Sword of the Rightful King by Jane Yolen Page A

back to Merlinnus. “Is he?”
    â€œWell-bred, certainly,” the mage replied, remembering the Latin and the elegant speech, even without the slip about how much the castle looked like home.
    â€œI am thirteen,” the boy said.
    Merlinnus had in their walk from the woods already revised his estimate of the boy’s age several times over. He guessed from the boy’s manners, his quickness and ease with strangers, that it was two or three years further than thirteen, but said nothing.
    â€œMy own mother follows the Goddess but my father the Grail, so I know both,” Gawen said.
    So
... Merlinnus thought,
not an orphan sent to a monastery, then
.
    â€œAnd worship neither?” Arthur leaned forward on the throne. It looked as though he were interested in the boys answer, but Merlinnus suspected he was just shifting position on the hard chair.
    â€œPardon me, sire, but that is between me and my god.” The boy’s cheeks flamed red, but otherwise he did not seem discommoded. Just stubborn.
    â€œI will pardon you, boy, but know this—if you serve me, you serve my god,” the king said.
    So
, Merlinnus thought,
Arthur is listening. Something about this boy quickens him. That is interesting indeed
, and he tucked this item away in his mind’s cupboard with the rest.
    â€œI thought I made it clear the boy serves
me
,” Merlinnus put in. And then to soften the rebuke added quickly, “And you, Majesty, have yet to make clear which of the many gods in Britain you will stick with yourself!”
    Arthur leaned back against the chair and laughed. It was a buoyant and boyish laugh.
    Merlinnus began to laugh, too.
    The burly guards at the door smiled at one another, not really having heard the conversation, but just because they loved their king and were pleased when he found something to laugh about.
    Only the boy remained solemn. Merlinnus suspected it was not because he had no sense of humor. Rather he did not yet dare to laugh out loud at the king. Or with him.
    After a moment, Arthur arched his back and put a hand behind him. “Damned thrones too hard. I actually prefer a soldiers pallet. Or a horse.” He stood and stretched like some sort of large sandy-colored cat, scattering several scrolls. “That is enough for one day, I think,” he said, gesturing to the scrolls. “I will look at the rest tomorrow.” He came down the two steps and whispered in Merlinnus’ right ear. “When you gave me this kingdom, old man, you forgot to mention how hard a chair the high throne is.”
    â€œAnd would you have made a different choice, sire?”
    Arthur once again roared out that boyish laugh. “No. Probably not. But I would have requested a different throne.”
    Merlinnus pretended shock. “But that is the High King’s throne. All the kings of Britain have sat upon it. Without that throne, you would not be recognized as the High King.”
    Arthur nodded. He turned slightly and looked straight at Gawen then and said, “Of such things is a kingdom made. Hard to credit it.”
    Gawen suddenly spoke up. “Would not a cushion on the seat do, Majesty?”
    Arthur laughed again. “Out of the mouths of children. Would it not do, Merlinnus? A cushion?”
    The mage’s mouth twisted about the word
cushion
. But he could think of no objection. It was the quiet hominess of the solution that he found somehow offensive.
Certainly it would work. But would it make the king less... manly ? Less powerful? Less
...
    â€œIt will work,” he said at last. “Only do not let there be any embroidery on it.”
    Arthur laughed again.
    â€œAnd now, my lord,” the mage said, “I have more important things to discuss than cushions.” He thought he would have liked a cushion himself at that moment and sat down, rather hurriedly, on the risers that led to the throne.
    Arthur sat down next to him. “The