I trotted past the guards into the heart of the camp, not really knowing where I was heading. Thankfully, my mare smelled her brother and sister horses on the rank air and led me to the stables. I dismounted, and handed my reins over to the stablehand.

‘Sir Breuse is it, sir?’ said the warty man. ‘His tent’s back aways.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

The man looked shocked at the word, so unused was he to receiving thanks. Rather than engage him further in conversation, and perhaps reveal how little I knew of camp etiquette, I walked away in the direction he had pointed me.

Although the army could only have been assembled sometime in the previous couple of weeks, the place smelled as if it they had been camped outside of Tintagel for months. It was, well, I’ll say it was ripe; the smell of many thousands of men crammed into a small patch of land probably always is. The smell of smoke mixed with that of cooking food, which in turn mixed with the raw stinks of ale and wine and the effects of those drinks on their drinkers. The men lounged about under the flaps of their tents, playing dice and other games of chance, just like Palomina’s crew when the fleet had been becalmed. They were so absorbed in their games that they did not so much as look at me.

The attitudes of the men changed when I approached a section of grander tents towards the centre of the camp, where Merlin’s spell terminated. Here the soldiers were clean-shaven, and stood to attention as I passed. I had hoped to go without being noticed, but it had been a foolish hope. I could feel I was getting closer to Palomides. I could sense the string of magical metal slinking to the ground nearby, but I had entered an avenue of tents that led directly to the grandest of all, where the commander of the army – or at least that section of it – was stationed.

‘A messenger!’ called one man, and that call was repeated all the way down the line to that largest of the tents, where the guards swept aside the black curtains for me to enter. Hoping that my concern did not show on the face of my glamour, I strode into the tent as if my orders lay in that direction.

I passed through the anteroom, where a clerk sat at his desk, and the sentries lifted another curtain for me to enter the main chamber. It was a richly decorated room, with animal skins laid out on the floor. A large bearded man sat at a desk, writing something on a piece of parchment. Behind him, on his right shoulder, was a statue of this same man in white marble, dressed in the mode of an ancient Roman senator. Over his left shoulder was a very rich suit of armour, its metal treated to make it appear as black marble. I did not need these clues to identify the man, I recognised him from Bellina’s memories: this was Sir Breuse Saunce Pité, her father. Agravaine had been right to doubt the Marble knight’s allegiance, it seemed; here he was in command of Arthur’s siege of Tintagel.

Minutes passed while Sir Breuse finished writing on his paper. I knew this was his method of imposing his authority on his underlings, including his daughter. Bellina had learned to wait for hours after being summoning into her father’s presence. ‘It’s his way of feeling as powerful at home as he does ahorse,’ the wisest of Bellina’s short-lived stepmothers had once told her.

Finally the Marble knight looked up from his papers. ‘Yes?’

I had been desperately thinking of what message I could deliver throughout my long wait, but my mind was racing so fast that I was struggling to hang onto one idea.

‘Quickly, boy. Do not test my patience.’ He sat back in his chair, defying me not to give my message.

‘From the king, Sir Breuse,’ I said too quickly. I tried to slow my voice. ‘He orders that Sir Palomides be returned to Camelot.’

‘You have this order in writing?’

That flustered me. I had no idea that Arthur’s army would conduct their business in writing, nor what such an order would look like.

‘That is – sir, no Sir Breuse.’ And then I snatched at something I’d heard somewhere. ‘The order comes not from the king directly, but from Merlin, under the king’s authority.’ Despite his great magical skill, Merlin was rumoured to be illiterate – although others said he was simply too powerful and thus too lazy to read or write.

Sir Breuse’s face revealed nothing, though I suspected from my knowledge of the man that he was frustrated by Merlin’s interference in his affairs. ‘No,’ he said, after a moment of consideration. ‘Such an order is against protocol. Go back and tell him to put his request in the proper form.’

I flinched. ‘It’s only... That is, if you’ll forgive me for speaking out of turn, Sir Breuse.’ I pressed on before he could throw me out of his tent. ‘Your daughter, Sir Breuse. Merlin has discovered where Damosel Saunce Pité is hiding with the May-children. That is, where she’s being held by the rebels. He wishes to use Sir Palomides to bring the Lady Bellina out safely before he mounts his attack.’

Although nothing showed on the knight’s face but exasperation, I knew he loved his daughter fiercely. He sighed. ‘Very well. The Saracen behaves like a mere spectre anyway, he’s of no use here.’ He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. I bowed and left his presence.

* * *

I followed the spell attached to Palomides to a smaller, unguarded tent at the edge of the central cluster. Squires sat in the open air shining their armour, and from the rowdy laughter coming from another large tent, I supposed that this was where the round table knights attached to the besieging force were based. I lifted the flap of the tent where I sensed Palomides, and was relieved to find that he was alone.

The tent was bare compared to the lavish decoration of Sir Breuse’s surroundings. There were no rugs on the ground and little in the way of furniture. No torches burned inside; it was lit only by the sunlight that pressed through the canvas. Palomides was sitting in a chair in the shadows, his hands on his knees, staring blankly towards me; he didn’t register my presence in any way. Physically, he seemed the same Palomides: tall, slender and handsome – he hadn’t been physically harmed in any obvious way, nor was he restrained by chain or rope. His clothes were more plain than I was used to him wearing, but then I supposed his jailers would not have allowed him the colours and silken materials he favoured. They had allowed him to keep his jewelry, however; the fingers of his left hand were thick with rings.

‘Sir Palomides,’ I said, standing to attention like the messenger I was pretending to be.

He did not respond.

I went forward, alert to sounds of movement outside. He stared directly ahead, not blinking or following my movements. I waved my hand in front of his eyes, but that did not shake him from his trance. I examined the spell around him, which was comprised of a long strand, like a metal wire. The end of this wire stretched away through the fabric of the tent and on into the sky. The rest was wrapped around his wrists, ankles, and, most tightly of all, his neck. He was a dog, cruelly restrained by a tight wire leash.

I knelt by the Saracen’s side and looked into his eyes. The centres of his irises were the same dark brown they had always been, the same rich colour as his sister’s. But at the edges were clouds, just like those that had filled the eyes of my mother, Garnish and Epicene after they had been struck by the Spear of Longius. I stroked the unfamiliar chin of my glamour, wondering if I could figure out a way to release him from his bonds. I touched his left hand, cautiously testing if there was any response from the spell that cut into him. I lifted the hand from his knee. It came away easily. There was no immediate response in the magical wire, but the clouds receded from his eyes; the movement had brought him out of the trance. He let out a long breath – I hadn’t noticed if he’d breathing before, so still had he been – and he focused on me.

‘I apologise, my friend,’ he said, in his familiar monotone accent, so like Palomina’s. ‘I did not see you enter.’ He frowned, his eyes searching my glamour’s face. ‘Drift?’

My heart pounded in my chest. The long wire became taut. Far, far away, I felt the heavy weight of Merlin turn in our direction.

I let go of his hand and stepped away. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Palomides,’ I said, hearing the panic in my false voice. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got the wrong the tent.’ Inside I was screaming, get away get away get away. Merlin hadn’t moved in our direction yet, but I was certain he would come.

I turned to leave, but before I could lift the flap it was flung aside by someone coming in. There were two knights in the entrance, both of them Agravaine’s brothers. The big knight with the black beard, now flecked with grey, was Sir Gawain – I had seen him once, on the night I entered Caerleon. The slender, pretty knight I knew from Petal and Bellina’s minds: it was Gareth, Sir Beaumains. Alone of the sons of Orkney, Gareth took after Queen Morgawse in his looks.

‘Oh ho!’ said Gawain, advancing upon me. He smelled of wine. ‘You’re the chap who’s taking our favourite Saracen away, are you?’

Beaumains followed his eldest brother. His white-gloved hand grasped the hilt of his sword.

‘We just wanted to check, mind,’ said Gawain, ‘– because the knight without pity disnea know everything that he thinks he knows, like, not by half – we just wanted to check you had the password from the king, given that you’ve no paper from him.’

‘We were asked to look after him here, you see,’ said Beaumains, who spoke as if he was a native of the south, rather than the far north of Britain.

‘Come on, man,’ said Gawain impatiently.

My insides churned, and I think my mouth hung open. I went down on one knee and bowed my head. ‘My apologies, sir knights, I was stunned by your entrance.’ Something occurred to me, something that I hated to do, but seemed to me the only way I could affect an escape. While I might just be able to deal with these two with magic, I was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of trained fighters; there was no way I could fight my way out through them all. I drove water to my fingers, and reached for Gawain’s hand. ‘Please accept my condolences.’

I tried to erect a dam in my mind, to stop anything but what was at the forefront of Sir Gawain’s memory flowing into my brain, but I was only partially successful. I saw fragments of his life, and it was not, in truth, a wholly evil one. His most thrilling moment had been on that day Arthur, Morgan le Fay and lamorak visited Orkney. Gawain had been impressed by the sophistication of Arthur, draped over his beautiful Aunt Morgan, and had instinctively wanted to live that kind of life. When the twenty year-old Arthur had crouched down in front of the six year-old Gawain and called him a fine, strong lad, Gawain had been set on the road that led him to this camp, to the wrong side of a war being waged partly against his own father. How angry he had been when his mother had sent him across the islands during that first visit, which must have been a fine time indeed, judging by how sad Morgawse had been once Arthur, Morgan and Lamorak had gone. Gawain’s was a weak life, and a cowardly one; he was easily led, and greedy – a liar – but he was also generous in his love. He had first joined the round table against lot’s wishes in the hope of riches, yes, but also of preventing Arthur’s ambitions from reaching the Kingdom of Orkney. Indeed, he had no idea that Camelot intended to attack his father once Tintagel had fallen. That King Lot had never understood Gawain’s motivations hurt his eldest son.

‘Nasty, sweaty hand you’ve got there, man,’ Gawain said, wiping his fingers on his breeches. He hadn’t taken in what I’d said, but Gareth had.

‘Condolences for what?’ said the younger man.

I bowed my head. ‘It pains me to be the bearer of this news, my lords. Your mother is dead. Most foully slain by Sir Lamorak in your father’s house at Orkney.’

Gawain staggered back. ‘What? What!’ he bellowed. He turned to his brother. ‘I’ll kill him, Gareth! I’ll kill the bastard.’ He tried to storm out of the tent there and then, but his younger brother held him back.

‘Hold, Gawain, hold,’ said Beaumains, his face blank with shock. ‘Where... Where is Lamorak now, man?’

I shook my head. ‘That I do not know, my lord.’

‘It doesn’t matter where he is,’ barked Gawain, tears dripping from his eyes, spit dribbling from his enraged mouth. He struggled to get past Beaumains, but the slender man had set himself firmly against his brother. ‘I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him.’

‘Yes, we will,’ said Beaumains. ‘In time. If this man’s word proves true we will kill Lamorak, I promise. But wait one moment.’

Gawain went to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably in grief and rage. Beaumains, however, remained in control of his emotions. ‘The password, man?’

The word had been at the very front of Gawain’s mind, and was the first thing to cross the boundary into mine. ‘Sangreal, my lord.’

Beaumains nodded. ‘You may go.’

I tried to leave the tent, but the younger knight stopped me. ‘You’re forgetting something.’ He nodded back into the tent, at Palomides.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Sir Palomides, if you will.’

Palomides stood. ‘Of course, Drift.’

I held my breath, expecting Beaumains to take me prisoner there and then; but either the sons of Orkney were too deeply shocked by the news I had given them to be aware of what the Saracen had said, or they had never heard my name. Palomides followed me meekly into the daylight, and I led him to the stables.