The Winter Prince (The Lion Hunters:01)(32)

“That may be true.” I sighed.

“Lleu is barely more than a child, and more dear to me than my own life,” Artos said. “He still must be guarded from fear or pain. But I had thought you strong enough and wise enough to fend for yourself.”

I sat still and silent. Does that mean, my father, that I can expect no protection or aid of you, that I must give and give of my loyalty and strength and never receive anything in return? No and no, I told myself; he could not mean that. I spoke at last, attempting calm and resignation. “But Lleu is in danger.” I looked up at Artos, direct. “There’s no sense in risking him only because you don’t trust me.”

“All right,” Artos said. “We’ll wake Morgause and you can accuse her openly.”

“What, now?”

“Why not? Go wake her,” Artos said. “If you would have me send her away, go wake her now, yourself, and bring her here.”

I stared at him. “Myself?”

“Why not? She fostered you as her own child: you must have had cause to enter her private rooms before tonight.”

He watched intently for my flinch, and saw it in hand, jaw, and eye. Furious at my transparency, I stood swiftly and said to my father, “Wait here.” Taking a lamp from one of the wall brackets to light my way through the corridors, I considered Goewin’s earlier accident and thought that I might pour the lamp’s entire contents over your head to rouse you; but instead I sent in one of your handmaidens with a message that you were to meet your brother in the atrium. That was a petty cruelty, as it sounded like an invitation to a secret and midnight tryst. I woke and summoned the rest of the family as well, then returned to Artos. I bowed slightly to the high king and said, “Your family waits you in the atrium.”

They were all there: Ginevra with Goewin’s hand in hers, Goewin’s stern face tearstained and dream haunted; Lleu, white with exhaustion and apprehension; all four of your children, who had been sleeping in the villa rather than one of the Halls, that they might be near you so long as you were in Camlan; and you, serene and regal in their midst. Artos surveyed his children and nephews, wife and sister, all waiting for him in the dim light of the brazier. “You wanted to speak to me, my lord?” you asked.

Artos sat down. “Medraut believes you are poisoning the prince of Britain,” he said coldly.

“Such an accusation!” you answered calmly. Gareth squirmed a little in dismay, miserably biting his lips. Agravain stared at Lleu through narrowed eyes, as though his cousin were responsible. But none of them dared break his respectful silence. Lleu shivered, unable to meet your gaze, hating to be the focus of such malice.

“Such an accusation,” you repeated, as though you enjoyed hearing yourself say so. “What proof do you have, Medraut? I have given no one any reason to believe evi co bou l of me.”

Artos made an ironic gesture toward me and said dryly, “He stands before you, and you say that? Is he not reason enough?”

I turned to my father as though I had been struck. “I!”

He spoke in spiteful anger. Surely he said that without thinking; surely he did not believe it. I held my ground. “We were talking of the prince, not of me,” I said to you. “Three times this week he’s asked my aid to counter some foul drug that you slipped him in secret. When you used me this way I said nothing and no one ever knew; but over the prince you have no such power, and I will not keep still.”

“Loyal, so loyal,” you sneered. Even Agravain shuddered. Lleu and Goewin had never seen you angry.

“It is not a question of loyalty,” I answered. “I won’t watch children being tortured. I won’t watch you pretending to murder the high king’s heir.”

“Why not?” you said. “His murder would certainly be to your benefit.”

“Mother!” Gwalchmei and Agravain exploded.

Artos said only, “Lleu, come here.” Lleu moved to sit at his father’s feet, and Artos firmly clasped one of the slim, shaking hands in his own. I stood straight and unmoving until the others were quiet again, then went on speaking to you. “But you haven’t murdered him. You’re tormenting him. Perhaps you do it to test my skill at remedies and antidotes. But I use my skill to serve the prince, not to answer to you.”

“Your skill needs no test,” you said. “I taught you well. As for answering to me, you will do whatever I demand of you.” You were cold as I. “This trivial display of devotion to Artos and his little prince does not subordinate your bond to me.” No one spoke. You demanded sharply, “Does it?”