Being King Arthur's daughter is not as good as it sounds.
Sixteen-year-old Melora has struggled to find her place ever since her brother was trampled to death in a hunting accident. Her father raised her to be a warrior, but Melora isn't allowed to...
Melora glanced out the window slit to see Sir Mador striding through the gardens. He looked like a hawk with a duck in its talons. Melora picked the fraying hem of her gown. Prince Orlando must have jumped at the chance to prove his skill. Eloquent, dandyish Mador was just the sort of man everyone challenged, despite his formidable size. They never guessed Mador was one of the best swordsmen at court.
"My lady!" Mador caught sight of her and walked over. "I have done as you bid me." He frowned. "Come away from the shadows; they veil your lovely face."
Melora forced a smile as she slipped into the faint light. "You flatter overmuch, but I thank you Mador." She inclined her head. "If you'll excuse me." It was better to get out now, before he started his usual repertoire of compliments.
Melora slowed to the more stately tread of a princess as soon as Mador was round the corner. It wouldn't do for everyone to see her tearing through the halls at this hour. Melora nodded to a passing couple and tried to still her breathing. Mador was a prince, an elegant, attractive young man of skill and learning, but that told her little of him. That description fit most men in her father's court.
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On returning from the stables, Orlando found a stranger waiting in his rooms. A tall man with gnarled skin and twiggy fingers sat on Orlando's mattress, his matted gray head bowed. Orlando cleared his throat, wondering where he'd seen the man. "Good morning."
"Good morning." The man's voice was rough and deep. "Orlando, son of Gustavus?"
Orlando shifted from foot to foot, "Yes. And you are?"
"Myrddin, chief advisor to King Arthur." Myrddin raised his head and studied Orlando with wild gold eyes.
That was where I saw him. Orlando remembered how the famous mage had stood close by but behind the king, watching each petitioner with interest.
"The name means nothing?" The mage cocked a shaggy brow.
Orlando started. "Oh, no, my lord Myrddin. Even in Thessaly, we have heard of your mighty deeds. To what do I owe this honor?"
The man scanned Orlando, as if he were a mouse and the mage a hawk deciding if it were hungry. Orlando tried not to squirm, holding the molten gaze as his eyes began to burn.
"You are a strong lad," murmured the mage at last, leaning back with a creaking sigh. "And reckless. Your future is dark in my eyes." His shaggy brows met in a frown.
Orlando stiffened. "I am no child; I am not afraid. What do you see?"
The mage's laugh was hard. "All are young to me–who is not? I see only danger ahead of you. Or perhaps," he cocked his head, "within you. Beware."
"I am not afraid," repeated Orlando, and it was true.
"The young rarely are; 'tis their foolish gift." The mage's stare went vacant. "Good day." He rose to his feet and shuffled past Orlando, leaving a chill behind him.
