On the top of its wooded hill, Westchester was looking down on its territory.
Freezing winters had imprisoned its stones in sarcophagi of ice, and summers had bathed its white walls with sun, but nothing had weakened its strength yet, or diminished its beauty. It was the King of Britain's castle, and it was prestigious.
It was still young – especially as it intended to last for centuries – but it knew lots of secrets. The white walls had ears and they listened. They repeated what they heard to the Wind, so the news could fly over the country. Hopefully someone, somewhere, was listening to them and made them known to their fellow citizens. Although Westchester had little hope. People were not listening to the Wind anymore.
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The castle knew about everything: conspiracies and affairs, hates and loves, wars and marriages. Only one other person knew as much, if not more. The young King, Charles, could pluck out the news directly from minds. Westchester was aware of the King's power because its white walls had listened to the young man complaining about his ability at night, crying in his pillow or throwing it at them in a fit of ire or frustration.
Apart from the gift that was a burden to Charles, the young King seemed perfect as a ruler. Westchester was quite happy that a good sovereign had succeeded King Xavier. The same aura of peacefulness and brightness surrounded both men. King MacTaggert had been a good regent, but he had always thought in terms of the temporary. As if he had been afraid to make a decision that would not please Charles when he would take the crown. At least the kingdom had not suffered from his feebleness.
And those ages had come to an end two years ago, in a coronation ceremony that everyone in the Holy Land was remembering with fondness. Including Westchester.
For four years, King MacTaggert had been a good teacher for Charles. The boy had learned weaponry and politics. Diplomacy and hunting. Riding horses, and economics. The King of Cameliard was confident: Charles was a natural.
At sword training, he would always anticipate his opponent's next move. Or the direction the prey he was hunting would take.
Charles' intelligence allowed him to understand politics and economics in all their subtleties.
His charm was a decisive advantage in diplomacy. And he could seduce any animal into obedience: horses were no exception.
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The regent watched the young man he had trained swirl his sword with grace and strength, without any useless move ever – Charles thrust Excalibur only if he was sure he would touch his opponent. And he very rarely missed. Of course thick armor protected him and his fencing master. The point of those lessons was not to let either the young King or the knight teaching him be hurt.
After one last attempt at avoiding one of Charles' hits, the master removed his helmet and called the end of the training. He bowed respectfully and left the field.
Charles took off his own armor before coming to MacTaggert. The regent nodded politely, a warm smile on his lips.
"Good afternoon, dear friend," Charles said, seizing MacTaggert's right palm between his own two hands and shaking it cheerfully.
"Good afternoon, Sir." It was still difficult for the old King to be completely at ease with Charles. He loved him like a son, but Charles was also King of Britain, and duty required for MacTaggert to keep his distance and obey the man in everything. Not an easy task when Charles treated him more like a companion, a confidant, a friend. But starting tomorrow, they would have no choice: after Charles' coronation, King MacTaggert would return to Cameliard.
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A squire chose that moment to join them. "Excuse me, my Lord. King MacTaggert. The clothier has arrived and is waiting in your room." The shy boy bowed and disappeared in an instant.
Charles rolled his eyes and sighed. "Would you join me in the torture chamber?" he asked the regent.
MacTaggert laughed at the jest. "Do not be so melodramatic, my Lord. You are in dire need of a rich costume for your big day tomorrow."
"Ah but I feel ashamed to spend my subjects' good money on stupid things like clothes."
MacTaggert understood it was a real preoccupation for the young man. "Charles, please allow me to speak frankly."
"You do not have to ask, my friend! I want you to always spill your heart to me."
The regent took Charles' elbow and guided him politely to the King's private apartment. "Of course your costume tomorrow will say nothing of your skills. But many Lords and Kings in Britain do not want to accept you as their true sovereign yet." They crossed the path of a couple of Knights in the brightly lit corridors of the castle, and saluted them with a wave or a nod, but never stopped. MacTaggert kept talking, voice low as if revealing a secret. "The way you handle your coronation will be critical. They want you to look young and lost and incapable. If you appear in a regal outfit, confident and proud, they will have nothing to say. And when you start your reign, they will know you are the True King of Britain."
They stood in front of the doors to Charles' room. Charles was looking in the regent's eyes, searching for something he may have found when his face lit with a smile. "You are definitely right. Now if you excuse me, I have to see what horrors the sewers have made this time." After a quick bow, he disappeared in his apartment.
A full minute later, MacTaggert was still in front of the closed doors. The young man was exceptional. MacTaggert was proud and honored to have met him and helped him grow into the fine King he was now. And he was immensely sad to have to depart with him.
But he had one last request. He was sure Charles would agree.
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He was back first thing in the morning the next day. He stood just outside Charles' room, waiting for him to go out, his back pressed against the cold white stone of the walls.
He did not wait for long, and soon the doors opened, pushed by two radiant lackeys in rich costumes. Behind them, Charles came out like the sun between two clouds, both beautiful but rather dull in comparison. There was no smile on his lips. The dark blue velvet of his attire brought out the pale color of his eyes and lit a determined and cold glow in his pupils. White tights covered his strong legs and his muscled arms appeared through large gaps in his sleeves. He was followed by a long blue cape trimmed with ermine fur. Charles looked magnificent and imposing, his gait solemn.
Everything changed in an instant when his eyes fell on MacTaggert waiting for him. The grin which showed up on his face made him look impossibly young. Sometimes MacTaggert had to remind himself that Charles was only eighteen, but usually one glance at his bright innocent eyes and open expression were enough. MacTaggert's fear of Charles not being taken seriously was real and gnawing at his guts. It was possible the old King was even more nervous than Britain's future sovereign at the prospect of the coronation. But it was already far too late to postpone it: it would be today or never. And Charles' countenance displayed nothing of his stress, so nothing could go wrong.
The young man walked to him, arms open and inviting. Forgetting all his reservations and principles, MacTaggert took Charles in his embrace, trying to convey his strength and his confidence in his soon-to-be King.
The gesture surprised Charles, who remained stiff for a second before he melted between the strong and warm arms, closing his eyes in contentment. Charles' thoughts fled to Antor, the hard-working lumberjack who had raised him for so many years. That was the moment he realized that, despite the awkwardness which had punctuated their relationship of four years, MacTaggert stood as his second father - or more like the third, even if Charles had never known his real parents. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
Even under the kind stares of the valets, the hug soon became embarrassing, and they parted, Charles with a little smile and MacTaggert clearing his throat. The young King swipped his face with the back of his hand.
"Dear friend, I am so glad to see you before the ceremony. I am afraid we will not have much time together during the festivities."
"We will have even less time than you think, Charles," MacTaggert replied. He added sadly: "I will leave as soon as you are pronounced King."
"Are you displeased with me?" He did not remember anything he had done that could have triggered MacTaggert's departure. Was the man disappointed in him? Yet he had followed every instruction the old King had given him for four years. He respected his knowledge and experience, and knew he needed his wise advices to become the good King he wanted to be.
MacTaggert disabused him quickly. "No. No, no, my young lad. I am extremely proud of you." He put his hands on Charles' shoulders in a friendly manner. "As a matter of fact, I regard you as my son. Only my respect for the Crown of Britain keeps me from acting as if it was true."
Charles' cheeks almost darkened with the confession.
But MacTaggert, after squeezing slightly, let him go and turned away from him. "You have learned everything I had to teach. And my kingdom is asking for me. It is with a heart full of sorrow that I will leave Westchester before noon."
Charles lowered his head in defeat. "I understand, dear friend. But it will not be said that King Charles had been ungrateful." A new determination lit the young man's eyes. "Request, and I will do as you wish. It will be my first act as King of Britain."
"I knew you were a good boy, and a reliable friend. There is something that you could do, that would bind both our families together," MacTaggert replied.
"Speak."
"I would like you to marry my daughter."
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Charles knew Moira very well. They had been raised together for almost four years, and had shared many things: joy and sadness, anger and comfort. She was a sister more than a friend.
She had arrived at Westchester one winter morning, wrapped in fur and wool, mounting a black stallion. She had come from Cameliard on horseback with her chambermaid and her governess, even though she was only twelve. Charles had been impressed by her toughness and her courage. And she had not changed much since that first meeting.
One evening, Charles had asked MacTaggert why his daughter had come and not his wife. "Because as much as I love my wife, I know I can stand not seeing her for a long period of time. But I cannot bear to be away from my precious sunshine for four years," he had answered, before adding: "And I want her to learn as much as possible about governing. Westchester is a good place for her to be."
Charles had since found out about MacTaggert's peculiar views. The old King sincerely thought a woman could play an important part in today's politics, and not only as a ransom to obtain peace between two kingdoms at war. And so she was highly educated and even versed in some forms of warfare.
Puberty had hit her two years before, and she was now a beautiful young lady of sixteen, with her oval face framed by chocolate tresses, hazel eyes like two dark gems against her porcelain skin.
Charles objectively knew she was pretty, but she did not interest him as a woman. She was the person he had gone to when he missed his former life as Antor and Aenor's son. She was first at wishing him a happy birthday or a merry Christmas. They spent hours in the gardens surrounding Westchester, sitting on the grass and making crowns of wild flowers. She was his comfort when his life as King-to-be became unbearable.
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If he was to marry her, she would remain as such, a support and a strong ally. He could not think of a better wife. He had only one answer for MacTaggert. "It would be my pleasure to marry Moira."
To Charles' surprise, the old King fell on his knees and lowered his head. "I feel most honored, my King."
"Do not act as a liege. You are now my father. Come and hug me," Charles said, opening his arms.
MacTaggert hesitated an instant, then stood up and walked to Charles. He embraced him fiercely, pouring all his repressed feelings into it.
And if a tear rolled down the old man's cheek, it was quite understandable.
A valet cleared his throat, leading the two men to end the hug.
"Right," Charles said while readjusting his tunic, "I think it is time to go. Care to join me?"
"I will follow you and be at the back of the church," MacTaggert replied.
Charles turned to his pages: "If you please." Each man took a corner of the cape with sincere reverence and waited for their King.
MacTaggert cleared the path with a bow, gloved right hand on his heart. Charles passed him with a smile before his expression went cold again. MacTaggert did not see it, raising his eyes only when the King was five feet away from him and following him to his Destiny.
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In Westchester's chapel, Kings and Queens, Knights and Ladies, but also farmers and craftsmen and humble people, were all assembled in a joyous crowd. It seemed that, with the prospect of the coronation of a new King, the boundaries between social classes had vanished, everyone here hoping to witness the birth of a new era.
Some noblemen were looking at the colorful mob with disdain, and more so at the idea of having the son of a lumberjack sitting on the throne of England. Urien of Gorre and King Lot were devising how to get rid of this surely unreliable King when the heavy black doors opened.
Musicians next to the altar started to play a solemn march while little girls - princesses and noble children - dressed in white walked up the nave, throwing rose petals along the way. Charles followed in his regal attire, the wooden soles of his pattens clicking loudly on the stone floor of the chapel and effectively silencing the crowd. The lackeys released the corners of the long cape as soon as they reached the threshold of the church and took their place at the door. MacTaggert went to the back of the crowd, against the wall, watching his young protégé walk to the altar.
Westchester's chapel was a glorious one. Its white walls - as white as the rest of the castle - were adorned with colorful paintings of saints and angels. A bas-relief of Jesus' life went around the room at eye-level. Behind the altar was a portrait of King Xavier being crowned, in blue and red and gold. Statues of Virgin Mary and Jesus stood next to the altar, where the Archbishop was waiting for the new King under a great crucifix.
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The ceremony bored MacTaggert very fast. However he stayed to honor Charles, until the Archbishop put the crown on his head and the crowd exulted.
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The King of Britain nodded toward his subjects, failing to keep a cold expression when so much joy overwhelmed him. Charles could feel happiness rippling through the chapel in great waves, with the odd resentment drowned in a sea of hope.
When the musicians began to play a merry song, Charles walked back to the chapel's doors. On his right, he saw Moira who was smiling at him. A litany of 'amazing', 'wonderful', 'magnificient' and 'proud' could be heard in her mind, and it filled the young King with affection, if not with love. Remembering his promise to marry her, he bowed before Moira and held out his hand, which she took with a curtsey.
His betrothed by his side, Charles exited the chapel, on the path to his new life.
From her window, Raven was looking at the waves crashing against the cliff of Tintagel. Since her father's departure and subsequent death, Duchess Sharon, her mother, had lived in great despair, ignoring her own daughter's.
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It had been the middle of the night when Sharon Marko had received words of her husband's demise by a messenger. Her wails had woken up the young Raven, who had fled to her mother's room, only to be refused the entry at the door. From behind Isolda, she had watched the usually composed lady tearing her hair out and scratching her bosom.
"I cannot live without him," she was crying. "He was not supposed to know!"
She had seen the small figure of her child and had run to her. "You, demon! It is because of you that my dear Kurt is now lying in his blood!"
While Isolda retained the Duchess, a young chambermaid had taken Raven back to her room. In the comfort of her own bedroom, the young girl had reflected on her mother's distress. It had pleased her in a way, but Sharon's harsh words had hurt her even more, and her rage had blossomed once again at the Duchess' selfishness.
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Until the truth hit her, like a stone the surface of a lake, creating ripples and waves, each one drowning her in sorrow. 'I am the cause of my father's death,' she thought sadly.
The man had been mean and even violent sometimes, but he was still a pillar in her life: it was better to be ignored than hated or belittled. The rude Kurt Marko had been a better parent for Raven than Sharon. With him, she had learned strength and confidence.
And now he was gone.
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For many days and nights, she had cried, until she could not shed another tear. Her nurse had comforted her; she had not seen her mother at all. It had taken two whole months for Duchess Sharon to demand to see her daughter, and since then their relationship had been cold at best. She had seen the change in her mother: she kept silent, she spent whole afternoons under her favorite elm, and she started drinking ale all day long. Often at supper, Raven would join Sharon in the dinning room and the Duchess would be incoherent and spiteful, her breath stinking of alcohol.
Raven had accepted it as her lot, her punishment for the ruin she had brought on the family, and for the death of so many brave men on the battlefield.
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They had learned about Excalibur and the True King, about King Charles and MacTaggert's regency. But they were cut off from the world on their arid cliff. In quarantine. They received messages, but no one ever visited them. They became pariahs.
It did not help with Duchess Sharon's state of mind, and soon she drowned herself in ale and wine, to never emerge again.
When the news of Charles' upcoming coronation reached Tintagel, Raven was wearing black: Sharon Marko, Duchess of Tintagel, had been dead for three months, choked to death with her own vomit.
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The messenger did not come alone.
Charles had hoped that MacTaggert would still be here when he exited the chapel. Unfortunately, the man was nowhere to be found and Charles had to accept that he was long gone. It was even more painful now that he had the daughter of his benefactor at his side.
'Farewell, my good friend,' he thought warmly. It was time to enjoy the festivities of his own coronation.
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Without much consulting him, MacTaggert and his counselors had organized a tournament. It was meant to be a way for Charles to choose new participants for the Round Table and to finally assert himself as the True King.
Most of the chairs at the Round Table had been vacant for four years - since many brave and fearless Knights and Kings had been killed at the battle of Glastonbury, the place now known as the Burial of the Fair King. The dead had been honored in many ways, and a plaque with their names was adorning the center of the Table. It was time to fill the void they had left. And a tournament, where all kinds of warriors would show off their skills, was the perfect way to choose the best Knights of the Holy Land.
Charles had to differ, even if he did it silently. The ambition of sitting at the Round Table darkened the minds of most of the men who had paraded on horseback in front of Charles' tent, clothed in magnificient armors, proud and pretentious. But Charles had a hard time finding any redeeming quality in those powerful men seeking more power and wealth and glory. How was he supposed to rule this country when no one beside him actually care for it?
Disheartened, Charles resolved to watch this parody of war and to let his advisors decide who had more merit.
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Charles would have loved to be alone with Moira to express his admiration and loyalty to her father. Unfortunately, the remnants of King Xavier's Round Table were in the tent with him. Lot of Orkney, Urien King of Gorre, King Enion, Sir Caradoc and Sir Griflet were among them, with half a dozen other Lords whose names Charles could not recall. Merry and confident, they were commenting on the tournament in a loud voice. One person was missing: the King of Cornwall. Charles could not fathom the reason behind his absence; Lord Edern had always been faithful to the Crown under MacTaggert's regency.
A young squire brought fruits and refreshments for all of them and was welcomed with cheers. He put the tray on a table and left the tent.
He was not gone for half a minute when the walls flapped again, letting inside Edern of Cornwall. He bent before Charles and fell on his knees.
"Pray forgive my absence at your glorious coronation, my King," he said, staring at the dirt floor.
With a wave of his hand, Charles commanded him to stand. "You must have a reason."
With a nod, Edern replied: "I have, my Lord. I fetched the child of the man responsible for King Xavier's death, as I thought it was my duty to bring her to your Justice on the day of your coronation." He whistled, and two soldiers entered, a young girl of sixteen between them.
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Her appearance of utter distress - as well as her silent laments - moved Charles, who ordered the soldiers to remove her chains and blindfold. They did, and as soon as the girl laid her eyes on him, she started to wail. Sensible enough not to intrude on this young woman's sadness with his mind-reading power, Charles was still curious about what grieved her so much.
"What is your name, my Lady, and why are you crying?" he inquired.
"I am Raven – snif - M-m-marko, daughter of the D-duke of Tinta-ha-gel. My f-f-father declared war on – snif - King Xavier and defea-hee-ted him, dying o-ho-n the battlefield a-ha-s a punishment, four – snif - years ago. I am now – snif - despised and shamed f-for what Duke Marko did. A-ha-s for my cries, I canno-ho-t tell you, my – snif - Lord." She wailed anew.
Charles recalled MacTaggert's teachings about King Xavier's demise, but could not refrain his empathy towards the young woman. He rose from his wooden throne and walked to Raven. He chose to show kindness by taking her hands in his own. "I do not blame you for your father's abuses, fair Lady. Please, tell me what grieves you."
Raven looked straight in his eyes and whispered: "I know who you are, and it pains me so much to see your face."
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The revelation made Charles' heart skip a beat. He who had wondered who might be his parents as soon as he had discovered that Antor and Aenor were not, was suddenly on the verge of learning the truth of his birth. That it would come from this girl seemed only fitting: in bringing Death on King Xavier, her father had sealed his fate.
He knelt at her feet and insisted: "Who am I?"
"You look so much like my mother, Duchess Sharon. You must be my brother," she answered.
The Knights surrounding them, who had kept silent until then, reacted loudly to the discovery.
"We cannot accept the son of King Xavier's murderer as our King !" Lot of Orkney declared. The man seemed happy to finally find a way to reject Charles as his True King.
Urien joined him in an instant: "He should be deposed, and a new King crowned."
"You do not understand! The King's father was King Xavier," Raven cried. She then proceeded to narrate how the birth of her brother happened, and related Shaw's kidnapping.
Seeing his last hope fading fast, King Lot spoke out: "You might be a liar! What proof do you have?"
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Flittering thoughts escaped Raven's distressed mind. Even through Charles' barrier, he could hear her : 'I cannot', 'everything will be over', and 'does he deserve my sacrifice?' The young King could not comprehend her struggles, but he wanted to help her make a decision. "Lady Raven, you do not have to answer if you do not want. I shall find another way to prove my lineage."
The blonde girl stared at him as if he had sprouted a pair of wings, like an angel; it could well be the case if her renewed confidence was any indication. She turned to the Lords and Kings looking at her with suspicion and smiled defiantly. Her fair skin rippled, showing blue scales and fierce red hair before she took the appearance of an older woman of severe countenance. Notwithstanding her long blonde hair and her feminine features, she looked remarkably like Charles. A voice deep and slightly cracked came from the long pale throat: "I hate that wizard. Shaw stole my baby. Knowing he was the son of King Xavier instead of my beloved husband does not even lower my pain." She changed back into the young Raven.
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King Charles' guests stood bemused at the show until Urien declared: "Witchcraft!"
Charles stopped them unsheathing their swords "No one will harm this young lady."
Grumbling and groaning, they obeyed, but Urien and Lot, outraged, left the tent altogether.
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The revelation had left Charles breathless. 'I really have a mother and a father now. I even have a sweet sister! Is there anyone as happy as me? I doubt it.' And more: 'I am not alone. There are other people with strange powers like me.' For so many years he had felt lonely. He was a freak of Nature, a prank from God. Maybe his ability was the reason his parents had abandonned him. But now he knew it was not the truth. Shaw was, once again, the one to blame, the thorn in his side.
Then came the terrible realization. 'If my father was King Xavier, that means I am already fatherless when I just learned his name.' The weight of his loss made him shed a tear.
There was still one hope of complete happiness. He turned to Raven and asked her: "When will I see my mother?" he asked.
Raven looked at him, her tortured soul making her eyes glimmer. She said nothing. Still Charles refused to search through the mind of the defenseless young girl. She had been violated enough, being brought here in chains, dreading her uncertain fate. He took her hands in his, and whispered: "Do not be afraid, sister. Tell me."
She tried to dislodge her hands. Failing to do so, she fell on her knees and started to cry. "Your – our mother is dead, my Lord."
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King Charles went pale. He felt his heart miss a beat, his chest closing on it like an iron fist. He was an orphan. Yes, his late father's identity made him the legitimate King of the Holy Kingdom, but what good did it do for him? Antor and Aenor lived far away. MacTaggert had abandoned him. He was alone. And not even the young sister he had discovered could change that fact. Not yet, when he did not know her. He was going to love her dearly, but it would take time.
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Distrustful voices around him woke him from his daydream. He blinked once, shook his head. He was a King, and he was a brother. His dutiful nature told him what to do. And he could not lose the last person of his blood, the last member of his already decimated family. He knelt beside Raven and took her in a hug. The invisible fingers of his power probed Raven's mind, tasting the sourness of her sorrow, brushing against her thoughts carefully. 'You are not the only one with a power. Do not fear.'
She raised her eyes, searching the truth in his face, a proof that the words she heard were not a figment of her imagination. Charles smiled reassuringly.
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He stood up and turned to his assembly of noble men. They were arguing about which fate Raven Marko deserved. "She must be put to death by fire. She is a witch !" some said. "She is a liar and a traitor. Hang her !" others replied. Their opinions diverged on which death fit her crimes, but they agreed that the young woman should be executed. Charles put himself between the angry Knights and her sister, the golden barrier of his crown his only protection against their fury – and their fear ; Charles could feel the cold dread swirling around them. They did not understand Raven's amazing prowess. A small part of him was glad he had kept the secret of his own skill.
Charles unsheathed Excalibur. In the shadow of the tent, the sword shone like the sun and blinded every Knight standing there. Raven, still sitting on the ground, covered her eyes with a pale hand. Charles did not even blink: he was used to the brightness of Excalibur. One of the first training he had endured under MacTaggert's responsibility.
"No harm will be done to my sister. She will remain under my protection at Westchester. That will now be her home. So commands your rightful King."
Charles' powerful stare and the menace of Excalibur brought silence under the tent. One after another, the remaining Knights of the Round Table knelt at Charles' feet, laying down their swords on the dirt as a sign of respect and obedience.
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Outside, Knights and squire fought against one another for the entertainment of the crowd, hoping for a sit at the Round Table. But in the shadow of the King's pavilion, the fiercest battle had taken place. And Charles had won.
Raven looked up at the young man who was defending her. Her brother. The reason for her mother's misery and eventually her death.
He had a power too. She had heard his voice in her head, lips closed and throat unmoving. What more could he do with his twisted gift ? Had he forced the Knights to bow ? Those men of power and fortune, who were not afraid of dying, a sword in their hand, had chosen to lay their weapon and to obey a boy of eighteen. Was he controlling every citizen in his kingdom ? And no one could even imagine what he was capable of. His curse was completely invisible.
He had been born a sorcerer, a wizard. A freak like her. And yet he had become King of Britain, the most powerful man in the Kingdom – maybe with the help of his terrifying skill. While her own magic had brought her the loss of her father and mother, and the promise of a most certain death at the hand of the King.
He was beautiful, and fierce, and confident. His figure towered above her, a large shadow against the shine of his sword. He was standing between her and the men who wanted her dead, but she was not afraid of them. Life could offer her nothing of worth. She had lost her family, her name, her home, and most of all her safety – when she had shown her blue skin and her red hair, for the sake of another abomination, of her brother. But he had protected her, condemning her to more pain and sorrow.
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She hated him. She was going to make him pay for her misery.
What if he had pushed against his Knights' minds ? What if he had sent them a reassuring wave of 'you can trust me' ? It was for the good of the Kingdom, and for his newly discovered sister's. Surely it was a good thing.
Was it not ?
The room of the Round Table was nothing like any other war room. The ceiling was high and the windows large, opening on a colorful garden of roses and daffodils and irises. On the wall hung delicate tapestries of light hues. Not war scenes or hunts. They were pious images of saints and angels, and representations of myths and legends. Unicorns ran after terrible beasts with scaly skin. The peaceful face of a cherub floated above the figure of a dying King. Inspiring and calm, so were the scenes adorning the white walls of the large room.
At its center, the table that gave it its name, carved in the dark wood of a hundred-year-old oak, was imposing and indestructible. The chosen Knights sat around it, proud of their situation. Charles was among them, but posed as their equal. The Round Table stood as an example of democracy : they made decisions together, and no voice sounded louder than the others, not even the King's.
One chair remained empty, at Charles' right hand. So had decided King Xavier before him, and Charles followed his instructions – knowing they came from the Great Wizard Shaw and dreading what sorrow it would bring to his Kingdom. This empty chair was supposed to be that of the greatest knight that ever walked the ground of the Holy Kingdom of Britain. Beautiful, kind, generous, brave, courteous and loyal. A King who lived like a humble peasant. A man loved by many but who loved only one. A Knight who would choose negociation over battle, even though his sword was deadly. A loving son without parents.
Charles half-understood those statements. The man he was waiting for seemed to be a walking contradiction. And yet, he was waiting impatiently. Waiting for a miracle or a disaster, he did not know.
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Anything but the sour smell of satisfaction and greed floating around him. It pervaded every thoughts or decisions.
"We should conquer the lands north of Hadrian's Wall. Saxons and Picts raid our fields at least twice a month and our people are dying."
'They have lost everything and I cannot collect more taxes to pay for my new castle.'
"Our defenses are not enough. We need more soldiers on our walls, in our turets."
'I do not want to go to war if I can help it. I will be just as safe in my fortified mansion.'
"I suggest that we welcome the chief of that tribe at our Round Table. He is brave and generous."
'The man has given me his beautiful daughter in payment.'
If the decisions were not all that terrible, the circumstances leading to their existence remainded despicable. Charles was ashamed to be surrounded by narrow minds and selfishness when he felt the opposite. And in the context of the equality of all Knights around the Round Table, his voice was but a whisper. He represented the people's voice, and yet he was unheard. Charles guessed it was the exact purpose of the Round Table as Shaw had wanted it : to drown the soul and the heart of the Kingdom in the vile waters of corruption.
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They talked for hours and hours and, surprisingly, the decrees made that day ended up fair and thoughtful. Charles refused to even imagine that he had unconsciously bent the minds of his fellow companions, but he could not swear it had not happened. Doubt and guilt gnawed at his guts.
They all left the room in a hurry at the end of the meeting. All except Charles, who sat at the empty table and looked outside for what felt like hours. He did not hear Moira tip-toe behind him. She put her hands on his eyes and murmured in his ear : "Can you guess who it is ?"
.
Her affection was the balm he needed to heal the wounds to his faith in humanity. He had married her a fortnight after his coronation, making her the most powerful lady in all Britain. Powerful, she was certainly. She must be when she served as the plush pillow on which he could lay his head at the end of the day. There was magic in her words and her hands. Maybe she had a Gift as well. The Gift of love.
Charles sighed, then smiled. She would never know that he had no desire for her, only a brotherly love. Not the kind of love a young and beautiful woman of sixteen dreamed of. He hoped he could make up for the lack of romance, taking care of her as the most precious person in his life. He kissed her fingers tenderly.
Raven occupied the second place in his heart. She had come to live with him in Westchester, in order for him to protect her – and because he wanted to have his last alive relative by his side. But he had not seen her as often as he would like. She did not come to the grand hall to eat with Charles and Moira and mostly kept to her room. Charles would check on her, spreading his mind through the white castle to reach for her. With a tentative lick of his power, he would assure himself she was well, if not happy, but never probed any further. He had enough of terrible feelings assaulting his mind on a daily basis to not seek more.
.
Which reminded him of Moira's tender touch on his face. He leaned into her embrace. "Good day, sweet Moira." She laughed and jumped in front of him, taking his hands in hers.
"Enough with your duty, your Grace. We are going for a walk in the garden." He opened his mouth to turn her down, but she put a delicate palm on his lips. Without the Gift that troubled him so much, Moira was still able to guess his thoughts with a terrifying accuracy. "You need some fresh air. And the day is bright and warm." She was right. He could feel the hot caress of the sun through the high windows.
"I may need to spend some good time with my beautiful wife," he said, standing up. He squeezed her right hand in his and led her through the castle to the garden. They walked in silence, enjoying each other's presence and sharing a peaceful moment.
.
Charles was picking a rose to put in Moira's hair when a sudden hot flash burned through his skull. He froze for half a second. A man driven by anger and revenge coming their way, at the castle's gate even. Vibrating intensely around the scabbard of his sword, something there reacting with his body.
Charles reached to the guards at the gate and let him pass – him and the cold void accompagnying him. Dressed in all white – breeches and tunic and cape – and sat upon a white stallion, the man looked beautiful and fierce. And although his thoughts were painful to Charles, they were pure, unstained – where Charles was so used to mixed feelings, guilt and shame hiding hate and fear behind their black wings.
Behind him, a woman in white too, with long blond hair flowing in the wind. When Charles tried to touch her mind, he found nothing but the hardness and coldness of diamond. She smiled at him, as if she knew what he had done.
They came to them – to him, since Moira, sweet and sensible Moira, feeling that something was amiss, had retreated back to the other end of the garden, watching over her husband from afar. The woman dismounted at his feet, and curtsied. "Your Grace, may I introduce myself. I am the Lady of the Lake, and here is my son, the White Knight. We spent many days on horseback to pay homage to you."
At the mention of her son, the beautiful young man got down his stallion and knelt respectfully while his bright mind kept burning Charles'. A pain he was willing to endure. "I thank you both." With a wave of his hand, he invited them to stand up.
"I come with a message. From the Great Wizard Shaw," the Lady of the Lake added.
Charles suppressed a shiver.
"My son is to sit at your Round Table, at the place King Xavier must have left empty. He is the finest Knight in the Kingdom."
.
As Charles looked at the man, at those blue-grey eyes, at those well-defined cheekbones, his heart swelled with unnecessary feelings. He had been right about Shaw's plan : the White Knight was a sign of impending doom. Because Charles was falling for him.
In the White Castle's corridors, rumours of love spread, bouncing from wall to wall.
.
Raven, blue skin and red hair, naked as the day she was born, listened to them from inside her room. She had her revenge. Her brother would suffer as much as she had.
It was a promise.