.
“Most younger spellcasters freeze water before they understand it. Your magic reminded me of the older traditions, the older ways.”
I had to be very careful around any talk regarding the old ways.
In general, I had to be very careful around these Northern nobles because it was no secret there was a rebellion brewing in the North.
For all I knew, these people could be part of it.
I gave a cool smile and said, “Water that only becomes ice forgets most of what it is.”
Melisande nodded and sat back in her seat, no doubt irritated that I hadn't taken the bait and discussed my dislike of the king's laws. But if Lady Melisande was annoyed, Lord Carlisle was the opposite. He was practically bouncing in his seat with excited interest. Clearly, these nobles had seen something they didn’t understand, and now they were wondering what more I was capable of.
"Wise words," Lord Carlisle agreed, leaning forward with interest. His weathered hands gestured expressively as he spoke. "Rigidity often proves brittle when tested, while adaptability endures. Too many forget that strength without flexibility leads to fracture."
As he looked at me, Lord Carlisle's eyes held a calculating gleam—he was sizing me up, I was more than certain—trying to decipher whether or not I could be trusted—whether my loyalty leaned toward Arthur or toward my homeland.
The northern lords were notorious for their quiet resistance to royal decrees that infringed on their ancient freedoms. It was a fine line I had to walk here—show support for the North but at the same time, not raise the king's suspicions.
"I merely seek to serve effectively," I deflected. "Different challenges require different approaches."
Lady Melisande's knowing smile suggested she recognized my diplomatic evasion. "Indeed they do, young knight. Indeed they do."
"So, tell us, Sir Lioran," Brynmor redirected the conversation smoothly, "which village are you from?"
"My home is quite far north," I replied, careful not to look anyone too directly in the eye. "A very small village you might not have heard of: Fenwick Vale."
"Ah, the northernmost reaches of the North," Brynmor responded. "And I understand you were sponsored?"
I swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, I was fortunate enough to be noticed by Dame Yseldra of Fenwick Vale."