Sword of the Rightful King by Jane Yolen Page A

the Companions are trying to find me a bride. Everyone in court from the cook’s boy on up is looking out for the right girl. But I do not want one of those temporary marriages, a handfast for a year and a day.”
    â€œAnd...?” Kay seemed to have found something very interesting in the ceiling, because he was still staring at it.
    â€œI am not like Queen Maeve of Connacht to change consorts so often that I never have a mate but there is another in her shadow.”
    â€œAnd...?” The ceiling must have been utterly fascinating. Kay could not let it go.
    â€œAnd I want something more than... than a list of things small and large,” Arthur said. “I want...” But he stopped because, for the life of him, he did not know what he wanted in a bride. Beauty? Wit? Intelligence? Loyalty? Honesty? A large dowry? A good family? A long patience? A gift for song? It was a puzzle for certain. Whoever became his bride would also become the queen at his side. Not a May Queen to serve for the Planting Fest until Solstice Eve, but a queen for all seasons. Someone to talk to, to confide in. To share interests. Someone who could make him laugh. He rarely had anything to laugh at, now that he was king. The list the men had drawn up did not speak to that kind of queen. He wondered if there was any list that could.
    â€œThe men are trying, Arthur,” said Kay, by which he meant that
he
was trying and had gotten the men to go along with him. Kay could often bend certain kinds of men to his will.
    â€œVery trying,” Arthur replied quietly, and smiled. This time it was a real smile because he, like Merlinnus, had gotten off a real last line.
    But still gazing at the ceiling, Kay did not seem to notice Arthur’s last line. Indeed, Kay had little sense of humor, especially where it touched upon himself.
    â€œAll right, then,” Arthur said, and sighed.
So much for last lines
. “Send in the next petitioner.”
    Eager to be doing something official, Kay went back to the door and ushered in a white-bearded man wearing grey woolen breeches and a tunic tied with a leather thong at his waist. Clearly he had not dressed up for his interview with the king. He was carrying a very large bag of millet in his arms.

9
Talking to Trees
    M ERLINNUS HAD LEFT the throne room and gone directly outside, where he began to mull. over the interview he’d just had with the king. Without thinking about where he was going, he headed toward the grove beyond the north end of the castle. His favorite oak tree grew there.

    The long, cruel winter had heaved up the path, making the footing uneven and treacherous, so he walked with care. Now approaching his sixtieth year, Merlinnus did not dare fall, for fear he might break a bone. Even with his vast knowledge of herbs and potions, he could no longer count on healing easily. He had not been speaking idly when he had told the messenger his bones were brittle.
    If he broke a bone, what good would he be to Arthur? Pain and fever precluded sound judgment. Sound judgment was the base on which all magic rested. And if ever Arthur needed magic, he needed it now.
    How else to guarantee the throne?
    Merlinnus hadn’t needed a messenger to remind him of the restless tribes. He was well aware of the troubling rumors coming down from the north. It was not only the North Witch who sought the throne, though she had the best claim to it. Petty Highland kings with unpronounceable names had refused to take Arthur as their liege lord. And as for the Border lords, hiding behind the Roman Wall—well, for the most part they refused to commit themselves.
    So Merlinnus trod the broken path carefully, and when he got to the roots of the oak, he gazed up at the tree fondly, addressing it rather informally, they being of a long acquaintance.
    â€œ
Salve, amice frondifer
. Greeting, friend leaf bearer. I am troubled and only your good advice will salve me.”
    A rustle of new