Say what you like about Lancelot, but he's a gusher.

Once I'd gathered enough blood for another whirl at making the potion, I forced him to have my last Inferior Elixir of Wellness before we spoke further. It was quite frightening how quickly people without access to Qi bled everywhere. Like, seriously, how are these guys even staying alive?

"Dude, how is it possible you are still a virgin? I mean, have you seen you?"

"My mother," he said as if that explained everything.

I remembered some things he'd said about his mum when we were locked together in the Dark Tower. “She made it difficult for you to have girlfriends?"

His ridiculously handsome face opened into a guileless smile. "No girlfriends for me. Too important. After mother killed a few, rest stayed away did."

“’Too important?’ What does that mean?"

“Mother said needed to save my essence."

See, it's not just me, Merlin chimed in. I think you'll find most of us prefer a less crude expression for the male part of the cycle of life.

"What had your mum got you saving your spunk for?" I was rewarded by Lancelot's horrified expression and a somewhat tired ‘tut’ from Merlin.

“I have to give it all to a great Queen." Lancelot's face took on a dream-like property. "There will be a time of great warfare, and I must put it right."

“To be fair, mate, if you've been saving it up for the best part of thirty years, that will probably do it. Nothing puts the dampner on a battle than a water cannon."

He ignored me. "Mother had vision. After the great ends, when peace it is, I must give Queen the gift of my essence. Mother foretold it. And what she sees, is.”

Awesome. No prizes for guessing who the Queen is going to be. But, looking on the bright side, at least it sounded like I didn't need to keep such a close eye on them right now. End of a great war? At the very least, I had to have after Arthur’s coronation before they’d be getting it on. Assuming that we could get things that far, of course.

And speaking of which, my Qi wasn’t going to increase its concentration all on its own.

I mean, it will, my dear. That is kind of the point. However, what we are seeking to do here is . . .

I switched off the sound of the Big M wittering, and turned to watch the cauldron bubbling away. The colour was definitely a bit more vibrant this time, and the smell was actually quite attractive. It was smoky, like something with paprika on the hob.

Then something occurred to me. “Merlin, If he's got that much … essence backed up, there's no chance any of it will have leaked out into his blood, is there?”

My dear, we occasionally have days when you do nothing but impress me with your work ethic, intelligence, and impressive behaviour. Then we have these little moments when you ask me a question like that, and it reminds me that you really were quite a spectacular mess.

“So, I’m assuming not?”

I can absolutely reassure you that there is no possible way that any little Lancelot’s have entered his bloodstream due to a . . . ‘backing up’ of his essence. Moreover, before you ask a further question that is likely to embarrass us both, I can also guarantee that drinking this potion will, in no way, risk you carrying his child.

“From your tone, I am assuming this was a really stupid question?”

Drink the damn elixir, my dear.

*

So, when Merlin had said it was going to be a bit like a diuretic, he'd not been kidding. I’d barely finished slurping this stuff down and switched to my Artist’s Studio to watch the concoction drop into my Vitruvian Man before it sucked all of my available Qi up like the driest sponge in existence.

This was a bit freaky.

I was used to seeing my Qi represented as paint. From the very first steps I had taken as a cultivator, that is how it had manifested itself to me. I understood from talking to Merlin that each cultivator visualised their Qi in an entirely personal way. For me, it had been like watercolour paint, moving around my channels in a fluid, clear manner.

Ingesting the Erobus root, though, did something fairly spectacular.

From the second I swallowed it, my Qi thickened up, taking on the consistency of the most viscous of oil paint. It was still a liquid, of course, but now it was much more happy just staying in place rather than running free. Whereas I had become used to it whizzing around my channels with barely a thought, it took a considerable effort to get it moving, and what is more, it now did not seem to have any momentum behind it whenever I actually did get it moving.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

If I stopped concentrating for a heartbeat, the whole slow ground to a halt.

"Fucking hell, Big M. Cycling has become a struggle . . .

As it should be, my dear. The whole point of being a cultivator is that you are supposed to struggle. Without all your various shenanigans, this is what it was supposed to feel like right from the start of your journey as a cultivator. Think of it like ‘desirable difficulty.’

But the thicker Qi wasn't the only change caused by drinking down a few pints of Lancelot’s finest plus random herbs. My water feature, which had been so close to overflowing, had emptied to about a third full, with the Qi within it now of the same sticky consistency as elsewhere in my channels.

"So, I guess I’m not nearly a ‘wizard, Harry’ anymore?"

You are exactly where you were before drinking the potion, my dear, but now your potential is exponentially richer. As I tried to explain, you could have pressed forward into ... Harry if you'd wished, but the Iimits you would have put upon yourself would have been significant. Our original plan, when you first reincarnated into this world, was simply to put on a good show and make it seem like you were an epic cultivator. Therefore, it did not matter that your Qi was reasonably thin gruel. But now we know just how strong Aurelius is, you are literally the only game in town we have that could possibly compete.

"But Caeldfwch . . .”

Sure, that will help Arthur and anyone in his immediate vicinity. And maybe even a good portion of his army, should it come down to that, and he learns how to control the power of the sword. But the only way to truly combat the growing threat of the Saxons having an epically powerful mage is for you to become the biggest, baddest cultivator you can. This is a significant step to that.

I could hear what the Big N was saying, but it did feel like I had taken somewhat of a backward step in my own journey. Cycling was such a struggle now, I was feeling out of breath just being in here. So, I popped out of my Artist's Studio and found Lancelot standing about an inch from my nose.

I wasn't quite sure how the time duration worked when I was inside my Studio, but I'd never come back out before and had the situation in reality change before.

Lancelot was fast . . .

"Dude, unless you're tweezering my eyebrows, step the fuck back."

“Peaceful you were looking; I was just making sure you were okay.”

He was so close I could just lean forward and kiss him. Who knows, for the first time in my life, an impulsive snog might end up saving the fabric of a nation?

But no.

The moment quickly passed, and he was stepping back and looking at the various paraphernalia on Merlin's shelves. “Lots of stuff you be having, no?”

I packed my libido away for another day - and I still needed to think more about why on earth my psyche wanted to cling on to being a good-time girl (and, when it came down to it, were the times ever really any good?) - and stepped forward to join him.

Or I would have done if the moment I tried to walk, my legs didn't crumple up beneath me.

Oh, yes, my dear. A slight after-effect of Erobus root is that you're likely to be flat on your back for the next few days. And not, apparently, in a way you deem such an essential aspect of your personality.

"Oh, fuck off, Big M."

*

Igraine had returned to her room long before the feast had ended.

When she was Queen, such a thing would have been unthinkable. Uther would have insisted she stayed until the last guest was dragged from the drinking benches.

But now, she was little more than an ornamentation.

She sat at the royal table because -other than a grave - there was nowhere else for her to be.

Uther.

Who would have thought his loss would make her feel this way? When he was alive, she would have acknowledged that she was, at times, less than affectionate towards him.

Passion - neither love nor hate – could not stay at that white-hot Intercity for thirty years of marriage. It was understandable that they had both drifted apart as the years went by. So why this wound in her chest? Why did her eyes keep cascading torrents of water down her face?

Igraine walked backwards and forward across the cold flagstones of her bed-chamber, trying to push down a pain that threatened to overwhelm her. Wildly, she tried to think about something else and cast her mind to the kings who had arrived at the castle that day.

She knew then all of old. With them, she had played the role Uther needed - even if he remained naively unaware of her part in it all.

For example, she had directed men to ‘visit’ Owain's son when word returned to her of brewing discontent in Gwent. The boy - ha, he was twenty if he was a day - had his eyes on his father's throne and was making moves to displace him. Uther needed a strong arm to his north, and every indication was that Gryff ap Owain was not likely to be that. The boy’s allies were too close to the Saxons for comfort.

Officially, it was a hunting accident - weren't they all? - but she had always suspected the King of Gwent knew the truth. After all, he had allied himself even tighter to Uther after that - either in gratitude or fear, Igraine did not know.

To be fair, she did not think it much mattered which it was.

King Mark was different, she reflected, as she paced. His power over his small kingdom was absolute, and so manifest that there was little for her spies to report on that wasn't already common knowledge. There had been rumours of some strife with one of his boys - he had so many, and by so many different women - it was never easy to keep track. Igraine frowned and pressed the issue in her mind for a moment, the fog of grief receding momentarily.

Tristian.

That was what the boy had been called. He'd fallen in love with one of his father's . . . Igraine assumed ‘slave girls' was the only appropriate term. It was something Celtic she was called ...

Isolde. That was it. Who knew what became of them?

Ingrain made a mental note to find out - and then stopped, her knees sagging. Why That was not her role anymore. Arthur had not once spoken to her about her network nor asked for her input on how to handle each of these very different men. She was, for the first time in her life since arriving at Tintagel, redundant.

That thought pushed her to the last of the two kings – Beric and Corys. On the face of it, those two could not have been more different. Powys, one of the remaining great kingdoms, easily capable of its King pushing to be considered for the position of the Pendragon should Beric have the drive. And then little Dehuebarch, still holding out despite being almost wholly surrounded by Saxon forces. But the two men themselves?

They didn't associate together. Their temperaments were wildly disparate - Beric was all spice and vinegar, whereas Coms was affable and had a mouth filled with honey. And yet, and yet and yet …

Igraine stopped her pacing. She didn't know what role she played in this kingdom, but she was damned if she would let her son go on a quest with these men without being in possession of all the facts.

She turned to her door. There was a figure there, observing her.

"How did you get up here? What do you want?"

The hooded shadow shut the door behind him as he entered the room.