"The King demands your presence,"

I'm going to be honest here, there are any number of five-word phrases you hope never to hear. "Have you gained weight recently?" is one. "I'm not angry, just disappointed," is one with which I'm intimated acquainted. "It's not me, it's you," is another that's come up over the years more than I might have been hoped.

However, I'm going to have to have being summoned to meet the father of the mythical Prince you kind of burned to a crisp pretty much up there too.

"Dude, you don't have to look so happy about it."

Bors grinned back at me. "I've been telling you to get this over and done with for the best part of a month. It's not like he's going to have you executed or anything. You healed his son."

"After I'd barbecued him."

"Sure. And if you want some advice, don't lead with that. Might not set the right tone. Maybe run with the hundreds of Saxons you've been helping to mop up. Or do a magic trick. He always liked it when Merlin did that. Or, I don't know, show him your tits. Although, as I think the Queen Igraine will be there too, maybe not."

I was following the big man down a corridor lined with elaborate tapestries. Most seemed to depict Uther slaying various foes in ingenious ways, but they did little to calm my growing nerves.

"It's alright for you, she's your mate. I've never got a good vibe from her ..."

Bors shrugged. "Don't let the icy, heinous bitch exterior fool you."

"You're saying she's really warm and cuddly underneath?"

"Goodness me, no. Inside, a rabid wolverine's scrabbling to get out. But as Mrs Bors will tell you, I'm a sucker for a strong woman."

I can confirm, my dear, that Queen Igraine is not an especially easy person. It may serve you well not to mention me too much. We never really saw eye to eye. I think she - entirely unfairly - blames me for ruining her life.

I thought back to what I knew about the Queen from Arthurian mythology. "Didn't you help Uther catfish her?"

If by 'catfish' you mean did I shapeshift Uther into the likeness of her actual husband so that Uther could impregnate her and then steal her away from their castle, then yes. Yes, I did that.

"I can see why she might hold some negative energy towards you. What happened to her husband?"

I think we can take it as read that I don't come out of any part of that story too well and leave it there.

"You know, at times like this, I do wonder whether I'm on the side of the good guys."

"And then you think back to some of the atrocities you've just seen committed by the Saxons on innocent people and stop being such a fucking wet blanket?"

I'd kind of forgotten Bors could hear me.

What he said.

We'd reached the outside of the throne room. "So, the advice I'm hearing about this audience is to not bring up Drynwyn's role in Arthur's injuries, to try not to anger Queen Karen and to avoid giving Uther an excuse to bend me over the banqueting table because, basically, as he's the king no one will bat an eyelid."

"Yeah. And if all else fails, whip your baps out. You know what? Don't know what we're mithering about. Sounds like you're all set."

*

Uther did not know what to make of his new Court Wizard.

Apparently, she was in constant communion with Merlin - not that he could mention that in Igraine's hearing. She was already not exactly on 'Team Morgan', and the final nail in the coffin would be letting that little snippet of information slip out.

Bors spoke highly of her capabilities in the field, and the gods knew - in the absence of his son stepping up - they needed every advantage they could gather to them there. He still was unclear on the details, but he knew she had been primarily responsible for the destruction of the giant bridge the Saxons had been preparing to use to storm Tintagel. But although she had healed his son of catastrophic injuries, most of the stories he'd been able to pin together suggested she'd been to blame for them in the first place ...

So, this Celt was a puzzle.

"I am unsure what to do with you, Morgan Le Fay."

"Story of my life."

"Your Highness," Igraine's voice could have frozen a jacuzzi.

"Ah, bless your heart, but there's no need for that. Morgan's fine."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Bors snorted out the mouthful of wine he had just sipped. This did little to improve the atmosphere.

Uther sighed and gestured for a servant to come forward and clean up the mess. He had hoped to get through this with some of his dignity intact. He appeared, once again, to be destined to be disappointed. "Queen Igraine means that the correct way to address the King and Queen of the Britons is 'Your Highness.'"

"Right. Sorry, Iggy. I'll remember in the future."

My dear, are you actively trying to make this go as badly as possible? Or are you just, you know, being you?

I pulled a ball of Qi to my hand and flicked it towards the goblet Bors had knocked over, trying to suppress his latest bout of sniggering. It caught it on the rim with a ding and righted it instantly.

The King and the Queen both started at my casual use of power.

"Look, let's cut to the chase. You want to know how the land lies, so here's the skinny. Following his murder, Merlin pulled me back from the future to try to keep the timeline intact and kill some Saxons. I've done my best so far - sorry about Isca, by the way - and I'll keep pitching in however I can. I have skin in the game in the form of my sister to try to keep the idea of Camelot alive. So, you know, I'm not lacking in motivation. From how Merlin tells it, though, I will probably be hitting the cultivation wall quite hard soon, so I need to spend some time working on that. But apart from that, I'm pretty much at your disposal. Oh, and sorry about frying your son."

Uther blinked at the torrent of information and then turned to the big knight. "Sir Bors, if you cannot control yourself, I would ask you to leave."

Bors wiped his streaming eyes. "Sorry, Your Highness. It won't happen again. But I did tell you she was a handful."

"So, you did. What I am trying to decide is if she is a useful handful. Or whether to throw her in a dungeon."

Bors leaned forward and stage-whispered. "Might well be tits time."

I glared at him and let my Qi leak through my skin. I felt people took me more seriously when they remembered I was a cultivator. "Look, I don't expect to be lavished with thanks, but I'm fairly sure if I hadn't arrived when I did, there'd be a blue-painted twat on your throne right now. So, how about we all put our dicks away, take a breath and start over?"

*

"I didn't think that went too bad, all things considered."

I think you would need to not consider quite a few things that have just occurred to believe that meeting went well.

"By the end, I think Uther quite liked me."

I think if we are using as our baseline whether he threw you into the deepest dungeon in Tintangel, then yes, he liked you.

"They're both worried."

I glanced up at Bors, who had followed us from the throne room.

"Worried?"

"About Arthur. He's not been the same since he returned."

"I told you, get him a hat he can wear at a jaunty angle, and he'll be as good as new."

Bors stopped and looked around. Seeing no eavesdroppers, he leant closer. The effect was of a mountain looming over me, and I instinctively stepped back. "It's one thing to push the Saxons out of our territory, it's quite another to secure the land from internal threats. There was already significant opposition to Arthur succeeding Uther, and that was before the invasion; it's only getting worse in the last few weeks." Having seen the nice new heads of stakes that Uther had brought home, I felt I could agree with that assessment.

Bors was on a roll. "The rumours about the delay in reaching Isca aren't pretty, and there are not that many of his friends left around to make them go away. I love the guy, but he's his own worst enemy at the moment. People are saying he's lost his nerve, and, to be honest, I'm not sure I disagree. But the more pressing issue is that the longer the realm goes without an heir, the louder those voices will become."

"I could be wrong, but are you trying to involve me in someone else's sex life? Because, as I've had to tell more partners than you'd hope, I'm a strictly one-in-one-out kind of girl."

Bless his heart, I think the big guy blushed. "No. Nothing like that. But the brutality of the invasion has left Uther's position weak. He's King because he's shown himself to be the biggest swinging cock in the land. People will fight for him against the Saxons because he's earned that right. But that was a long time ago, and most of the other British kingdoms now have someone new on their thrones since he came to power. In the normal run of things, this wouldn't be a problem. But right now, enough voices are asking whether they are really up to bending the knee to an Arthur who doesn't seem to be ticking many liege lord boxes. He's the Party Prince that was getting his cock wet when Isca burned. With most of the Marghekyon slain, he's vulnerable in a way he hasn't been his whole life. Guinevere's father has promised the realm enough spears to make all those problems go away. But he won't send them until his daughter is pregnant."

"Again, I'm not sure where I come into this. Do you need me to invent the turkey baster?"

"You come into this because someone needs to help my husband."

I spun around at the new voice. "Princess Guinevere, I hope you are well?"

"As well as someone can be whose urine is tested every morning for traces of a new Pendragon."

I wasn't sure what the correct response to that would be.

"That sounds ... intrusive."

Guinevere turned her green eyes my way, and I was, once again, left wondering what Arthur was playing at.

I had a reasonably long, unbroken streak of heterosexuality behind me - Ibiza in the summers of 96, 97 and 98 didn't count - but if my mission in life were to get this woman pregnant, I'd be feeling pretty cheery about the hand dealt to me by fate.

She was tall. Not Bors tall, because that would be ridiculous, but my eyes were about level with her extremely present bosom. She had long, dark hair plaited to her waist in a thoroughly complex braid that clearly needed the attention of a dedicated team each morning. And she was athletic. Like, full-on Katee Sackoff athletic. And I'm talking her at her peak-Battlestar Galactica best, not sadly wearing a headband in some poor, sub-Star Wars schtick.

Basically, what I'm saying is that in a world where women appeared to be primarily cast in the role of soft, fleeing victims, this was a motherfucking bad Amazonian bitch.

I liked her. And I wanted her to like me.

"It is what it is. However, I am not here to speak to you about me."

"What is it I can do for you, Princess?"

Guinevere looked at me steadily for a few moments as if weighing up whether to continue. I don't know what she saw in my eyes that made up her mind, but she nodded to herself and took my hand.

Be still my beating heart.

"My husband is in pain. Not physical pain. I understand I have you to thank for healing that. But I can see something is dying behind his eyes. Regardless of everything else that has gone wrong between us, I cannot sit by and watch him waste away. From everything I understand, Britain needs Arthur. And I want to play my part in making that happen."

"I hear you. But without being rude, unless you need a fluff girl, I still don't know where I fit into this?"

"You fit in, wizard because I have a quest for you."