Chapter 19: A Fish Head That Died with a Grievance

Night fell. A bright, sharp crescent moon hung in the sky. A cool sea breeze drifted in from the coast, rolling over the endless wheat fields and carrying the clean scent of grain into the stone heart of Camelot. Zeilin stood on a palace balcony, breathing it in. The fresh air helped clear his head. Artoria had found him earlier that afternoon, insisting he attend a banquet she was preparing, just for him. "Banquet" was a strong word for it. Just the two of them sharing a meal. He hadn't thought much of it, agreed easily enough. He'd been given food as thanks before; it was common enough on the Path.

"Zeilin," Artoria said, her voice muffled slightly, "this is a renowned delicacy in Britain. What do you think?" She was a picture of nobility, using her knife to delicately slice meat from a roasted chicken, lifting it to her mouth with a silver fork, chewing with a refined grace that spoke of a lifetime of tutoring. Her table manners were flawless. If you ignored the mountain of empty plates piling up around her, and the… unique presentation of the main course, it might have even been a pleasant, almost romantic, supper. Faint candlelight, a cool night breeze, a charming girl… and a culinary warzone.

"A minute ago," Zeilin said slowly, turning to take in the full devastation on the table, "I could have sworn there was an entire roasted chicken on that platter." He sucked in a breath. "I never knew you were a magician. Did you hide the rest of it up your sleeve?" He’d gotten a taste of her appetite on the road, sure. But seeing her let loose, with no need to ration their supplies, was something else entirely. It beggared belief. A girl so slender, so petite, putting away more food than any three farmhands he’d ever seen. What sort of fearsome, otherworldly stomach was hiding under that flat belly of hers?

"Use food for magic tricks?" she exclaimed, rapping the table with her fork in condemnation. "That's wasteful! And waste is a shameful vice!" Her argument might have carried more weight if she hadn't been delivering it around a mouthful of chicken. That strange cowlick of hair on her head seemed to bob in agreement with her indignation. After a few days, Zeilin had concluded it wasn't just a messy bit of hair. He'd tried to smooth it down for her once or twice, but each time a strange, prickling sense of foreboding had stopped him cold. He’d learned to leave it be.

After dispatching the last morsel of chicken, she finally turned her attention to the main course, a dish so bizarre it looked like a practical joke. She presented it to him with a grand flourish. "Come, Zeilin. Allow me to formally introduce you. The most famous dish in the Kingdom of Britain: Stargazy Pie! Do not underestimate it. This is a delicacy that makes even the Gauls across the sea weep with envy."

"I've no doubt," Zeilin said, his voice dry. "I imagine anyone, from any land, would weep at the sight of it." He forced himself to look at the pie. Several small fish—sardines—had been baked into the crust, their heads sticking straight up, their dead eyes staring at the ceiling as if crying out to the gods against the injustice of their fate. If Zeilin had stumbled across this thing sitting on a stump in the woods, his first instinct would have been to blast it with Igni, certain it was some kind of cursed trap. His second would be to hit whatever was left with Aard, just to scatter the remains so it wouldn't give some poor, unsuspecting traveler a heart attack.

"It is a dish of ancient tradition, you know," she explained proudly, oblivious to his internal horror. "It was created to celebrate a bountiful catch. The original recipe calls for seven different kinds of fish, but as it is a month before the fishing season, we must make do with sardines from the cellar. They are most traditional. The fish are baked to perfection, then set in a rich filling of cream, boiled eggs, and potatoes. It is a taste of heaven." She was so damned earnest. So proud. Zeilin couldn't bring himself to refuse. He sat opposite her, cautiously took his knife, and surgically removed one of the little fish heads. He placed it on the side of his plate, making a mental note to perform an exorcism on his cutlery later.

Seeing that Zeilin was "appreciating" the dish, she nodded in satisfaction and called out. "Guinevere! Would you be so kind as to bring the other Stargazy Pie?"

"Artoria, wait," Zeilin said quickly, a hint of desperation in his voice. "You said yourself that waste is shameful. If we have too much food, and cannot finish it all… would that not be the greatest waste?" For a moment, he felt the same cold dread he had during his Trial of the Grasses. The food wasn't poison, he knew that. But the psychological pressure was damn near the same.

"Hmm. You speak the truth." She sighed, agreeing. Then her eyes lit up with a familiar, terrifying resolve. "Therefore, I shall not allow such a waste to occur! I will take it upon myself to finish the next pie!" "..." Zeilin was utterly, completely speechless.

A moment later, a breathtakingly beautiful woman entered the room. She had the same fine, golden hair as Artoria, though hers fell in soft waves over her shoulders. The silk of her elegant gown seemed plain and dull compared to her radiance. Her face, like exquisitely crafted porcelain, was a perfect match for Artoria's beauty. If one had to compare them, it could only be in their bearing, their aura. Artoria politely took the second pie from her hands. "Thank you for your trouble, Guinevere."

"It is my honor, my King," Guinevere replied with a graceful curtsy. Seeing them together, Zeilin thought, they seemed less like a king and queen… Though the idea of Artoria having a queen at all was a strange thought. He’d known ruling queens, sure. But a queen consort to a female king? His gaze toward Artoria took on a new, speculative layer. But before he could unravel that particular knot, another, more familiar sense pricked at him. An unusual scent clinging to Guinevere. Zeilin narrowed his eyes. In the candlelight, his golden Witcher pupils pulsed. An aura, invisible to normal men, flared into view, a deep crimson mist swirling around the queen. Odd. After spending so much time with Artoria, the queen should, by all rights, carry the king's scent most strongly. But the scent-trail clinging to Guinevere wasn't King Arthur's. It was the distinct scent of another knight he had met. Lancelot. Interesting, interesting…