Mordred was nothing like Lila had imagined. In films, in plays, he was always thin and brooding, dark-haired and sloe-eyed. In truth he was blond, handsome, like a fairytale prince. Anyone who looked at him had to know he was Arthur’s son. He sat tall on his horse, elegant in shining armor, the dark banners of Orkney fluttering overhead. Beside Lila, Emrys sat up straighter on his horse, eyes narrowed when he saw the blade at Mordred’s side.

“King Arthur.” Mordred inclined his head regally.

Lila resisted the urge to look backward at the rest of the army; she was clutching her white pennant with white-knuckled hands and praying Mordred wouldn’t look at her.

“Mordred, son of Lot of Orkney, why march you this day?” Arthur asked.

“The time has come for Camelot’s tyranny to end,” Mordred said. “No longer will you disturb the natural order of men and let some think they are above their station in life.” At that, he cast Emrys a contemptuous look.

“My kingdom is not tyranny but freedom,” Arthur said.