She addressed everyone at the table, her voice vibrating with barely banked fury. “The more I think about what the Heirs are trying to accomplish, the angrier I get. Who asked them to patrol and superintend the world? Why should they impose their values on everyone? And to steal magic—to steal anything—in order to achieve this … I can’t pretend I’m a disinterested observer. I can’t sit idly by and do nothing. I have to help … however I can.”
For a moment, the only sound came from the fire in the hearth nearby. No one at the table spoke; no one moved. Gemma did not look at Astrid or Lesperance. Their opinion of her held no weight.
Richard never truly respected her—she’d realized that too late, after she failed to conform to his idea of who he thought she ought to be. That betrayal had hurt her, badly. Oh, she was used to the snide comments and dismissals in the newsroom. But Richard had been her lover, her confidant. She’d thought him unlike other men. His disappointment and dismissal cut her because she’d thought him different. She learned to prize her own opinion of herself.
She now discovered something, something faintly frightening: she wanted Catullus’s respect. Because he was a man worthy of esteem.
Catullus did not smile at her, nor beam his approbation. But his night-dark eyes flashed behind his spectacles as he tipped his head in a regal nod. Confident in himself, and her.
Within her, this approval, more than anything, burned brightly. She felt momentarily giddy, as if she’d been spinning around the room and came to a sudden stop.
Yet she grounded herself with his eyes, velvety and bright eyes that saw and understood not just scientific theory, but the very real practicalities of what it took to survive.
“Nicely argued, counselor,” Lesperance said, breaking the silence.
Even Astrid had to agree. “I hope you fight as well as you talk.”
Gemma asked calmly, “So, now that that’s settled, where are we going?”
“Wherever the Primal Source’s energy is gathering.” Catullus was all business now, which Gemma appreciated. This wasn’t about her, after all, but the ensuing battle. He turned to Astrid. “Can you feel where it is collecting?”
Astrid snarled, frustrated with herself. “Somewhere south of here, but I’m not certain where.”
Everyone moodily poked at their food. Gemma sifted and sorted through what she had learned about the Primal Source, knowing that a solution lay somewhere within grasp. “You said that the Primal Source is based on hopes and desires.”
Astrid nodded after taking a drink of ale. “Its power, like all magic, comes from wishes, dreams, and imagination—that which makes humanity different from other animals.”
“And we know that the Heirs’ dreams are for a global English empire,” said Lesperance.
“Because they believe England to be the apotheosis of human culture, the pinnacle of all that is good and right.” Catullus’s words, to his credit, held only a slight edge. “They wish England to be the world’s champion.”
“Champion.” Gemma mulled this over. “That word has a very old-fashioned feel to it, as if it belongs in some child’s book of fairy stories.”
Slowly, Catullus drew himself up, his spine straightening even more than his usual faultless posture. His gaze sharpened further to knifelike perception. Gemma was surprised that the inn wasn’t simply cleaved in two from the blade of his eyes.
“Not fairy stories,” he said. “Chivalric romance.”
“Chivalry, as in knights?” asked Gemma.
He turned to her, but his thoughts reached far beyond where she sat. “Exactly. Knights of the Round Table.”
Understanding jolted them all at once, like a current of electricity through water. “Could it truly be?” Astrid whispered.
“Yes—yes it is.” Catullus could no longer sit, energy and thought propelling him to his feet. The taproom’s few other occupants watched him pace, confused and disgruntled that there should be so much commotion to break their evening’s fireside drowse. The aged men helped each other to standing and then tottered out, muttering about strangers coming into town and making such a bustle.
No one paid the old men much attention. They would be back tomorrow, likely having forgotten this night’s tumult. For her part, Gemma was riveted by the sight of Catullus fully consumed by inspiration, his body in motion as if to keep pace with the speed of his mind.
“Consider it,” he said, hands clasped behind his back as he strode back and forth. “The glories of Camelot, when England emerged from darkness to serve as a model for governance and behavior for the world. Knights on quests, perpetuating and propagating the chivalric code—protecting the weak, spreading the faith and honor of their liege wherever they journeyed. A perfect kingdom ruled by one perfect leader, the best and most exemplary Briton, the ideal king.”
As one, Gemma, Lesperance, and Astrid rose from the table, each drawn upward by the same thought. “The king,” Astrid breathed.
Catullus stopped his pacing to stand before the fire, and it formed a fiery corona around his tall, powerful body, turning him into a creature of shadow and light. “King Arthur.”
“Was King Arthur real?” Gemma knew something of the legendary king, but the stories on which she’d been raised were Irish legends and Italian folktales. Kings were exactly what her family had fought against, in generations past. Who wanted a king when America offered at least the theory of equality?
“There’s speculation,” said Catullus. “Some think Arthur was a warlord of the Dark Ages who brought peace between tribes after Rome left England. Others think he was a Christian warrior king who stopped a Saxon invasion. None of this has ever been proven. But it isn’t relevant,” he continued, animated. “It’s not the real Arthur that matters.”
“Who, then?” Lesperance demanded.
“Arthur, as England wishes him to be. The Arthur of legend, of myth and imagination.” Catullus spread his palms, encompassing the realm of collective dreams. “He is the best Briton, the finest example of what England once was, and what it might one day be—a beacon of light to the rest of the world.”
“It makes sense,” Gemma mused, “that the Heirs’ shared desires could be embodied in such a figure. To them, Arthur must be the personification of everything they want.”
“I can well imagine the Heirs believe themselves to be knights,” growled Astrid, “setting off on quests for Sources, bringing the light of civilization to a savage world. And the Blades are the forces of chaos, undermining this noble ambition.”
Gemma shuddered at the depths of the delusion. Yet it seemed far too possible.
Catullus resumed his pacing, unable to keep still. “The legend of Arthur posits that he would rise again when England had need of him.”
“Returning from where?” asked Gemma.
“An enchanted sleep on the magical island of Avalon,” Astrid answered.
Lesperance slapped his palms on the table in front of him decisively. “Then Avalon is where we should go, if that’s where he’ll appear.”
Catullus’s mouth formed a wry smile. “There’s no such place.”
“But you said that it isn’t the reality that matters,” Gemma noted, “so much as the legend.”
“True, yet magic is tied to the physical world, the world of humanity. We can’t simply wish ourselves to imaginary Avalon. If the Primal Source summons him for the Heirs, it will be here, in England. It’s the where of it that confounds me.” He pressed his lips tightly together, angry with himself for lacking any knowledge. He