A lanky young man with big front teeth popped up from a bench.

  “Is it Sir Bedivere?”

  He had an easy smile. The stare Bedivere leveled back at him would have frozen most men where they stood, but he was either dauntless or oblivious because he kept right on talking. He looked about Collum’s age, though Collum felt centuries older.

  “We’ve orders to take you up to the castle, my lord. Soon’s you get here.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “The king’s, my lord.”

  He had a companion with him, shorter and broader but equally young and smiley, with a head of brown ringlets. Both wore red-and-white livery, not the azure and gold of Camelot.

  “Well then,” Bedivere said wearily. “If the king wishes it, let it be done.”

  It was a still, cold night, but high overhead a wind was sweeping gray clouds briskly past. This was a surprise, but Collum wasn’t sure yet what kind of surprise.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Curly Hair said. “Everybody has. For months now.”

  “We didn’t realize we had an appointment,” Nimue said. “But since you mentioned him, who exactly is the king of Britain these days?”

  “Who’s the king?” The two men looked at each other, unsure if they were supposed to laugh. “Of Britain?”

  “We’ve been gone a while.”

  “You mean—what’s his name?” Curly Hair said. “It’s Galahad. King Galahad.”

  “God’s balls,” Dinadan said. “Really?”

  The lanky one gave him a sharp look.

  “The king frowns on swearing, my lord. He’s very devout.”

  “I’ve heard that about him.”

  “Very strict about the fast days too. He is a great champion of our lord—he’s been converting pagans by the hundreds. Marches them into the Thames to be baptized en masse.”

  “All due respect to the king, of course,” Collum said, “but we thought Galahad was dead.”

  “So he was, my lord, but he’s come back. God returned him to us. It’s a miracle.”

  “A miracle!” his companion said. “Praise God!”

  “But he’ll tell you himself. He’s asked to see you personally.”

  Collum thought it over as they walked. Was it really possible? But why shouldn’t it be? Why shouldn’t Galahad be back from the dead and seated on the throne of Britain? It wouldn’t be the most unlikely development of the past year. Or the worst. He might be a bit of a holy joe but by all accounts Galahad was the greatest knight who ever lived, the most virtuous, the most puissant. God had taken Galahad, and now in their hour of need He’d returned him.

  But of course: this was always how the quest was supposed to end. It seemed obvious in retrospect. Whatever the angel said, this must be what would’ve happened if they’d claimed the spear. They’d tried their utmost, and they’d seen the blood of their fellows shed, and now God in his mercy had forgiven them their failure. God knew it was as hard won as any victory.

  The others all knew Galahad, but Collum had only heard the stories of an aloof, inscrutable, indefatigable boy wearing white armor. Magic boy, Palomides would’ve said. And now he’d been to Heaven and back.

  Collum’s eyes had been dry ever since the Battle of the Spear, even since Sir Scipio died, but the sight of Camelot in the moonlight, cradled tenderly in the crook of the glistening river Brass, was enough to make them prickle with tears. It looked as perfect as a toy castle, gleaming with a few tiny yellow lights—a torch was lit in the very highest chamber of the Godsfall. He’d been so hopeful and so foolish the first time he’d seen it. Now he just wanted to get there and fall into bed in his tidy solar.

  At the Gate of Three Queens their escorts whistled for a groom, who took their horses. The guards requested their swords and Bedivere’s hammer. Bedivere looked at them with cold contempt, but the request was repeated, and in the end they handed them over.

  They were then escorted by a heavyset steward not to the Great Hall, or to the throne room, or to their own rooms, but to a private chamber Collum had never seen before. It was large and almost totally without adornment, just a row of torches on stands against the wall and a long, striped runner down the middle of the stone floor—red and white, Galahad’s colors—leading to a throne. Though really it was just a large wooden chair, finely made but bare of any ornament. Collum wondered if King Galahad would still want the Round Table, or if that was too fancy too. A fire burned contentedly in the fireplace.

  “In his humility,” their escort explained, “the king eschews any trappings of luxury or excess.”

  “Good-o,” Dinadan said. “Speaking of chewing, I’m starved. We never got our dinner at the Two Moons.”

  The man bowed and disappeared and came back with wine and a tray of fruit and cheese and bread. Shortly afterward the king himself entered, unannounced, through a rear door. He was dressed plainly apart from his crown and the red cloak of office in the Roman style—he hadn’t eschewed those. He was accompanied by a moody, glowering boy in black and silver. It took Collum a moment to recognize Sir Melehan, Mordred’s son, who’d made such a dramatic entrance at the feast after the battle of Camelot. Will wonders never cease.

  But the king was even more of a surprise.

  “No,” Bedivere said.

  “You’re kidding me,” Dinadan said.

  “My friends,” said Lancelot. “You are welcome at Camelot.”

  Collum could almost have laughed. Almost. Fate certainly had an artistic touch where Lancelot was concerned, and once again it had produced him out of nowhere, like one of poor Dagonet’s sleight-of-hand tricks.

  “I don’t think I understand,” Bedivere said coldly.

  “I know how you feel.” Lancelot smiled his familiar weathered smile. “Believe me.”

  “I don’t believe a word you say.”

  “Well, I can’t make you. Even a king can’t make a man believe something. Or stop believing it either. Some useful royal wisdom I’ve acquired.” He took his place on the throne. “But I’m sure the rest of you would be interested to know why I’m wearing Arthur’s crown and using my dead son’s name.”

  “Those were two of the questions that have crossed my mind, yes,” Nimue said.

  “But first, you all know Sir Melehan, yes? Mordred’s son?”

  The last time they’d met Melehan the boy had been full of sardonic wit, but now he looked subdued and sulky.

  “I’m glad to see you all, for any number of reasons,” Lancelot said, “but one of them is that you’re the only people in Britain I can talk to about everything that’s happened. Everybody else is either too terrified of me or too reverent or both.”

  Lancelot did look exceedingly royal. The power sat lightly on him—he handled it as easily as he did a blade. Melehan fidgeted and his face was flushed, as if his collar were too tight.

  “First things first, I really am Galahad. I’ve been him all along. Lancelot was just a nickname, a family joke that stuck. I was baptized Galahad, but nobody ever called me that. I don’t know how Elaine even found out about it when she named our son.

  “I never thought about it, but it came up again when they crowned me—yes, I’ll get to that too. The archbishop insisted on using my baptismal name, and so that became my regnal name. I never liked ‘Lancelot’ anyway, ancelot is an old-fashioned Frankish word for servant, so l’ancelot—you see what I mean. It wasn’t an affectionate nickname.

  “And yes, obviously, it helped me with the people. Of course it did. Right away there were rumors everywhere that I really was the other Galahad, the perfect knight, back from the dead to succeed Arthur on the throne. I corrected whoever would listen, but like I said: when people want to believe something even the king can’t stop them. It’s just too good a story.

  “Though they must wonder what I got up to in Heaven that I came back looking twenty-five years older.

  “I’m telling the story backward, I know, but you can guess the rest of it. Constantine came back to Hoxmead. He’d been to Amesbury to look for Guinevere, but she was gone by the time he got there. At first I said no, but he was persistent, and by then we could see that things were going from bad to worse. The monastery was taking in refugees and fending off raiders and warbands day and night. I felt selfish hiding away and trying to pray my way into Heaven while Britain was dying. What did my own salvation matter compared to that? And then when you were so long coming back from the quest…I had to do something. I couldn’t stay there.”

  “Where is Constantine?” Collum asked.

  “Cornwall. Trying to persuade them that they have a High King again. But come eat. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

  “Sounds like it!” Nimue said.

  They waited while Lancelot cut some cheese and a slice of apple; nobody could eat before the king did. It was the first time Collum had seen him eat anything other than lettuce. After that Dinadan tucked in, and Collum poured himself some wine. Why not. They were home, and Galahad was really Lancelot, but they could’ve done a lot worse. They could’ve had Morgan or Rience or half a dozen other pretenders. So here’s to King Lancelot. And here’s to good Sir Constantine—they should’ve listened to him. If they had they could’ve turned back after the Rainbow Tournament. Scipio and Dagonet would still be alive, and Palomides wouldn’t be in thrall to Morgan le Fay.

  He felt a little drunk.

  “And what brings you here, Sir Melehan?” Dinadan asked politely.

  “I was already here, if you remember. In a cell. Lancelot let me out.”

  “He has formally renounced his claim to the throne and endorsed mine,” Lancelot said. “In return for which I made him king of Orkney.”

  “That was generous,” Nimue said.

  “Yes,” Melehan said, “Lancelot has pointed that out. Many times.”

  “Orkney needed a king, and Melehan is Morgause’s last surviving descendant,” Lancelot said. “It simplified things. Mercy felt like the wisest course.”

  “It almost makes up for his killing all four of my uncles.”

  And Collum had no doubt that, as Melehan once observed, the blood of the Pendragons comes in handy. He wondered if Melehan looked like his royal grandfather.

  “What happened to King Rience?”

  “Dead. As soon as the Franks found out there was already a Frank on the throne they cut off his coin. What was the point? We caught him at Wallsend trying to take ship for Saxony. He demanded a trial by combat, which I granted him.”

  No need to ask how that turned out.

  “And what about Londinium?” Nimue asked.

  Apparently Londinium loved King Galahad. They welcomed him rapturously as the last hero of the Age of Arthur. People love a redemption story. And that was that. Welcome to the Age of Galahad.

  “But I’m talking too much. Tell me your news.”

  Dinadan told Lancelot the story of their quest and how it had ended. When he was done Lancelot sat down on his throne again, rubbing his chin, and quizzed them sharply on the condition of Morgan’s army after the Battle of the Spear. It was late and Collum was tired, and his attention drifted, slipped its mooring and washed out to sea. The quest was over, they were back home safe, and it was all for nothing, but everything had worked out anyway, more or less. In the end they’d made no contribution whatsoever. They could’ve stayed home for all the difference it made.

  Though who knows, maybe things would’ve gone differently if they hadn’t. We cannot know what would have happened. He wondered if even God knew, or whether the realm of Might-Have-Been was hidden from His mighty prying eyes. Collum stared into the fire, letting it blur into points and smears of light, letting the others talk.

  “Collum?”

  Lancelot was focused on him with his characteristic intensity, and Collum snapped awake like he’d been caught dozing in church.

  “Yes?”

  “In the Chapel of the Spear, did God speak to you personally? Or was it just Saint Longinus?”

  “Just Longinus.” That was a good memory, right up until Ysbaddaden ripped the roof off. “God never spoke. There were angels there during the battle, though, and they spoke. Or sang. And at the end a woman appeared, floating down out of the sky in a sort of golden glow. She wore a robe. I imagine she was a saint too. Being in the chapel made me think of what you said at the monastery, when you talked about doing miracles.”

  Lancelot nodded, breathing deeply, like a great wave of emotion was passing through him, almost too big to contain.

  “I wish I’d been there,” he said. “I would’ve stopped Morgan. I would never have let them break the spear.”

  “I don’t think even you could have stopped it,” Nimue said. “Not even the angels could.”

  “I could have.”

  His voice was different now—this was the other Lancelot speaking, not King Galahad, the real one, who’d been raised by the Lady of the Lake and then killed her. Or maybe King Galahad was the real Lancelot now. Who was to say? Lancelot picked up a poker and resettled the logs in the fire. Collum fancied himself a good judge of when someone was going to hit him—most people will shift their shoulders, reset their feet—but Lancelot was utterly relaxed and at rest right up until the moment he swung the hot poker at Collum’s head.

  It was Bedivere who saved him. He’d never once dropped his guard since they walked in the door. He caught the blow on his thick forearm—he’d have a bruise there and a burn on top of the bruise. Collum ducked a second swing that just nicked his shoulder.

  “Shit!” Nimue began a spell but Lancelot dumped the cheese off a round silver tray and whipped it sidearm at her like a discus. It caught her square on the bridge of the nose, and she went down on her knees, her hands over her face.

  “What are you doing?!” Dinadan shouted.

  “I knew it,” Bedivere said. “I always knew it.”

  Lancelot was standing on the runner, and Bedivere snatched it up and yanked on it hard, hoping to jerk him off his feet, but he leapt off just in time. God dammit, Collum thought, why couldn’t they rest for a little? Why did everything good have to turn to shit so fast? He tried the door but it was barred from the outside.

  Lancelot flourished the poker at them.

  “Why did you come back? You could’ve run to Orkney, Hibernia, anywhere but here.”

  “This is our home,” Bedivere said.

  “It was,” Lancelot said. “Best prepare yourself for Hell, Bedivere.”

  “I’ve made peace with who I am. Can you say the same?”

  With a snarl Sir Melehan leapt onto Lancelot’s back with a stubby knife in his hand. Lancelot barely looked at him as he caught the boy’s wrist with one hand and wrapped a steely arm around his neck. He squeezed and twisted. There was a muffled pop like a root snapping underground. He let the boy drop to the floor.

  “There,” Lancelot said. “Didn’t spill a drop.”

  The last of the Pendragons, Collum thought numbly. King Melehan of Orkney. God rest him, the poor child deserved better. With his eyes he ransacked the room for anything he could use as a weapon. Dinadan was wrapping a tablecloth round his shield arm as a makeshift buckler.

  “What do you think really happened to Arthur?” Lancelot said. “Was it the wheel of fate that brought him down? Or me, or Guinevere, or Mordred? Sins of the father? Nonsense. I loved Arthur but he was a damned fool and a worse Christian.”

  “Least he wasn’t a fucking liar,” Nimue managed from the floor. “And a child killer.”

  “If you thought about it for even a minute, even a minute, you would see I have no other choice!” Lancelot actually sounded exasperated to the point of tears. “Arthur’s Britain was broken, a land not even God could love. Galahad’s Britain will be whole. And better than whole, it will be pure. Please, it’s all so painfully obvious, when you just bother to think it through! I’ll roll it all back, finish what the Romans started. Convert the pagans, demolish the temples, pull down the standing stones. Do the thing properly. If Arthur had had the grit to do it then we wouldn’t be here! But he was always too weak.

  “And when I’m done God will come back. That is the adventure.”

  It was like he could barely see them. In his mind it had all already happened. Compared with the glory that was coming they were a minor detail.

  “Put a sword in my hand, coward,” Collum said.

  “I think not.” Lancelot wagged the poker at him. “Take it as a compliment if you like.”

  Bedivere advanced with murder in his eyes. Dinadan picked up one of the wrought-iron torch stands and hefted it, doing his best to hold it like a pole arm though it was much too long and heavy. Nimue had both hands over her nose and was trying to sit up. Outside, somewhere far away, Collum heard a woman shouting, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  Dinadan circled to Lancelot’s right so Collum went left, collecting a short broom from the hearth, which he would do what with exactly? Dinadan was trying to wiggle the torch out of the torch stand, but it was stuck. Lancelot fell back behind his throne as they came on.

  “Don’t forget that I’ve only ever lost one fight in my life,” Lancelot said, “and that was to the other Galahad.”

  “Your victories were God’s doing, Lancelot,” Bedivere said. “Daddy’s not here to help you now.”

  “God has turned His back while I do what must be done, but when it’s over He’ll return. Nimue, I’ll spare your life in exchange for one favor: let Merlin out.”

  “Bugger yourself.” Her voice was muffled by her cupped hands. Something large flickered by the windows, an owl maybe.

  “Help me and you walk free. You once boasted of your faith in God, show it now.”

  She showed him her middle finger. Dinadan finally got the torch loose and threw it whirling at Lancelot’s face. Collum and Bedivere charged.