Thank you so much to all the reviewers! You really make my day, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

"We're nearly there."

That's a false statement if ever there was one, but Morgana is too tired to do anything but nod at Merlin's words. The number of captives that are suspected of having magic is quite large, and all of them have to be screened for magic before they too are put into the makeshift dungeons in the camp. The limited space means the prisoners are stuffed in like livestock; sending the majority off to Glauchedon has been discussed as a necessary course of action. Morgana wryly thinks that Arthur had obviously never taken care of logistics; already the Albion camp's resources were strained, and if they had spared more of the camp-makers, they would simply have had no place to put the captives.

A small group of magic-users from all of Albion are going through the rows and rows of bound captives, eyes glinting gold as they use the same spell over and over. There are quite a lot of them in the legion from which this group was made; magic users are afforded better work regimes and more protection. Magicians are simply more valuable. Even those with only hints of magic had joined the magician legion instead of staying at the regular infantry or cavalry.

It should have been a good thing, this swelling of their ranks, if only there was not such a wide range of ability. There were those who could barely light a flame, elementalists who only worked with certain mediums, seers like herself whose powers were frankly useless in battle, and then there were people like Merlin, whose magic simply played to a different tune. This is no magician troop.

Morgause seems to be thinking the same thing as she watches the magicians work. She meets Morgana's eyes and gives a curt shake, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Morgause tolerates fools and incompetence badly; it's a family trait, it seems. And this is excruciating to both of them. Over there Morgana can see a woman stuttering the words of the spell they've taught, barely forming the tell-tale glimmer. But it's better than the boy right in front of her, who seems to be deluded in his capability for magic. Her sister gets there before she can reprimand him.

"You are clearly unfit for this legion," Morgause hisses, her eyes narrowed. "What is your name?"

"O...Orend, my lady," he stutters. "Orend from L...Logres." Poor boy. He's probably fresh from a farm somewhere on the edges of Godwyn's territory, conscripted for the war. If only he'd stayed there.

"Orend," Morgause spits out disdainfully. "It seems you do not understand simple instructions. What is the spell for the detection of magic?"

"Ae...aetee mei Drycraft in onnuap," the boy whispers, trembling.

"I have no need for idiot deceivers who lie about their power," Morgause snaps. She slowly raises a hand. "Ætíe mé Drycræftinne onwunaþ!"

There is a blinding flash of light, a powerful manifestation of the usual indicator. Unlike the weak glows that most of the magicians produce, it is constant and bright, swirling around the cowering boy. It stays indisputably yellow, the color of non-magicians. Morgause's voice drops ominously.

"So," she says, "we are right, it seems. You are no magician." She starts circling him, looming over the boy though she is far shorter. "You have lied to us."

Suddenly she shouts, "Your falsehood is a betrayal of Albion! Your life is forfeit. Wretched fool!" Her hand traces a circle in the air, and Morgana winces as she recognizes the beginnings of the spell that will condemn the boy to a fiery death. She has to stop this, but she has to do it in a way that will not make her sister lose face or plant impressions of discord in the leadership.

But as Morgause begins chanting the words, Morgana realizes there's no way she can just pull her aside now. She has to confront her head-on, and that means stopping her spell first-

As she steps forward and raises a hand, Merlin simply cuts Morgause off.

"You can't do that."

Morgause's eyes flicker from feral yellow back to brown. "You." She's imposing in her fury. Merlin doesn't back down.

"The boy did nothing wrong," he says, "you can't punish him."

"You cannot order me, glorified peasant boy, in disciplining my own troops. Go and report back to the High King, if you wish." Morgause's voice is contemptuous.

Merlin takes a step forward. "I can, because I am a magician in my own right and a commander of this legion." His eyes flicker gold. "You don't want to challenge me."

"You would try me, Emrys?" Morgause is impassive, but Morgana can see the seething anger inside her. Merlin looks at Morgause.

"If I have to."

Morgana clenches her teeth. This is Arthur all over again. She can't risk the troops' already disintegrating respect for command from this argument.

She raises her voice imperiously. "You, Orend, will return to your previous legion. But for your lies, simply to get a superior position, you will be punished under martial law for deception and attempted insubordination."

People blanch; insubordination is a serious offense in and of itself, of which the punishment can range from ten strokes of the whip all the way to hanging. Added with willful deception, which is another dozen stripes, it is by no means a light punishment. Neither Morgause nor Merlin look happy, but she really doesn't care much about that right now. All she wants is to finish this as quickly as possible so she can go to her chambers and try to ignore the ghosts swimming in her vision.

Morgause is quick to regain composure.

"If there is any more scum who have lied, they will be hanged," she proclaims. "I will grant a five-minute grace for such imposters to take their leave." She turns away. Morgana and Merlin follow suit, and when they turn back around a tenth of the legion has made themselves scarce. Morgana tightens her mouth, but does not speak. The flickers of the already dead reach a little closer.

"We should finish the screenings," Merlin comments, making his way to the remaining captives. "You may be dismissed as soon as we are done."

The remaining magicians thankfully possess enough magic to pull off the spell to a satisfactory degree. With another handful of Saxon magic-users winnowed out, they are finally finished with the task. The magicians file back to their private quarters, leaving Morgana, Merlin, and Morgause on the grounds.

Morgause raises her chin at the Saxon magicians being dragged away. "You've been lax, sister."

Morgana gives a curt nod, ignoring the faces of the dead Saxon magicians at the edges of her vision. She had known that the brown-haired magician that she identified through on-the-spot executions couldn't have been the only magic-user left in the camp-makers; she had gambled on the rest of the magicians biding their time to attack. They had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to wreak havoc, only to be foiled when they were all shut in makeshift prisons enchanted to reflect magic. But it had been a risky choice.

"You should have screened them before you brought them to camp," Morgause continues. "You yourself of all people should have known, considering what happened during the First Ca-"

Morgana cuts her off. "I know what happened. And it did not happen this time." She looks at them both. "How goes the magician legion?"

Morgause's lips curl in disdain. "It is hardly a legion. They do not know how to fight together. Our troubles have just begun."

"You know magic," Merlin says, ignoring Morgause, "It's so varied we can't find a way to use battle orders. Queen Morgause is annoyed by that."

"In Cornwall we curbed its power to our will," Morgause retorts, "and we used them to turn the tides. Here, over a quarter are incompetent, barely hedgewitches, and the others all divide on their customs and spells."

"We need them," Morgana says to her. "You know our Cornish magicians had to be distributed amongst the troops."

Merlin sighs. "It's...just not going too well."

"You can train them, can't you?" Morgana asks her sister. "You always took care of that in Cornwall."

"In Cornwall, we had competent magicians, not this hodgepodge of idiots," Morgause says bitterly.

As Merlin opens his mouth to say something, a page brandishing a scroll presents himself to them.

"Queen Morgause, your majesty, the High King requires your presence in the Council of Kings immediately."

Morgause nods. "Come, Morgana."

The page shakes his head. "My lady, the High King specifically asked for only your presence."

Morgana and Morgause exchanges looks. Merlin quirks his head.

"Is that so?"

The page nods vigorously. "There is a message for the Princess Morgana. And The High King expects your presence afterwards, Master Merlin."

Morgana grimaces as she takes the little note the boy extracts from the scroll. Arthur's not too petty, not in matters like this, but had the morning's events broken all of his trust in her? She looks down to read the note.

Heirs and Princes to meet each other in separate council. Lesser Council Tent.

There is no signature, no warmth in the writing. Only the impersonal orders of the High King. She looks up at both Morgause and Merlin looking at her with what seems to be concern.

"I'm to meet the princes while the Council of Kings meet."

"Bedwyr, Cador, and Keredic?" Morgause questions. She shrugs.

"Princess Elena has elected to stay home and take care of affairs there. And Vivian-" she frowns a little. "I don't know whether the High King would invite her in the council."

"Vivian," Morgause spits out, 'has little in her head other than thoughts of her grand love for Arthur. You'd think someone would have figured out what's wrong by now."

Merlin wilts a little. "You heard?"

"You are unobservant, Emrys. That is obvious."

Morgana changes the topic before the antagonism can rise. "Galahad is to stay in Escetia?"

Morgause nods, her face softening at the thought of her son. "I doubt Arthur even knows that Escetia has a prince, let alone invited him to confer with the other princes. You both were….preoccupied at the time of his birth."

"Nimue's quest was inconveniently timed, certainly. And you did come to see me when we returned and I was...indisposed. Though you had to leave soon after for Galahad. In any case, I don't think the High King would summon a two-year-old infant to the battleground, as precocious as Galahad is."

Merlin, who seems rather confounded, breaks into the conversation. "Who's this Galahad?"

Both sisters turn to face him. Morgana looks at her sister. "That answers your question. Camelot doesn't know."

"My son, Emrys," Morgause drawls. "Prince Galahad of Escetia."

Morgana grins as Merlin's face goes from surprised to absolutely horrified as realization sinks in. He's slack-jawed as he stutters.

"You mean...you and- and - Cenred- son?"

Morgause's lips stretch into a predatory smile. "Yes, Emrys. Our son."

Merlin flinches and blurts some excuse about having to wait for Arthur before rushing off, his face turning tomato red.

Morgause raises an eyebrow at his rapidly retreating back.

"He is hopelessly naïve."

"But he wields more power than any of us," Morgana reminds. Morgause shrugs.

"I must follow Arthur's summons, sister."

Morgana nods. "And I should meet the princes."

They part ways at the first wall erected as defense for the camp. Morgana sighs before turning out the flap of the tent allocated as the meeting place.

Bedwyr, son of Annis. Cador, brother of Vivian and son of Olaf. Keredic, Rodor's eldest son.

This will be painful.

Arthur nods at Morgause as she makes her way into the tent, head held high. Cenred receives his wife with a knowing grin as she sits besides him. The tent provides just enough shade to make the July sun bearable. The charmed breeze keeps their tempers sufficiently low.

"The Saxons are determined to set up camp at Peredor," Arthur begins without preamble. "They still wish to engage us in full battle."

Cenred shrugs. "Today's raid was a success. We can simply undermine their camps until they run out of support civilians."

"No." Arthur's voice is cold. "We will not attack non-combatants."

Many of the kings mutter amongst themselves. Odin speaks up.

"This is war, boy. We do whatever we can to win."

"We are Albion, and we do not murder innocents," Arthur declares coldly.

Godwyn nibbles his lower lip. "As you say, your majesty, but it gives them an advantage."

"If we allow the Saxons to continue making camps, they will pin us down here. We will not be able to move from Peredor," Morgause claims. "This is unwise, High King Arthur."

Annis shakes her head once. "We can win this war without resorting to underhanded tricks." She looks at Arthur. "You have heart."

"I will not let the Saxons destroy the principles we strive for," Arthur states. Rodor nods gravely.

"We are not savages, to murder their women and children in cold blood."

"It would be against our honor," Olaf grunts.

Alined fiddles with his rings. "It would be a costly sacrifice. We can't afford a drawn-out campaign."

"We can't become the enemy we fight," Arthur replies. "That is worth more than coins and jewels."

"What's this about coins and jewels?" Bayard comes booming into the tent. "I received your summons, High King Arthur."

Arthur nods in acknowledgement. Bayard takes a seat and looks around. "There's not been an argument?"

Odin grumbles, "The High King will not allow us to attack the camp-followers."

"Interesting," Bayard says, "And the Saxons?"

"Have no such qualms," Morgause replies. "They wish to confront us at Peredor and entrench themselves there."

"And are we going to meet their challenge?" Bayard asks.

Arthur frowns. "We have to decide."

"But of course we must," Bayard booms out. "We must prove our mettle! These puny Saxons shall cower when they see the strength of our forces! And the day…"

"Enough, Bayard," Annis cuts in as massages her temples. "We have sufficient forces to form detachments, attack from different fronts."

Odin looks at her. "Many fronts, we'll be worse off."

"I do believe a frontal battle with all our combined forces will be least risky," Alined voices.

"Witless thing to do," Cenred mutters, "charging off in a line screaming bloody murder."

Arthur raises a hand to silence them. "A compromise, then." He moves two of the Saxon markers to Peredor on the map. "When we receive them in battle, we divide into two and press them in a pincer formation. We maintain one front throughout the army, but the Saxons will be besieged on all sides."

Morgause nods acknowledgement. "Acceptable."

Olaf grunts acquiescence, and Alined shrugs. Annis has a faint smile on her face as she voices her approval.

"More than acceptable, Pendragon. Gorlois may have been right," she says. He doesn't quite know how to respond to that, but the surge of gratitude warms him.

The rest of the Council of Kings show varying levels of support, but there is no dissention. They work out their positions and allot roles for hours before finally breaking council.

By the end, Arthur is more than ready to collapse on his cot. But he still has to confer with Merlin, and there's an endless array of tasks to complete. He sighs.

At least the hardest part was done.

Morgana smiles sweetly as she sits down to the table where a midday repast has been set up for the four heirs.

"My lords," she nods as the rest make themselves comfortable, "it is an honor to meet you all in person."

Bedwyr bows slightly. "Princess Morgana." He's the most familiar to Morgana out of the three princes- Annis is an old friend of her father, and Bedwyr had sometimes accompanied his mother in her visits to Cornwall. The longest time they'd interacted was back when she was seven and he was ten, when she had a broken leg from a fall and had been stuck indoors for the three weeks of his visit. They'd only met briefly after that.

Keredic and Cador acknowledge her with bows and sit. She knows little about either prince, only that Cador is five years younger than her, and Keredic is older than her by four years.

They start eating in silence. It is awkward, with the clattering of eating utensils being the loudest noise in the room. Morgana decides conversation isn't happening unless she starts it.

"How do you find-"

"I hear that the camps-" Keredic begins at the same time. Even more awkward. If only she'd waited a few seconds.

"Please go on-"

"No, it's quite alright-"

She smiles warmly . "I insist."

Keredic nods. "I hear that our camps have been completed. Are they to your liking?"

"They'd be better without the heat," Bedwyr answers, "but they're set up well."

"I hear even High King Arthur sleeps in a tent," Cador pipes up, his voice just barely turned to manhood. "The soldiers found that encouraging."

Morgana smiles and nods, picking up the conversation. "Our High King is admirable, to be sure. His men would follow him anywhere."

"He used to win all the tournaments back when he was a prince," Keredic remarks. "Finest swordsmanship I ever saw." She looks at him gratefully for picking up the ball.

"I went to the Five Kingdoms Tourney, the last one he competed in," Cador adds eagerly, "He beat that Moor with the whirling swords in four minutes flat!"

"Four years ago, in Escetia?" Morgana asks, "I recall you acquitted yourself well in the jousting, Prince Bedwyr."

Bedwyr smiles a little smugly. "You remember it?"

"Your unhorsing of Lord Elyan was impressive," Morgana nods, then looks at Keredic. "I'm afraid I don't remember your presence at the Tourney, Prince Keredic."

"Matters of state," Keredic shrugs. "I was never good at such displays, in any case."

The talk of tournaments makes for easier conversation as they drink the light ale and consume the stew and bread set out, but Morgana can't help feeling a little frustrated. What did Arthur want her to do, talking to these princes? Better cooperation, perhaps. Maybe even comradeship, or even an acquaintance so they'd all work better together. For the time being, it is better to continue in this direction. Cador's exclamation brings her back into the conversation.

"And the trick you did, with the mace!" He's waving his spoon animatedly as he talks to Bedwyr about a recent tourney. The older prince doesn't seem to be unhappy with the attention, either.

"It wasn't too hard," Bedwyr says, "the man was sloppy and his grip kept sliding everywhere. You didn't do bad either, Cador."

Keredic seems rather uncomfortable with the conversation, taking part in it as little as possible. "Your first tourney, was it, Prince Cador?"

"The very one," Cador nods, "It was amazing!." He turns back to Bedwyr- the two seem to be building up quite a rapport.

"You won the joust in that one too, didn't you?"

"Aye. But the lady was lackluster," Bedwyr shrugs, mouth grimacing. "Not a beauty by any means, and her hair was stringy."

He's referring to the customary 'lady of the tourney' custom in which one lady is the "prize" for the winner, presenting the prizes and accompanying him to the feast. Morgana's the uncomfortable one now.

Cador snorts. "Lady Elaine, you mean? Of Angcaster? The mousy one with the nose?"

"The one with the nose," Bedwyr affirms, "And practically throwing herself at me."

"Lanie wouldn't…" Keredic fidgets, but is ignored.

"Really, they should have chosen a decent woman. I nearly threw the match when I saw her. The lady shouldn't be embarrassing to be with," Bedwyr continues. He gives Morgana a smile. "Anyone would consider escorting one such as you an honor, Princess Morgana."

Morgana nods at the compliment, but it's a lot of effort to keep a smile on her face. They need to be friendly with each other, they're allies, they're allies. Even if this exchange is...degrading, she needs to keep on good terms with them.

"I'm flattered you think so well of me," she says. "But I'm sure Lady Elaine was excellent company. She's an accomplished woman, and intelligent too."

"What's the use of that?" Cador blithely asks. "All that's required of her is to sit still and look pretty. She's not even properly landed- her father is some baron?"

Keredic clears his throat. "She's my cousin, actually. On my mother's side. Lanie and I spent our summers together."

"And I pity you," Cador laughs, "to have to have been in the company of such a nose!" Bedwyr glances at Keredic, but doesn't rebuke Cador. Keredic's face hardens.

Morgana looks between him and Bedwyr, mortified. "I...I know Lady Elaine to be a great horsewoman," she offers lamely, "you must have ridden with her often."

"She always beats me, Elaine," Keredic replies, relaxing a fraction. "She loves her horses."

"Are there good…." Morgana tries to continue, but winces inwardly as she is cut off by Cador's guffaw.

"Better and better!" he calls, "so she's an unruly wildereen as well."

Morgana almost bangs her head on the table in exasperation as Keredic clenches his fist around the fork and knife.

"I consider Lady Elaine to be a fine companion," he bites out icily, "and I regret you don't think the same. But I would rather she not be a subject of our conversation. We are men, not hens clucking gossip over their knitting."

An awkward silence sweeps through the tent. Morgana bites her lips and desperately wishes Arthur or Morgause were here.

"The Saxons have been confirmed to be nearing Glauchedon now," she offers tentatively , hoping to break the tension in the room. "There are disagreements over whether we should march to confront them head-on, or use a more complex strategy."

Bedwyr is the first to loosen. "There's no need for subterfuge here. We can crush the Saxons any day in a straight battle, as men."

"That's true," Cador agrees, "but these barbarians are so dim, they'd never know what hit them if we chose a different strategy."

"All the more reason to confront them head-on," Bedwyr says. "Why wait when we have the advantage?"

Keredic finally lets go of the tension balled up in him. "Less loss of life, I suppose," he remarks offhand.

"Bah," Bedwyr waves his hand around, "it's too complicated to bother with."

"We've scouted the region," Morgana comments, "they were using a different layout of camp from the ones they used before. They seem to know the lay of the land; it looks like they're adapting."

Cador snorts. "Of course not! They couldn't possibly. You're reading too much into it, Princess Morgana."

"It's common for an inexperienced general to overestimate an enemy," Bedwyr adds condescendingly. "You needn't worry."

Morgana gives a bright, fake smile. "I'll be careful to not make that mistake," she says. "I do believe they do know something, though. They've not made any missteps so far."

"The Continent people have such delicate constitutions, they won't survive winter," Bedwyr states smugly. "It'll wipe them out."

"If only it wasn't the middle of July," Morgana remarks.

"We'll triumph long before then," Cador snaps, "so you need not worry your pretty little head."

Morgana bristles. "I'm afraid it's my concern," she says. "The Cornwall regiment is usually placed at the vanguard."

"Are you questioning our competence?" Bedwyr questions, leaning forward. Morgana grits her teeth.

"Of course not," she forces out in an imitation of a placating tone. "We are to work together, after all."

"Truth be told, I don't know why you're here," Cador remarks artlessly, "a woman's place is not on the battlefield, but at home. Some women just don't understand that. A military camp is no place for you."

"She's representing her father of course," Bedwyr remarks, " in the absence of a son. I won't question your presence here."

"How...thoughtful," Morgana replies.

"But really, you should be at Camelot at least," Cador shakes his head. "We managed to get my sister to see reason at least. You seem to be a decent sort of lady, Princess Morgana, you should know better."

"Princess Morgana is entitled to her own decisions," Keredic speaks. His tone is casual, but he's looking sharply at the younger prince.

"I have been given command over the Cornwall forces here," Morgana says. "I will be fighting alongside you all."

"I suppose you're against the frontal charge," Bedwyr says contemptuously.

"I am ambivalent, my lord," Morgana answers. "We have not yet seen how the Saxons are planning their strike."

"It shouldn't be much difference whatever happens," he retorts.

"It reassures me, in any case."

"Are you questioning our capabilities as military commanders?" Bedwyr barks, "I've noticed that you have far too many doubts regarding our decisions." He glares at Morgana. "You would do well to remember your place, my lady. I understand this may not be your area of expertise, but it does not behoove you to question everything."

"What do you even know about warfare? You with your head full of embroidery and flower arranging," Cador adds, glaring. "You have no right to doubt our capacity and knowledge- what do you even know about us?"

Morgana stares at him, eyes cold. She will not- cannot- tolerate this any longer. Forget Arthur and what he expects her to do. She's not going to allow these misogynic blusterers to continue any longer.

"What do I know about you?" Morgana asks. "Cador of Cantia. Proficient in swordsmanship; unused to ranged weapons. Right-handed, but favors left side. Leaves gaps on the right when lunging. Aggressive style of fencing, but weak in defense." She rounds on him fully. "Footwork slow; reasonable stamina to account for low agility. Has a habit of making rash decisions. Heir to the throne; takes care of affairs when King Olaf goes on diplomatic trips with Princess Vivian. Relationship with sister, estranged." Morgana pauses. "Need I go on?"

Cador glares at her. The silent confrontation lies heavy between them. She doesn't care anymore. If she's going to work with these princes as peers and equals, they need to respect her as such. She is a veteran of two major wars and countless skirmishes, and she refuses to allow them to forget that.

"I hear the only reason you've been given command is because you've got the other men at your beck and call," Cador whispers menacingly. "Don't expect us to do the same."

Keredic speaks up after having watched the exchange in silence. "That's enough, Prince Cador."

"There are rumors about you and the High King," Cador continues, ignoring him. "You've bewitched him, made him fall in love with you so you could grasp more power."

Morgana's trembling with rage. "How dare you."

"Perhaps we should finish the meal now," Keredic tries again. She can see he's worried about the way this conversation is going. But Bedwyr ruins his efforts.

"You were part of his entourage when the Ten Kingdoms swore fealty to him," he says thoughtfully. "I thought nothing of it at the time. But it is strange- your father became a duke under High King Arthur, but you were the one at Arthur's side. The High King still speaks to you far too often. Perhaps..."

Morgana slams a hand down to the table. "Enough." She stares him down. "I refuse to listen to this speculation. I am a general of the High King, and I have earned my place. You have no right to question my presence here, nor my relationship with the High King."

There is a brief pause in conversation. Cador is still red-faced and seething antagonism, while Bedwyr meets her gaze coldly.

"I think we have all had enough," Keredic says quietly. "Perhaps we may convene at a later time."

The room is still for a little while. Bedwyr rises and nods to Keredic before walking out of the tent. Cador gets up and lopes away after him.

Morgana stays seated, and Keredic too makes no move to leave. He pours another goblet of ale for her.

"I have a sister," Keredic remarks after a little while. "Around your age. You remind me of her."

She accepts the goblet, staring down at the liquid. "And is she as hot-tempered as me?" She's starting to regret her outburst; Cador at the very least will be an enemy among allies. Bedwyr as well will not look kindly upon her. Cornwall needs them to be on friendly terms- Arthur needs their cooperation. And now she's ruined chances of a smooth working relationship. Burned bridges are so much harder to rebuild.

Keredic surprisingly smiles. "I wouldn't say you're hot-tempered, Princess Morgana. At all. Your fire is icy cold. I have to say, I admire your self-restraint."

Her eyes flicker up to meet his. "Self restraint?" she smiles humorlessly. "You had enough of it not to lash out at them. Me, I'm just idiotic." Keredic raises and lowers a shoulder.

"I wouldn't know about that."

"I am grateful, you know," Morgana says, "if you hadn't stopped us, we might have come to blows."

He smiles again. "You give yourself too little credit. You'd have won, anyways. I've seen you fight."

"You have?" Morgana raises an eyebrow. "When would that be, my lord?"

"When the Ten Kingdoms swore fealty," Keredic replies, "you were training at dawn with the knights."

She blushes a little. "I wasn't aware anyone was watching."

"It's commendable," he says, "and I could see you were dedicated. Martial arts are not easy to master-I'm afraid I'm woefully inadequate. Even my little sister surpasses me."

"Your little sister?" Morgana asks. Keredic is the eldest child of Rodor, she knows, but she can't remember the name of the younger child.

"Mithian," he answers, "She's unsurpassed with the crossbow. Fine rider, too. She used to romp in the woods for days, hunting, and drag me with her. I'm afraid I was dead weight though." His voice is affectionate, and Morgana can't help but smile at the image of the two siblings wandering the woods. He notices.

"So the princess can smile genuinely," he teases, "I hope to see a lot more of that, after the war."

Morgana's brows crease. "After the war?" Truth be told, she's never even thought beyond the war. Just the day-to-day trials have been enough to occupy her mind.

"Imagine what it'll be like, life after the war," Keredic says, eyes shining. "There'll be no more wars, not with the Treaty of Albion. Our people will be safe. It'll be a golden age."

"Lots of rebuilding," Morgana replies, mind already growing heavy with the thought, "funerals for the dead, commemorations, the workings of bringing back a nation-"

"Don't be like that," he says, "it'll be better than this war, at any rate. I can't believe Father's making me command troops."
"Are you worried by that?"

Keredic shakes his head, his curly brown hair growing even more tousled. "Oh, I've been trained for it," he says, "as much as you can be. The men trust me enough to follow my orders most of the time. It just doesn't come to me."

"Now you are the one giving yourself too little credit," Morgana teases. She's still smiling as he denies it.

"It's truly painful to do it. Father demands it of me, as he says I'll have to when I am king. I do it because I must, but I know my heart-and my talents- lie elsewhere."

"And where would that be?"

Keredic flicks two fingers out, producing a little fireball hovering near the tips. The light warms his sharp features.

"This flame was calibrated to cauterize wounds," he explains, "it took me weeks to determine the proper temperature."

Morgana abruptly stops smiling. "You want to be a healer." Her hands start trembling slightly.

"I want to heal," Keredic nods, oblivious, "not inflict wounds. There's so much more worth in fighting for life. My magic's not too grand-it's not very strong in my family, Mithian doesn't have any- but it's well-adapted to the kind of things I need."

"I...see," Morgana whispers, lowering her eyes back to the goblet of ale. She takes a sip.

"Of course, I can only use my magic as a supplement," Keredic continues, "and I try to develop ways to incorporate it into traditional medicine."

"Magic can't truly heal, though," Morgana musters, before taking another sip of the ale. Keredic shrugs.

"Most magic can't actually heal wounds back together," he acknowledges, "not mine, not even Master Merlin's. But what I wouldn't have given for the magic of High Priestesses, to infuse vitality and to be able to truly heal!"

Morgana stiffens and drops her goblet, the little ale left dripping out as it clatters and rolls off the table. "I'm sorry," she apologizes, getting out of her seat to pick it up. But Keredic stoops to pick it up at the same moment she does, and they end up with their faces very close to each other. Morgana unconsciously licks her lips.

They straighten together slowly, Keredic placing the goblet back on the table without looking away. His eyes are stormy gray, Morgana notices. Gray like the rainy sea visible from Tintagel. They're still very close to each other, and she's a little bewildered by the intensity of his gaze.

"What do you think you're doing?" A dry male voice snaps from the tent opening, startling Morgana and sending the two jumping apart to a suitable distance.

Arthur's there, his blue eyes icy, standing near the tent flaps with his arms folded and face hard. Morgana's heart sinks a little and she doesn't know why.

Keredic blinks before bowing. "My lord," he says, smiling. Arthur looks at him stonily.

"Prince Keredic." He turns to Morgana. She bites her lips and curtseys.

"Your majesty."

Morgana doesn't know if she's imagined the anger flickering on his face for an instant. "Morgana," he says, deliberately dropping the title. Morgana remembers when they started off on the quest together, when he'd told her to drop the courtesies. Arthur had been doing that a long while before that, she realizes.

Keredic blinks again as he registers both the informal greeting and the new tension almost tangible in the tent. He glances between them before breaking the silence, much to Morgana's gratitude.

"Prince Cador and Prince Bedwyr left a little before now," he says, "we were just about to follow them, my lord."

Arthur transfers his intense gaze to Keredic. "It didn't look like it."

Morgana can finally breathe again with Arthur's heavy gaze off her. The tension in the room is stifling her, and she feels a strong urge to run away like a coward. She opens her mouth to speak, but her words dry up at the back of her throat. She shouldn't be feeling this- this guilt right now; she's done nothing wrong. But Arthur's looking at her again, his eyes accusing.

"Is...is there something you require, my lord?" she manages to say. That flicker of anger returns, and Morgana knows she's not imagined it this time.

"We expect all the heirs to join us for drills now," Arthur clips out. "It has been decided that a pincer strategy would be most effective to meet the first charge."

Morgana's mind is instantly occupied; the pincer would assault the main force of the Saxons on two fronts, clumping them together and making it more difficult for them to charge. Mobility would be key…

"The cavalry-" Morgana starts, but Arthur abruptly turns face and stalks out, ignoring her words. Morgana's hand comes up to reach for him, then drops ineffectually. Keredic takes the hand, squeezing it a little.

"Shall we go, my lady?"

Morgana nods, and allows him to escort her to the parade area of the military camp, numb with confusion.

Some dead wildflowers litter the ground outside as they exit.