Percival snorted. “No he didn’t.”

“All the mages did,” Arthur said.

“But not with our brigade. I’d have seen him.”

Arthur and Lancelot shared a look.

“Perce,” Lancelot said, “we were four thousand in number with nearly a hundred mages. D’you honestly think you could have met all of them?”

Percival had stopped folding the napkin in his fingers. He stared at Gawain with an expression of disbelief until he suddenly rose from his seat.

“Mage Gawain!” he shouted as he strode toward him, drawing the attention of everyone who’d just finished celebrating the statue’s salvation. “Were you at the Battle of Kent?”

Gawain didn’t answer. He dropped his arm, and he shifted uncomfortably under the attention.

“Were you?” Percival pressed, his voice cracking beneath the force of his eagerness. The workers didn’t even pretend to carry on. They outright stopped to follow this exchange.

Gawain swallowed. “Yes.”

“Holy shit,” Lancelot breathed.

Percival staggered a step backward like he’d been struck. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Gawain didn’t have to say anything. He held Percival’s stare and did not feign ignorance, which was confirmation enough.

“You saved my life. And all this time, I thought you were an ass. I treated you like you’re an ass.” Percival shook his head, exasperated by Gawain even in this moment of reverence.

Gawain shrugged. “A good man was about to die, and you decided to give your life to save him. And from where I stood on the battlefield, you, another good man, were about to die for your king—and it cost me nothing to intervene.”

Percival let out a brief, amused breath and shook his head as he muttered, “Dammit, Gawain.” He glanced over at Arthur, asking an unspoken question with a raised eyebrow.

Vera and Lancelot looked at him, too. One side of his lips turned upward. His hand shifted to his sword’s pommel, and he nodded.

“How many witnesses do we need?” Percival asked.

“Two.” Arthur tipped his head toward Vera and Lancelot.

“Are you ready to be a part of something amazing?” Lancelot murmured as he rose. Vera scrambled to follow them.

Arthur stepped forward, drawing his sword. “Gawain, take a knee.”

Gawain’s eyes darted from Arthur to further across the field, where Merlin ran toward them. “What are you doing?” Merlin called, rather frantically.

“Making Gawain a knight.” Lancelot’s voice was thick with emotion. He cleared his throat and mastered himself with a proud smile.

Merlin cast a sharp frown of warning at Arthur. “Mages can’t be knights.”

“They haven’t been knights,” Arthur corrected. He turned back to Gawain as he continued. “There is no law stating they can’t. Gawain,” Arthur repeated.

Gawain hesitantly stepped forward and dropped to one knee.

Arthur held his sword at his waist. “Ready?” he asked them all.

Gawain looked like he was about to speak before clamping his mouth shut.

“What is it?” Arthur said.

“Does the sword need to be held by the king, or can it be done by any knight?”

Arthur smiled knowingly. “Any knight would suffice with my approval.”

“If it’s acceptable to you, I would be honored if Sir Percival performed the ceremony.” Gawain’s eyes flicked back to the ground.

Arthur beamed as he extended his sword to Percival, whose cheeks went a deep shade of crimson. He stepped forward, his expression that of a man who’d won an award he didn’t feel he deserved.

“Gawain,” Arthur said, “for your acts of selfless heroism on the battlefield, for your dedication to the betterment of magic in the kingdom, and for your valiant service with no expectation of reward or recognition, I, Arthur, King of the Britons, name you a knight of our great kingdom.”

Arthur nodded at Percival.

“I, Sir Percival, charge you to serve your king and your people justly, with honor and generosity.” Percival held the flat of Arthur’s blade on the tops of each of Gawain’s shoulders. “Arise, Sir Gawain.”

Vera blinked, and the first tear rolled down her cheek, which ached from how broadly she smiled, but there was no escaping the quiet nag at the back of her mind.

Sir Gawain.

Even for her, for someone who didn’t know a fraction of the nuances of Arthurian lore, there was no way that the stories should have gotten so many parts right. She reflexively looked to Merlin. He knew it, too. Beneath the veneer of his anger, she saw fear.

As it happened, nobody had been knighted since the end of the war, and it was big news. Vera was bowled over by the number of townsfolk who wanted to personally come and congratulate Gawain as the word spread. She knew he’d taken his gifts for teaching magic into the village but hadn’t grasped the number of lives he’d touched. His off-putting demeanor hardly seemed an obstacle. In fact, it might have endeared them to him even more.

When the sun sank low and drew near to kissing the horizon, all the orbs through town flickered to life, signaling that it was time to gather for the evening banquet. It was customary that a crier announced the arrival of guests or performers, and tonight, Arthur’s visiting council of knights were the guests of honor. There were five of them, and as their names were called out, they each entered with varying degrees of comfort at the attention.

Vera and Arthur stood together at the front for the procession. She recognized right away that these knights were the ones from Guinevere’s memory in the great hall—the memory from before the final battle. She had incorrectly assumed that the two women at the table were wives of knights. They weren’t—they were knights.

First was Elaine, who had the air of a cowboy in an American western. It was a small tragedy that she didn’t have a revolver strapped at her hip, but one hand snapped to her sword as the other gave a flick of her wrist, more a salute than a wave. She stalked through the scattered tables to bow to Arthur and Vera (followed by a far less formal hug initiated by Arthur) and sat at the table with the local king’s guard.

Next came Tristan, with his bright green eyes striking as new grass in the springtime and soft brown hair that curled and stuck out at awkward angles but somehow made him look ruggedly handsome. He followed in the same way, not displeased by the attention but uncomfortable with it. He let out a prolonged exhale through puffed-out cheeks when he reached the front.

Edwin had grey hair cropped short, and he had a wise and steady way about him. Then Lionel, who was built like a tank that could steamroll any opponent but who had deep smile lines and a boisterous laugh as he egged the crowd on, like a footballer soliciting louder cheers after an exceptional play. Marian brought up the end, gracious and relaxed, her dark, long hair in a single braid. Her lithe legs and lean, muscular body drew the enamored stares of more than a few as she passed. She was resplendent in her flowing black gown, though the short sword dangling from her waist sent a clear message that she was far from defenseless. Marian beamed, squeezing the shoulder of someone she recognized on her way to the front.

When Arthur hugged her, she kissed his cheek and framed his face between her hands with a fond gaze. Vera made sure her smile didn’t twitch—though a deep part of her inwardly roared.

Vera’s jealousy melted when Arthur’s hand slid around her waist, holding her back as the others went to fill their plates. He leaned close to her ear. “There’s something I should tell you about Tristan.”

“The young one?” Vera glanced at Tristan in time to see his head tip back, laughing at whatever Elaine had said. He had dimples when he laughed. She somehow knew they would be there before they appeared.