PROLOGUE

Mordred had heard legends about the Forest of Emrys ever since he was a child. Every druid knew about the powerful spirit who dwelled in the wood, the very essence of magic running through every root, seeing through every eye. It was said that the spirit was kind, and one need only ask to be granted sanctuary in the bounds of the forest. The spirit was known to be fond of guests. Mordred met weary travellers who claimed the spirit guided them to beds of soft moss, where they would wake to ripe bushes of berries and trees dripping in nuts.

The elders warned to only ask for sanctuary with a pure heart, or you'd find yourself nothing more than a meal for the spirit's creatures. Mordred always wanted to visit the Forest of Emrys and bask in the seat of the world's purest magic, wanted to see if the spirit deemed him worthy of sanctuary, or even a rare blessing. But nobody knew where it was.

It seemed impossible - by all accounts, the forest was immense. But anyone who sought the forest never found it, and those who'd visited and tried to make their way back could never remember the way. It was ancient, potent magic, designed to keep the forest safe. Nobody knew what would happen if the forest were to be damaged or destroyed. Many druids believed that magic would leech from the world entirely, and that was why the whispers of the legend never left their camps. They guarded the knowledge fiercely and devotedly for generations. The Forest of Emrys was their greatest known legend and their greatest kept secret.

So when they ran into a forest, fleeing as Cenred's army drew nigh, Mordred could scarcely believe it.

From the first step he took into the wood, he could feel energy running in every direction like veins. The birdsong was striking as the weight of a spell, the trees waved as he passed. Every colour was more vivid and more beautiful than he'd ever seen. The very ground hummed under his feet with magic. It was so strong he could smell it, taste it. It tingled within him every time he took a breath.

This had to be destiny. The spirit of Emrys was extremely selective with those it allowed to find it - there was no way they'd stumbled in by mistake. All they had to do was ask for sanctuary with pure intentions, and the army on their heels could not follow them.

Mordred knew he had to ask quickly. The spirit might not take kindly to them trampling through its woods, waving swords around and disrespecting its sovereignty. He fell to his knees like he'd been aching to do since setting foot in the forest and dug his fingers into the earth. Gods. Even the dirt was positively singing with power.

"Spirit of Emrys," he intoned loudly, "We are honoured to be in your wood. We humbly ask you grant us sanctuary from the dangers on our heels."

A gust of wind swept through, and suddenly Mordred could hear a voice in his mind.

Mordred, the spirit greeted telepathically. Mordred laughed out loud, the delight and exhilaration almost overwhelming. The other knights must have thought he was mad, but he wasn't paying attention to anything but the surge of warm, gentle magic swirling around him.

The spirit's voice sounded more like a friendly young man than an ancient spirit. It sounded like it was smiling, if it could do such a thing.

I am glad to grant you sanctuary, druid, though you have parted from your people.

I am honoured, he responded earnestly, and my companions?

You ask me to grant sanctuary to the butchers of my kind? You willingly stand at the side of Pendragon's son?

The spirit sounded genuinely curious to hear his answer. Mordred lowered his head respectfully.

They are butchers now, but I believe Arthur is a good man. When he is king, I have faith that things will change. He's misguided, poisoned against magic by his father. I hoped that perhaps you might change his mind.

It hummed thoughtfully, the sound seeming to vibrate through the tips of Mordred's fingers. He held his breath.

I offer your companions safety for two sunsets.