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Mordred stopped his horse on top of the hill and smiled. Camelot looked so beautiful on a bright summer's day like this. The bright blue sky was dotted with brilliant white clouds, and interspersed among verdant fields the gray city shone almost white. Gawain rode up beside him and gasped.

"Mordred! It's Camelot!"

Mordred glanced at him, half-amused. "Yes, it is."

"I've never seen it like this before."

"No, indeed; traveling with your mother a gloomy cloud is cast over everything."

"That's not true."

"No? When she was here it rained for days."

Gawain sighed loudly. "Would you please stop dragging our mother into everything?"

Mordred's lips quirked. "Very well. Shall we move on?"

The two young men brought their horses into a gentle walk, which angered Gawain's charger, tethered as it had been to Gawain's gray mare. Mordred cast a dour look back at the white stallion. That horse had been making things difficult for the whole trip. It didn't make things easier that the horses they were riding were both slow and, though Gawain's mare was gentle, Mordred's old brown gelding was almost as bad-tempered as the charger.

"Gawain, when we arrive, I'm going to take you directly to Arthur," Mordred said.

"What – no rest for the weary?"

"The horses will be well cared for in the stables. But I think it's important that he recognizes us as soon as possible, both to improve his impression of our honesty and to preclude any accusation from Morgause. The most important thing to him – or one of them, at least – is honesty. Don't give him any suspicion of duplicity."

Gawain nodded. "Of course. I'm not concerned – he has nothing to suspect."

Mordred pursed his lips. "Don't be so sure." He ignored the wary look Gawain gave him. "Come on!" He spurred his horse into a trot, laughing to himself at the protestations of his younger half-brother.

"Remember what I said," Mordred muttered to Gawain as they waited to be received.

"Stop worrying," Gawain replied, his eyes wandering around the hall. "I feel so naked," he added, patting his hips. Mordred also felt the absence of his blades.

"One does get used to it. No one may go armed in Arthur's halls."

"At home, we can."

"Camelot is extremely different from Lothain. When Morgause was here, you wouldn't have noticed it as much, but now that you're alone, it's much easier to see."

A page approached them. "Milords?"

Mordred nodded to him and rose from their bench. "We're ready."

The page opened the door and bowed them in. Mordred led Gawain towards the Table Round, noting some conspicuous absences as they approached. Mordred met Arthur's eyes and knelt, head bowed.

"Mordred," Arthur said icily, recognizing him. Mordred rose and bowed, betraying no emotion.

"Your majesty. May I present my brother, Gawain?"

Arthur nodded towards Gawain. "Gawain. What brings you back to Camelot, after such a hasty and unexplained exit?"

"Milord, may I answer?" Mordred interjected hastily.

Arthur frowned at him. "No, you may not. Gawain, speak."

Gawain flushed. "I – I wish to become a knight, your majesty," he said.

"Indeed? And that could not be accomplished at Lothain?"

Gawain glanced at Mordred, who gestured for him to continue. "Milord, I would fain be knighted by your hand."

Arthur quelled the murmur of his Table with a dark look. "Would you? And Mordred? What brings you back here?" Arthur rose from the Table and stepped off the dais, stopping in front of the two young men. "Simply as an escort for your brother? I would find that hard to believe." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I doubt you have much kind-heartedness in you. Did Morgause, perhaps, send you back here? Does she believe her mission incomplete?"

Mordred took a step back, heart pounding wildly. "Sir, believe me or not, but I am here as an escort and a sponsor for my brother and because I much prefer Camelot to Lothain."

Arthur looked Mordred in the eye and in the soul, a look that no one else could do so well. "Do you?" he said softly. He spun on his heel, stepping back up to the dais. "Is there a knight here willing to sponsor Gawain, son of Lot of Lothain?"

Sir Lancelot rose almost immediately, with Sir Bors following after a moment's hesitation. Arthur nodded. "Very well. Sir Bors, take him in hand. Make sure nothing is amiss."

"Milord?" Lancelot queried.

Arthur waved a hand. "If you wish." He turned back to Mordred. "Are you sure Morgause has not given you any… special instructions?"

"Milord, we left without her knowledge and against her wishes."

"Did you? Well then, would it surprise you to know that Guenevere is dying?"

Mordred gasped. "What?" He met Sir Lancelot's eyes, and read a silent confirmation there. He pursed his lips and again took a knee. "Milord, if you would allow it, I would save her."

Arthur laughed. "You think you can do what herbwives and priests, all older and wiser than you, could not?"

"Yes. I could. I have more knowledge and experience with more ways to die than any of them," he snapped, looking up at Arthur.

After a moment's hard, penetrating stare, Arthur threw up his hands. "Very well. Go!"

Mordred rose, bowed, and left the hall at a fast walk. He led Gawain into a narrow corridor, then finally turned and faced him, shaking his head. "That was dangerous."

Gawain nodded. "I noticed."

Mordred ran his hands through his hair. "I can't believe – aargh!" He punched the stone wall.

"It'll work out. I've been well trained. They can't fault me."

"I'm not talking about you. But – fine. Go be knighted. Do what he will never let me do."

Gawain shook his head. "I don't understand… why would the King never knight you?"

Mordred gave him a curious look. "You don't know?"

"Is it because you're a bastard?" Watching Mordred's twitching face, Gawain hastily added, "I know we were awful to you about it when we were young, but I know you better now. Agravain's still rude – but he's that way to everyone."

Mordred laughed a little. "You're still so young and… and… naïve. For all your size and prowess you're still just a boy. You've never even been in battle or left England or… or killed."

Gawain stepped closer to the shorter man. "I am not a boy. I've been trained by great men and I've served my time under Sir Farlan – a better man than you by far."

"Indeed?" Mordred laughed. "A simpler man. One who is not complicated by the questions of life – one whose prospects for a good or easy life were not destroyed by his situation of birth." He met Gawain's angry stare for a moment, then broke it and turned away, saying over his shoulder, "I now have the task of healing the Queen. I'll see you at your knighting." He turned a corner and proceeded rapidly to Guenevere's chambers, fuming. How dare Gawain insist that he was the better man just because he was bigger and stronger and of good birth? Mordred supposed that Gawain's earlier prejudices, encouraged as they were by both his parents, had not wholly faded. His thoughts turned to Artesian as he passed the library. He hoped that the boy had not turned against him because of Morgause's accusations. Yet he would be very busy for days or even weeks now. Perhaps Artesian would grow impatient at Mordred's prolonged absence and worry that his friend was angry with him if he did not receive a visit – or at least a message. Mordred decided that he must send a page to Artesian as soon as possible. He turned a corner and almost walked into a guardsman.

"Ho! Didn't hear you coming," the man chuckled.

"I have a quiet step," Mordred said.

"Indeed. But you can proceed no further."

"I must. The king has approved me to attend the queen."

"She is very ill. It would be dangerous for you. It cannot be allowed."

"I am a healer, sir."

"Ah," the guardsman said. "That changes things."

"Indeed," Mordred said ironically. The guard stepped aside and Mordred swept past him. He pushed open the door to the queen's sitting room. Two women were inside. The room smelled much closer than Mordred remembered. He gave them a mock bow and went to the door of her chamber, pausing to listen at the wood. After a moment he entered. His brow furrowed as he saw Guenevere's pale face and heard her labored breathing. He lifted her eyelids and winced at the yellowed color.

"Nurse," he called. One of the women came to him. "Go to the stables and fetch my bags – ask for Mordred's things. Bring them to my chamber and then bring me the brown leather bag with the plants broidered on it. The bag that smells odd."

The woman curtsied. "Yes, milord."

Mordred turned back to Guenevere and rolled up his sleeves.

Arthur looked up from his desk. "Who's there?"

Mordred stepped forward hesitantly into the candlelight. "It's Mordred, sir."

"Mordred!" Arthur looked surprised. He rubbed his face with his hands. "What brings you here at this hour?"

"I would speak with you, milord."

"Well, then… sit down. And fetch me another candle."

Mordred looked around Arthur's study and located a heavy, thick candle on a shelf. He brought it over to the desk and lit it off a stub on the fading candelabra. He sat down and looked down at his hands.

"What is it, Mordred?" Arthur said quietly, leaning back in his chair and taking off his glasses. Mordred lifted his eyes to study his king's face. He had never seen Arthur wear glasses before. He looked old and weary in the dim candlelight – a man haunted by the past and uncertain of the future.

"Milord, I know what the cause of Guenevere's illness was. I have treated her for it. She will live and should recover soon."

Arthur nodded. "Good. Very good." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Milord, pardon me for asking… are you not well?"

"What?" Arthur looked up, surprised. "Oh. No. I'm fine. Just tired and worried." He leaned forward. "Mordred, I want to know – what was the cause? Or perhaps I should say… who?"

Mordred bit his lip. "Milord, I am sorry. I cannot tell you."

Arthur gave him an incredulous look. "You cannot tell me?"

Mordred shook his head. "Believe me, milord, it would be better for you, for Guenevere, and for me."

"For the Queen," Arthur said, suddenly cold. "You will refer to her as the Queen or her Majesty."

Mordred stared at him. "Very well," he finally said. "But milord, I promise you: this will never happen again."

"How can you promise that unless you say it was you who caused the illness?"

"Milord, were I to poison her and then return here to heal her… I would have to be incredibly foolish."

"Yes."

"Milord, please. The drug that caused the disease – the poison, if you will – is made of plants that are only grown in a certain region in the Near East. It is very difficult and expensive to make, and cannot be easily obtained. The antitoxin is equally difficult to obtain. I have it in sufficient quantities, but I would not be able to replenish my supply until I return to the Near East."

"You expect to?"

Mordred shrugged. "Eventually."

"Who else has been there?"

"I cannot say for sure. But one more thing – it would take an expert to minister the proper dosage so as to create a lengthy illness and avoid suspicion."

"And are you an expert?"

Mordred returned Arthur's gaze. "I am."

"Who else?"

"I only know of two others. You can guess who they are."

Arthur leaned back in his chair. "I don't want to believe it."

Mordred shrugged. "Believe what you will. I'm not suggesting anything."

"Are you certain that nothing else could have caused this?"

"No, I'm not, but all the signs are present, and it is reacting to my antitoxin. However, if someone else were afflicted with similar symptoms…"

"There is one other: the boy Artesian."

Mordred started. "Artesian?" He rose. "I must go to him."

"No! Wait. Sit down."

"Milord, I must... Very well."

"Good. Now, Mordred, are you certain she is recovering?"

"Yes, I am. She grew visibly better in the few hours since I administered the drug. I don't want you to visit her tomorrow, but the day after will, I'm sure, be safe."

"I haven't seen my wife in almost two weeks."

"I am sorry. But I promise you that, in the unlikely case that she worsens, I will send for you."

"Good." Arthur took a closer look at Mordred. "When did you last sleep?"

Mordred waved his hand. "It doesn't matter. Well… two nights ago. But when I was assisting with an epidemic in Tel Aviv I was awake for six days. I find that something like that excites the blood, it… well… never mind."

"Mordred, I would like to knight you."

Mordred twitched, surprised by the sudden change of direction. "Knight me, milord?"

"Yes. By my own hand."

"Milord, I – I have never squired. I am not…"

"Not ready? You fought in a war, did you not?"

"Yes, I did, but… I am not a man for your Table. I am not worthy."

Arthur looked surprised. "Why do you say that?" Seeing Mordred's hesitance, he shook his head. "That's for me to decide, and I believe that you have virtue. You clearly have courage and skill, and I believe you have some honor, loyalty, justice, and truth in you. I would rather you live at Camelot and follow my law than that of another."

Mordred swallowed and bowed his head. "I would be honored to be a knight at your Table, your majesty."

Artesian opened his eyes and blinked uncertainly. He glanced around the room, trying to relieve his confusion. He was in his own chamber… the weak sunlight creeping in through his window, overhung as it was by a large, gnarled willow, suggested it to be midmorning… and that horrible, acrid odor was likely from the black, smoking mass in the fireplace. He tried to reconstruct a chain of events. The last thing he remembered clearly was feeling extremely sick and dizzy. He must have swooned… and then been brought back to his own bed. That was probably yesterday evening. He remembered some fleeting bits of dreams. He thought with a sudden pang of Mordred, whose white hair had inhabited more than a few of those dreams. Artesian wondered if Mordred would ever return to Camelot. He spotted a bowl on the table by his bed and reached over, hoping for water, but a sudden pang in his belly made him lay back. The nausea had returned, and he could feel a headache coming on.

The door to his chamber creaked open, and through his pain saw a halo of white hair.

"Mordred!" he gasped.

Mordred carried a pitcher, and he filled the bowl and administered water to Artesian. "I'm glad to see you awake and feeling better," he murmured.

Artesian shook his hair out of his eyes and lay back. "I tried to sit up and then felt much worse," he whispered. "When did you arrive?"

"Four days ago. I'm sorry I didn't come to see you. I've been… occupied."

"Four days? Then… how long have I been out?"

"I was told six days."

Artesian reached up and touched Mordred's face. "When did you last sleep?"

Mordred smiled. "Don't worry about me. My other tasks being completed, I'm here now just for you."

"Other tasks? What have you been doing?"

Mordred sighed, glanced around the room, and pulled a chair over to the bed. "Do you feel up to the whole story? Good. Five days after we left here, Gawain came to me and told me he wanted to return to Camelot. I heard him out, thought about it, and decided that it was not such a bad idea. Gawain got Gareth to occupy Morgause and under cover of darkness we crept off. Gawain wanted to become a knight under Arthur, you see, and his wish was granted, which certainly surprised me. I, however, learned that Guenevere was deathly ill, so I closeted myself in her chambers for days. When I reported to Arthur that she was on the mend, he proposed that I join Gawain in becoming a knight at the Table Round!" Mordred spread his arms, and Artesian looked again at the white chemise he was wearing. "However… I also learned that Guenevere was not the only one afflicted. I tended to you, did my vigil, had a little ceremony, and came right back over here. So, 'Sian: feel better?"

Artesian looked at him curiously. "I suppose. But… what was I sick with? And what is that horrible smell?"

Mordred suddenly looked tired. "It's… I'm burning some dead plants. Don't worry about it. You won't get sick with that again. I am extremely glad, though, to see that you're so much improved. I believe that I was not allowed to discover your illness until Guenevere was on the mend. Arthur must have wanted to make sure that there was enough of the medicine for her. I have almost none left. I… I'm sure it will be enough. Speaking of which…" He picked up a packet from the table and disclosed a foul-smelling greenish paste. "Eat this. I know it's disgusting. Try very hard not to retch. It's the last of it."

Artesian made a face and did his best to eat the paste. His eyes watered and he quickly chased the drug down with a bowlful of water.

Mordred smiled faintly. "Good. Now, I'm going to bed." He threw the leaf wrapping in the fire and closed the door quietly behind him.

Artesian lay back in his blankets and made a face again. That was really foul. His eyes fell on the fireplace again, and he threw off his blankets and went over to it. He picked up the poker and pulled apart that black mass. It was plant matter, and looked like an herb. Some dirt had been dropped in as well. Artesian rocked back on his haunches, thinking. Why would Mordred want to burn a plant instead of tossing it in the compost heap? If the plant had been dead, why was it taking so long to burn, why was it smoking so much, and why was there dirt on it? It all suggested a hasty attempt to destroy a plant. Artesian thought of the herb that Mordred had asked him to care for. Was this the same plant? Was Mordred trying to destroy evidence? Artesian shook his head. His headache was getting worse. He stood up and considered himself. He didn't feel very dizzy or sick, and he had not been told to stay in bed. However, he was also unwashed and fairly hungry. He went into his box, looking for a fresh tunic, and put his concerns at the back of his mind.