Chapter 21: The King's Council

Word of the King’s recovery spread through Camelot’s streets faster than gossip in a brothel. To the Celtic folk of Britain, their Knight King was more than a ruler; she was a savior. She was the leader who had driven back their enemies and bled for their peace. Her people adored her, her knights were sworn to her, and her enemies cursed her name. But no matter which side you were on, one truth was absolute: Britain's fate was tied to Artoria's. So when news came that she was well, the entire kingdom breathed a collective sigh of relief. In an age where a simple fever could be a death sentence, the fear had been real. Years of war had forged a simple belief in the hearts of the people: as long as the girl with the holy sword sat on the throne in Camelot, Britain was invincible.

The next morning, Artoria convened her council around the famous Round Table. There was a fortnight's worth of neglected business to attend to. The agenda was long: their stance on the southern Empire, strategies for rooting out the last of the Anglo warbands in the northern hills, a response to Viking longships sighted off the eastern coast, policies for settling the Welsh woodlands, this year’s grain harvest forecast, plans for new housing districts in Camelot, and overtures to the troublesome tribes in the north of England.

Zeilin, naturally, took no part. He knew contracts, not statecraft. He’d learned long ago not to offer opinions on things he knew nothing about. He stood with the other guards along the walls of the great hall, watching, listening. If you wanted to take the measure of a kingdom, this was the way to do it. Listen to a council meeting. A kingdom's belly dictates its politics, and the arguments of its leaders tell you everything you need to know about its health. After what he'd seen last night, Zeilin had a bad feeling about the health of this one.

"Sir Tristan," Artoria began, her gaze fixed on the great map spread across the table. "Station your men at the mouth of the Thames. I want no Viking raids upriver." The map was a tapestry of threats. "Sir Percival, send word to Sir Lamorak. Warn him to expect Anglo attacks. Sir Gareth, the northern tribes remain your responsibility." Her eyes swept across the map, finally resting on the green heart of the kingdom. "Sir Gawain, Sir Gaheris. You two will oversee this year's grain levy."

"As you command, my King," the named knights replied, rising to give a crisp salute. 

"I am counting on you all," Artoria said with a nod. Her gaze returned to the table, her fingers tapping a thoughtful rhythm. After a moment, she announced, "This year's levy will be… thirty percent."

The words had barely left her lips before the hall erupted in a low rumble of dissent. The knights were muttering, arguing amongst themselves. Zeilin was surprised, but even more so when Artoria made no move to silence them. She simply listened, her expression serious, weighing their words. Most kings he knew were obsessed with their own authority. Without it, a king was just a well-dressed beggar. But this girl… it seemed that when it came to the fate of her kingdom, her knights' counsel mattered more than her own decree. A moment later, a knight rose to speak. From the murmurs, Zeilin caught his name—Dagonet. 

"My King, Camelot's population grows. A thirty percent tax now would stifle that growth. If we were to lower the levy, we would surely draw more settlers, and it would give the northern tribes a reason to swear fealty rather than raid. My King, I believe twenty percent would suffice. Ten would be better."

A wave of agreement followed his words. Zeilin found himself nodding. The knight had a good head on his shoulders. A kingdom's strength was its people. In Zeilin's world, the Northern kings were always scheming for ways to lure settlers from their neighbors. More people meant more taxes, more grain, and more bodies for the army. The North felt the looming threat of Nilfgaard so keenly precisely because the Empire's lands and population dwarfed their own.

Artoria looked around the table. "You all agree with Sir Dagonet?" 

"My King, if I may," another knight interjected, rising to his feet. His expression was a thundercloud of disapproval aimed at Dagonet. "My King, thirty percent is necessary. Last year's harvest was poor. If we reduce the levy again, and the Anglos invade this winter, our granaries will be empty before the snows melt. Camelot has people enough. Expansion should not be our priority now."

"Sir Bors speaks the truth, my King," said Sir Percival, standing to lend his support. "The Anglos are restless. Our scouts report them in contact with the Vikings. My King, Camelot must prepare for war."

"That's madness, Sir Percival," another knight stood, one of Dagonet's faction. "The Anglos can barely feed themselves! They've no stores for a southern campaign!" 

"Sir Lucan," a knight from Bors's camp retorted, "it is because their situation is dire that we must be vigilant! They may launch a desperate raid! The Anglos are not knights! They know nothing of honor!"

The debate threatened to boil over again. Zeilin watched from the side, arms crossed. These two factions were clearly well-established. But before the argument could resume, it was cut short by an urgent voice from the hall's main entrance. Instantly, every head in the hall turned—knights, guards, servants alike. There were maybe five people in all of Camelot who would dare interrupt a council of the Round Table. Zeilin looked too. A knight he didn't recognize strode towards the table. He wore a strange, full-faced mask and ornate armor of red and white. He was short, no more than one-fifty, unusually so for a knight. A shock of golden hair, much like Artoria's, was tied back with a red cord. As the masked figure approached, the anger drained from the faces of the debating knights. Whoever this was, they commanded respect. The knight passed Zeilin, and for a moment, the emerald-green eyes behind the mask locked onto him. The gaze was deep, unsettling. Zeilin felt a prickle of unease. He'd never seen this knight before, he was sure of it. He wouldn't have forgotten.

"Mordred," Artoria said, her voice sharp as she stood to face the newcomer. "What is the meaning of this? Why are you late?" There was a clear note of reprimand in her tone. "Tardiness is not the way of a knight."

"Forgive me, my King." Mordred bowed his head low, as if he had committed not a simple breach of punctuality, but a mortal sin. "I received grave news. I had to verify its truth, and so was delayed. I beg my King's pardon."

"What news, Mordred? Speak," Artoria commanded. "What news could be so dire as to trouble even you?"

"My King, it is a most dark omen." Mordred looked up slightly. A neutral, androgynous voice emerged from behind the mask. Zeilin strained his ears, trying to place it. Man or woman? Impossible to tell. And the mask… for some reason, Zeilin felt a strange hum of magic from it. Why wear a mask? Why hide one's face? Strange…

 "My King," Mordred said, the words dropping into the silent hall like stones into a deep well. "In the villages to the south of Camelot… a plague has broken out."