“Warren leaned against the wall and scowled. It wasn’t fair. It was as if there was some hidden conspiracy to keep him from meeting Arthur, as if he wasn’t good enough, or as if the King was too dangerous. It rankled.
Lyons showed no signs of coming back. Nobody had come to relieve the guard. Warren glanced left, then right, and before he could think twice, slipped through the gate and shut it behind him. He darted over the courtyard and marvelled at how the castle walls now had a mode of entry and of egress, when the last time he was here, there hadn’t been. He recollected the sensation of being picked up by a giant eagle and his heart hammered. He wanted to see the man who had been that eagle. He wanted to talk to him.
The inside of the building was just as it had been during the battle, though quieter and much more ordered. He made it as far as the landing where Merlyn had once left him and Morgan, and listened. Voices saturated a room through the wall to his left. He followed the sound, crept through an open doorway, and found himself in full view of a crowd. Panicking, he ducked behind a nearby chair and waited to be discovered, his ears roaring.
Nothing happened. No strange hands grabbed him, no harsh voice demanded what he was doing. The crowd continued to shift and murmur, an unending sea. Warren risked a peek around the side of the chair. Lining both sides of the room – the hall – were groups of men and women, young and old, warriors and bakers and beggars and all manners of people. They were waiting for something. A door at the opposite side of the chamber squealed open. A glimpse of Lyons behind Kay as the exiled knight strode into the throng. Lyons closed the door. The crowd grew silent.
Kay smiled in the direction of the chair with an odd, half-bitter smile of affection. A young man, not long a boy, walked from the side of the room and sat in the chair Warren hid behind. He was quick to recoil his head from view and hugged his knees, tense, his pulse escalating. He’d only gone and hidden himself behind the throne like an idiot. He hoped the King couldn’t hear him breathing.
“We are now in session.” The King’s voice was light and warm but familiar. Warren tried to place it and couldn’t. “Who’s first?”
Kay said, “Sire, I wish to–”
The chair creaked. “Kay?”
“Your Majesty.”
The young man in the chair sounded as if he was having difficulty speaking. There were a couple of short gasps, then the order, “I wish everyone, apart from Kay, to leave the room.”
There was a general bustle, the shuffling of feet, murmuring, a child’s high voice trying to ask questions. The door creaked shut and Warren’s panic grew. He wasn’t meant to be here. Why hadn’t he slipped out of the hall with the rest of the crowd?
“I thought you were dead.” The King’s voice was younger, now, and quieter. A note of bewilderment had crept into it.
Warren risked another glance around the side of the throne. Kay had dropped to one knee, holding his sword out to Arthur horizontally. As he knelt, his eyes grazed Warren’s: yes, he knew he was there. It was small comfort.
“I left–”
“You ran.” The King was fierce and upset. “You ran from us and didn’t look back. Cynyr almost died of grief.”
“Oh, come on. Old Da wasn’t going to miss me and I knew it.”
“He did! We both did.”
“You? Weren’t you too busy yanking swords out of stones and ruling the country to notice I was gone?”
“We knew you deserted. You ran – you left us for the evil lands.”
“Gore has a certain reputation, I’ll admit, and so does Uhrience. He’s not the most nurturing mentor to have but I wanted to learn magic, Arthur. Magic isn’t all bad.”
Arthur subsided. After a pause, “Do it, then.”
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon?”
“Do magic for me. I want to see.”
“I can’t just do it on demand–”
“They threw you out, didn’t they?”
“I–”
“They threw you out because you’re a dunce. You aren’t able to conjure, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
A gradual pink glow suffused Kay’s skin. He snapped to his feet and made a curt gesture, a strange shape with his hands. One of the tapestries caught alight behind him. His head whipped around in shock and panic. He tried to magically counteract the flames but all that came out of his palms was a fine flow of dust. Arthur shouted for water. Two pages carrying a bucket ran into the hall and doused the fire, soaking Kay in the process.
Arthur waited until the pages had gone before saying, “You didn’t mean to do that.”
“No.” Kay huffed a wry chuckle. “I didn’t.”
“Your anger is what’s the problem.” Warren heard the King get off the throne and descend the steps towards his long-lost brother. “Even when we were children, you couldn’t control your temper. If you don’t learn to keep your emotions in check, how do you expect to control your other mental forces?”
Warren’s eyes widened. As Arthur walked into view… he had the same hair as Warren. He turned around…
Arthur had Warren’s face.”
Disrespectful Writers
Over the past few months, the humourous e-zine I edit, illustrate, and publish – for no financial gain – has received a larger volume of submissions than it has done thus far.
Of course, in a crowd there’s always one or two “funny” ones. And when I say funny, I mean rude, abusive, and disrespectful. Someone who’s work I published took issue with the illustration I provided, because of a misunderstanding over what a certain phrase meant, and instead of asking me calmly and politely – professionally – to alter it, they sent me a message containing insults and swear-words.
Here is an example of the sort of language I as an editor will not tolerate (name and identifying details have been removed):
After attempting a repair and trying to level with them, this is the response I got.
After that, this particular writer’s piece was promptly removed from Once Upon A Crocodile e-zine and future emails from them will be deleted unread. Not only did they give me a nickname that I don’t answer to (Do I sound like Tony from Hancock’s Half Hour?) they could not conduct themselves in a way that publications expect from writers who take themselves professionally, or even semi-professionally.
(If future writers need to submit things to me in all-caps lock because of problems with their vision, then that is fine.)
That aside, issue 15 of OUAC will soon be rolling out (due middle of March). After March there are going to be some changes – perhaps moving from Weebly onto a better platform, as editing with the Weebly app is like trying to extract teeth from a baby – and introducing themed issues / anthologies or anthologies to benefit charities.
Ramble over.
Nightwalks 