“Oh, they definitely did,” Merlin said heatedly. “But I’d forgotten that things were actually better if you went this far back. I’d even grown used to the notion that people of color were not featured in this era of European history. I don’t know who started that lie, but Hollywood was quite talented at spreading it. Did you know that enough poorly cast movies can whitewash a time period you’ve lived through? Because I didn’t.”
This seemed like a fresh rant. “When did you get here?”
“I seem to be the only person who arrived on schedule. I was in the portal only today. Val was right beside me a few hours ago, holding my hand.”
Lam pushed Ari’s short hair behind her ear. “I almost didn’t recognize you with this haircut.”
“Yeah, I’m a cis guy here. Apparently that means stupid chopped hair. Speaking of”—Ari dug around the straw at the pieces of her blue armor—“Where’s my breastplate? I need it. Last time someone figured out I have boobs I accidentally murdered him.” She started the sentence as a sort of informative joke, but it ended as harshly as that particular encounter.
Lam, Jordan, and Merlin watched her with paused expressions. She didn’t like those looks; it meant she’d have to explain the constant ragged lies she spun day after day simply to exist—not to mention the stinging absence of King Arthur’s voice deep inside as if she’d somehow lost him when she’d left the future.
Ari found her blue breastplate and strapped it across her chest. “I think I got knocked out in the portal. The last thing I remember is reaching for Gwen. And then someone pushed me.”
“It must have been my magic.” Merlin sighed. “I was trying to hold us all together.”
Ari shook her head. “Someone. I felt hands strike me. Next thing I knew, I was on the smoking wreckage of a battlefield. I stole a fallen knight’s armor and found someone who’d heard of Camelot. I started walking this way, realized I was on the wrong continent, and then hitched a ride with a bunch of smelly-ass Vikings across the water. The rest I’ll tell you some other time. When we’re safe back home.” Ari looked anywhere other than at her friends. “Tell me the worst thing to happen in my absence is Gwen found a new unsuspecting white boy to toss around.”
“Arthur,” Lamarack breathed, shaking their head. “He’s hard to explain.”
“Oh, but I’d love an explanation!” Merlin said, his voice a slight shout. “How did all of you translate my command of Don’t disturb the cycle to How about Gwen marries Arthur? We were supposed to get the chalice and get out. No parties. Absolutely no weddings. Now we’ve… mingled, and who knows what the future consequences will be!”
“Unless Gwen is the Gweneviere,” Lam said.
Merlin sputtered like a teapot on high boil.
“So we’ve broken the time continuum?” Jordan asked. “If Gwen were the original Gweneviere, Merlin would know. He was here. Is here. Twice over.”
They all looked at Merlin, and he washed a little green in the torchlight. “I don’t exactly remember the original Gweneviere terribly well.”
“Why not?” Ari asked.
Merlin squirmed. “You’ve met me, haven’t you?” Jordan raised one careful eyebrow. Merlin pointed at it as if this were proof. “See? She’s met old me. I’m a veritable monster.”
“Old you can’t be that bad,” Ari tried.
Lamarack gave a slow blink of affirmation.
“I might have limited memory of events that transpired several millennia ago, but that doesn’t prove anything about our current mess,” Merlin said. “It certainly doesn’t mean Gwen has been… absorbed… by the canon!”
Lam spoke up. “Gwen did this so we’d have a better standing, so we could be close to the chalice when the time comes. Also, this place is nothing like the stories. Camelot isn’t a haven for goodness. It’s all hate and fear and assassination attempts on poor Arthur. That guy is a walking bull’s-eye.”
Merlin paced in the straw, kicking it about. He’d rolled his sleeves up his skinny forearms, but it did little to hide the way he’d become so much smaller since the last time Ari saw him. He’d literally shrunk within his clothes. There was no denying it: Merlin was at least a year younger than he’d been when he entered the portal. “The plan remains to get the chalice.”
“Right,” Ari said. “When is Arthur’s eighteenth birthday celebration?”
“The big party is in a fortnight,” Lamarack said. “On midsummer. Morgana said the chalice would appear that night, a gift from the Avalon enchantresses.”
Ari tightened the straps of her breastplate, relieved to hide the part of her that seemed to incense men to shitty behavior in this time. “We find Val, get the chalice, and go home to the same night we left. How do we portal back?”
They all exchanged looks.
Even Merlin seemed to be waiting for one of them to have an idea. “Three kinds of magic,” he finally said. “That’s how we got here. Morgana’s, mine, and the Lady of the Lake’s sword. That should be enough to make an exact jump.”
“Enough?” Jordan tutted. “That sounds like a lot, wizard.”
“Well, you have me,” he said. “And there are bits of magic lying around Camelot. We’ll find… something.”
“Something,” Lam repeated, nice and slow.
Ari dug through the straw until she found the back plate of her armor. She laid it out, unfolding the linen padding until she’d unearthed the remains of Excalibur. The handle and hilt remained intact, but the blade ended jaggedly after a few short inches. “Would this work?”
Merlin stared. “That depends on if Excalibur’s magic is lost.”
Ari held it out to Merlin, but Jordan snatched it. The sword fragment’s weight seemed to grow exponentially in Jordan’s grip. She dropped it back in Ari’s hands after a strenuous second. “Something magical is still going on there.”
Ari smiled at Lamarack. “Something.” Lamarack winked. Perhaps the medicine was finishing up its healing, or maybe for the first time in months, Ari could feel some kind of hope. “Merlin and I will get the chalice. Lam and Jordan, find Val. And Gwen…”
“Will distract Arthur,” Jordan said. “She’ll be his Gweneviere as the story requires.”
“But that’s just it,” Lamarack said. “None of us know exactly what the story requires. Except Merlin who has so inconveniently forgot.” Merlin opened his mouth but then shut it.
“Why am I always the only one who comes prepared?” Jordan sighed before hiking up her linen dress to reveal a leather strap around her muscled thigh that carried two deadly knives and a thin, rolled-up book.
Ari pinched it in two fingers as she read the title aloud. “MercersNotes: King Arthur and His Knights.” She handed it to Lam, unwilling to be holding anything Mercer.
“So far very little lines up,” Jordan admitted. “Excalibur, Arthur, and Merlin are here. Gwen could be the woman described as Gweneviere. Old Merlin does hate her, and the people believe she’s beautiful and ‘exotic.’” Ari’s eyebrows shot up; it was a miracle Gwen hadn’t killed them all.
“What are we supposed to do with this?” Ari asked. “Make the time period match this story exactly?”
“Reality inspires legend, but legend is not history,” Merlin said thoughtfully.
“And Mercer’s slapdash quality control might bite us in the butt,” Lam said, holding up a few blank pages for them to see.
Jordan snatched it back, flipping through. “I’ve read this a hundred times. There have never been blank pages before.”
They all exchanged looks.
“So…” Ari said. “Since we came to the past, we’ve somehow erased part of the legend?”
Merlin cried out sharply. “What was that chapter about, Jordan?”
Jordan thumbed through it several times, and the quiet in the barn felt a bit stark. Finally, she looked up. “Lancelot. This was the chapter about Sir Lancelot. He was probably one of the knights Ari slayed so mightily this afternoon.” Ari didn’t have time to enjoy the f
irst compliment she’d ever received from Jordan.
“Is this Lancelot important?” Lam asked, wincing as if they already knew the answer.
Merlin and Ari eyed each other wearily.
Ari was summoned to the king’s court the next morning by a nervous messenger who had definitely expected to find the blue knight dead.
Merlin helped her into her armor with clumsy fingers while yammering about the future consequences of a missing Lancelot. “Arthur won’t be the same. Lancelot was his greatest friend, his guiding force, his best knight.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Ari’s thoughts stung with images of her brother, whose scowling loyalty had won him the role of Kay in her own futuristic version of the cycle.
“And you do know that the story of Lancelot and Gweneviere, while tragic and mildly awful, was the first tale of love in the Western canon to treat women as more than baby makers. Did you know that T. H. White, my favorite of the Arthurian chroniclers, even proposed that Lancelot was bisexual? To say that he was ahead of his time was—”
“Merlin. I need you to focus.” She pointed to the spot where he’d completely botched the ties of her chest plate to her back plate. He retied them while she examined him. “Are you sure you’re from this time period? You don’t know how to tie armor and you can’t remember—”
He surprised her with a bout of juvenile anger, kicking at the straw. “I know I can’t remember. There’s a great black hole in my head where most of this time period should be. Perhaps it’s because I’m here twice over and that’s completely unnatural!”
“Hey.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. We’re all trying to figure out how this works.” She decided not to add, And it’s obvious that your backward aging is in overdrive. Ari was sure he’d noticed. Merlin handed over her sword, and she shoved it in the sheath at her belt, missing Excalibur for the millionth time. “You’re worried about Val.”
“So? You’re equally worried about Gwen. You called her name in your sleep enough times to wake up all of Camelot!”
“Ah, you heard that?” Ari’s body flushed so hard it felt like her armor was in the sun. That was no innocent dream she’d been enjoying. “We’ll find Val, Merlin.”
He ignored her. “Let’s discuss your cover story. You’re from southern France. Oh, but it won’t be called that. Franks Land, maybe? You came to Camelot for the wedding, to honor the new king, but you have to go home right away. You don’t believe in silly things like equality and gender freedom. You’re the manliest man who ever existed.”
“Of course. No codpiece can contain me.”
“Your name is Sir Ironfist,” he snapped. Ari snorted. Merlin’s lips puckered. “Well, you try coming up with something formidable and not ridiculous. Go on.”
Lamarack stepped into the stall, winking at her. They were such a sight for sore eyes after so long by herself; they’d always been her rock. “Summoned to court. This’ll be entertaining.”
“Sure,” Ari mumbled, trying not to think about facing the person who’d turned into a damn bird and flown away, leaving Gwen in the middle of that battle to take the heat meant for him. Arthur wasn’t starting out very high in her opinion. Merlin tried to give Ari one more pep talk, but she cut him off with a hug. “It’ll be okay, old man.”
Merlin smiled a bit at Ari’s nickname for him. But it faded, fast. “I believe, here at least, I am the young man.”
Ari donned her helmet and left the stables, heading through the main doors of the keep. The guards didn’t stop her—like all things in this time, appearances meant everything. In her fine armor, she was treated like a prince. As long as no one figured out she wasn’t packing man pieces, they’d act as if she had the divine right to look down on everyone. So much of this culture made her wretchedly sick. She could only imagine how Gwen was doing with it.
Gwen. Every step brought Ari closer. It sent heat through her veins, reviving the dream that had woken her up to find her legs swimming and her breath tight…
Ari found herself in the throne room without knowing how she got there. The ceiling was stories high, unusual for this era, with vaulted stone, thick beams, and dyed glass in the windows. The place hummed with finely dressed nobles. Out of habit, Ari searched for any threats, tracking the pack of knights behind the empty wooden throne. She’d only met one of them when she arrived, an old knight with creaky joints called Galahad.
Ari stepped down a fur runner, gathering attention as the room quieted, all eyes on her.
And that’s when she spotted Gwen, safe in a circle of ornately dressed women, head craned to see over their protective ring. Ari wondered if Gwen could feel her taking in every single curve of Gwen’s neck, cheek, lips from beneath her helmet. When Gwen blushed, Ari felt certain her lady could. Ari stopped at the center of the room, unsure of where to direct herself since the throne was empty. Arthur slid out from the crowd of nobles, as skinny and small as Merlin was these days. He grinned at the sight of Ari, which was not what she expected at all.
What the…
Arthur was little more than a child.
“You’re alive!” he cried. “I thought for certain Sir Kay’s blow would have finished you.”
Ari genuflected. Once on her knee, head bowed, the young king lifted her arm, inspecting the spot where the rounded dagger had punched a hole in the circlets of her chainmail. Ari nudged him off, feigning pain. In truth, Mercer’s pill had knitted everything back together so well she only felt tightness this morning. “Your Sir Kay should work on his aim. His blow did not meet its mark.”
“A good thing. He was wrong to attack a defender of my kingdom.” Arthur glanced at the knights with a hard scowl, and Ari watched the one called Sir Kay turn his back pointedly. Arthur beckoned her to rise and walked to his throne. He hopped onto the large seat and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Would you remove your helmet, good knight?”
Ari did as she was told, tucking it under her arm. She managed to refrain from looking back at Gwen, but only just. Ari couldn’t seem to find words. Why in the hell was Arthur so young? Had they completely botched the time jump? By the looks of him, his eighteenth birthday—and the moment the chalice was set to appear—was solid years away.
“I surprise you,” Arthur said, ruddy-cheeked.
“You have no beard,” Ari said, unable to suppress a bout of what Kay had loved to call Ari Brand Honesty. “I heard you were older.”
Arthur smiled, which was oddly adorable. Slightly gap-toothed and far too earnest. “You and me both, I’d say. Although how I envy your great height, Sir…?”
Shit. She’d forgotten to think of a decent moniker.
Ari gave Arthur a slight smirk.
“You conceal your name from the king of Camelot?” he asked, more curious than accusing. He stood, holding her gaze even though she was an entire head and shoulders taller than him—and most people in this time period. He circled her, and Ari felt his studying eyes everywhere. “You are odd. You speak to a king as if he is your equal. You wear the blue armor of Normandy but your skin is darker than a Northman. More like the southern Franks. You travel without servants, your accent is very strange, and your armor is too short at the knees. Quite the ill-made knight… Sir?”
Again, Ari merely smirked. She could not name herself Ironfist; that was a lie too far.
Gwen came forward, pushing through the ladies. She stood at Arthur’s side, taking his elbow in a way that made him sort of… shiver… and Ari pound all over with jealousy. “King Arthur has asked you here, good knight, to thank you for your services in yesterday’s battle. I believe you saved my life.”
Arthur smiled at Gwen and then returned his scrutinizing glare to Ari. “Yes, I owe you a debt and would like to invite you to assemble a team to fight in my melee in three days’ time. Alas, if you will not share your name, I must imagine you to be suspicious.”
A word slid forward in Ari’s mind as if pushed across a polished table by a steady hand. This was Ar
thur. Not the child king in front of her but the bonded presence she’d begun to doubt since crash-landing in the past.
The proffered word crystallized. Not a word; a name.
“Lancelot,” Ari said, surprised to find that it left her mouth as lightly as any truth. Gwen’s eyes flew wide. “I am Sir Lancelot.”
“Stay invisible! Don’t engage! Leave the legend alone. Are none of you hearing me?” Merlin yelled the next morning. He’d slept on it, by request of Lam, but was still dizzy with the affront of Ari naming herself Lancelot. He’d called an emergency meeting, pulling them all into an empty tower. Apart from Gwen, who could not be separated from her fleet of handmaidens.
“Careful,” Lam warned. “Merlin’s going to start ranting about moths.”
“Butterflies,” Merlin said, mentally arranging a lecture on the introductory physics of time travel.
Ari stopped him with a harshly pointed finger. “You’re the one who should explain, Merlin. You said eighteenth birthday celebration. Eighteenth. That ‘king’ is a baby! Gwen has been married off to a thirteen-year-old!”
“Arthur always lied about his age,” Merlin said, “quite unabashedly. Like most commoners in this time, he doesn’t know precisely when he was born, and he was crowned at a tender age. A lot of rush to grow up. To prove that he can be a man.”
“He told Gwen he’s nearly sixteen,” Jordan added unhelpfully.
“He could be fifteen,” Lam said. “Val would say he’s fifteen, but he’d laugh into the back of his hand the whole time.”
“Arthur’s celebration will happen soon, thus his true age doesn’t matter.” Jordan’s stare sliced off further opinions. “Plus the only important measure of time is that he’s young enough not to have figured out that Gwen is pregnant, yet old enough to stare longingly upon her swelling breasts with unbridled appreciation.”
Merlin could follow this logic without liking it one bit.
“He doesn’t know she’s pregnant?” Ari asked, cringing with her eyes nearly closed. “So they haven’t…?” Bless her strategic vagueness.
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