“Are you injured?” he asked in his stony way. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since the night she arrived. A tight flutter shot through Vera’s chest.
“Only my pride,” she said, managing a smile.
She thought Arthur’s mouth twitched at the corner but surely must have been mistaken, for his face remained cold.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she said.
He tilted his head in a gesture toward the training field. “I’m training with the soldiers today.” Arthur looked Vera up and down and opened his mouth as if to say something, but a bent old man with a cane beat him to the punch.
“Your Majesty,” the little man said in a squeaky voice, bowing low.
Arthur instinctively reached out to support the man at his elbow and smiled kindly at him. It was jolting to watch Arthur’s expression soften so dramatically. She’d only seen his face set and cold, controlled as a granite statue.
“I had no idea the queen was such a fierce competitor!” The little man said with no small measure of pride.
“Indeed,” Arthur agreed, turning his warmth toward Vera but only looking as high as her shoulder. Still, it nearly toppled her. “She was quite impressive.”
The old man waggled his cane at Vera. “I’d hope for nothing less from you, Your Majesty. And we are all glad you have returned to us.” He patted her arm and hobbled off with impressive agility. Watching him was a good cover for figuring out what she should say next to Arthur. This was her opportunity; he was right here and warmer than he’d yet been.
But when she turned to Arthur, it was to see his back as he strode away toward the training field.
Perhaps the one had nothing to do with the other, but it had been their friendliest interaction yet, and that night, Vera stopped midstride on her walk through the great hall when she saw Arthur’s seat occupied. There he sat, dressed far less formally than Vera expected. Nonetheless, his presence noticeably changed the room. There was an electricity in the energy of everyone present. And it was louder. The prior evenings when Arthur was absent, she’d been uncomfortable speaking much above a whisper. Tonight, a pleasant hum of conversation and bawdy laughter surrounded her.
Vera’s eyes flicked to Merlin, wondering if he’d had any hand in this. He smiled encouragingly.
From how Arthur was seated, angled toward Lancelot, who sat in the chair on his left, Vera’s approach around the table had her facing him. He kept his eyes on Lancelot, who was talking animatedly.
“And it wasn’t the only way we might have—” Lancelot stopped midsentence, diverting his attention to Vera as she stepped into his view. “Good evening, Your Majesty,” he said, and it forced Arthur to acknowledge her presence, too. He turned in his seat and inclined his head in a bow of greeting, stiff and formal.
As soon as she sat down, though, he bodily turned to Lancelot, his back an impassible wall that shut her out, leaving Vera to soak in her frustration—but not for long. As the meal was being served, a trumpet blared, and a melodic voice took command of the room.
“Our king welcomes this evening, for our courtly entertainment, the North Wind Players, performing The Most Tragic Tale of Dorchester.” The castle’s herald stood at the back of the hall and took a great step aside as he opened the door with a flourish, and an acting troupe entered to polite applause.
The room went silent as the actors took their places in the open space between the two tables. They held their poses for nearly too long, and precisely when the first antsy audience member shifted in his seat, they all began moving. The two on their knees in front pattered the floor with their fists. An enchanting woman in all grey with streams of fabric tailing behind her swirled through the room, and as she passed, a true sound of wind, the kind that meant rain was coming, followed in her wake. One actor jumped atop a table, holding a glowing yellow orb high above his head before he heaved it down at the floor. It shattered not into shards but with a final bright flash and a puff of vapor. The accompanying sound was the real rumbling crash of thunder. The vapor swelled and rose, darkening and expanding until the great hall’s ceiling was covered with a blanket of storm clouds.
The clouds continued to rumble above their heads as a scrawny girl emerged from the chaos and began to spin the tale. She was the lone survivor in a village massacred by a young mage gone mad.
As she told the story, the actors performed around her, bringing the sad tale to life with striking beauty. The entire audience was captivated, more than one with tears on their cheeks as the young girl was hidden by her brothers in their animal feed trough before watching them be slain by the mage through cracks in the boards. It was a fairytale trope, one with a moral lesson pasted on at the end, lauding how Arthur’s rule brought unity and an end to violence against the people. They held their final poses in perfect stillness. The clouds above sank toward the audience’s heads.
Since they were seated higher than everyone else, the blanket of clouds first reached the royal table. Vera glanced at Arthur, who was grinning as he reached up and touched them with his fingers. Like he’d sensed her gaze, he turned to her. His eyes didn’t have time to darken, and Vera knew her expression mirrored his amazement. Her skin prickled. It was almost intimate—and gone in a flash as the descending clouds reached their foreheads and obscured Vera’s vision entirely.
A murmur rose around the hall with surprised oohs and ohs, and a scant few who sounded genuinely frightened. After the clouds reached the floor and faded, leaving only the faint smell of rain, Vera noticed that the acting troupe had risen and arranged themselves together under the cover of the descending storm clouds. They bowed, and the court followed Arthur in his enthusiastic applause.
“That was most impressive,” Arthur said when the applause dwindled. “I’m honored by your telling of my part in this. Forgive me for my memory, but the massacre of Dorchester was twenty years ago, was it not?”
The ensemble looked at one another and nodded.
“I was a boy of ten and, humbling though it is to admit, probably convincing my father I was more likely to create havoc than ever unite any kingdom,” said Arthur modestly.
The actors’ eyes flitted back and forth among one another until the troupe’s leader, the woman in grey who could make the sound of wind with her body, stepped forward with a flourish and bow. “My liege, we believe the spirit of the crown moved among us before it found you. But it was you all along.”
The gathered court applauded once more.
“That’s lovely,” Lancelot said graciously to the performers. Then, leaning forward so Vera and Arthur could see him, he spoke much more quietly. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”
Arthur was more equipped to absorb his friend’s humor. His lips merely curled up further on one side, and he inclined his head in a bow to the departing performers. Vera, on the other hand, snorted with laughter. The nobleman to her right glared at her. She quickly turned away from him to find Arthur watching this exchange, the glint of a laugh in his eye. No sooner had Vera caught his gaze than his eyes flitted downward, and he was rising from his seat.
“Pardon me,” he said. Without a nod or bow or another word, he abruptly walked away. She was left staring at Lancelot, his eyes wide and the corners of his mouth dipped into a frown.
“I take it that’s not normal,” Vera said.
“Er.” His eyes followed Arthur as he exited the hall. “No,” he said.