text: The knights had been assembled for an hour before Arthur, King, entered Camelot’s great hall. When the clatter of his chain mail began echoing through the castle, the lords rose and snatched their helmets, prepared to offer them along with their lives in service to their liege. Arthur stepped up to his seat, inclining his head slightly to the gathered knights. Sir Galahad threw himself to the floor. As the other armor-clad warriors struggled to their knees, their king waved his hand. “No, no, get up,” he boomed. “I called this meeting to.... What’s that?” He gestured with a heavy gauntlet toward the center of the table. Peering up at the hall’s high windows, Lancelot shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun streaming into the chamber. “Perhaps it’s a ray of sun, sire, highlighting an aberration in the grain.” Arthur heaved his mighty sword, Excalibur, onto the great table. “Who did this? Who spilled a flagon on the Round Table? You think, after seeing a mark like that, the guests of Camelot will take me seriously? It’s warped the planks! I’m a king, not a pauper, and I deserve to live like one! There’s not a platter in this fair land capable of covering that up! Percivale, you look like you’ve got something to say.” The knight stammered under his breath. “Go on.” “I don’t believe it’s a spilled drink, sire.” Percivale bit his lip. “Then, what is it? A leak in the rafters? It’s an unusual color for rainwater this time of year, don’t you think? Your travels have taken you to many lands under my banner. Does that puddle look familiar to you?” Percivale’s eyes fell to his boots. Arthur turned his attention to the broader group. “I wouldn’t have spent all that money on a comfortable castle if I’d known my knights were just going to waltz around, ruining everything. How am I supposed to fix this? Have a carpenter strip and stain the Round Table all over again? I’m heavily leveraged at the moment. It’ll involve another tax on my subjects, and you can bet I’ll tell them where to pin the blame!” “I saw who did it, sire,” Sir Gawain said. Arthur’s left eyebrow edged closer to his circlet. “It was....” Gawain gulped for air. “It was the sorceress, Morgana le Fay--as I live and breathe, sire.” “Was it really?” Gawain shifted his weight and stared at a stack of rotting bones under the table. “No,” he whispered. “I swear you knights have made Morgana a scapegoat for everything! If it rains, you tell me it was Morgana. If it snows, it was definitely Morgana. If you fail a quest, it’s because Morgana showed up--who knows how--to cackle at you! I thought I chose you all for your bravery. If I’d wanted a bunch of rabble rousers who spill mead on the furniture and blame my half-sister every time their horses throw a shoe, I’d have grabbed a wagonful of superstitious peasants off the street!” Arthur paused. “No one wants to confess? Alright. There will be no feasting until the table’s fixed. No mead either. I’ll wall up the cellar myself if I have to. Also, Sir Lionell, your charter to slay the dragon of Tywyn has been indefinitely postponed. The beast appears to have entered into a truce with the townspeople... for the moment. I will continue to evaluate the situation in the coming weeks.