“I have to go home,” you say, Constance, as much to yourself as to Merlin. There the sword waits, undrawn, hidden well. Because now you know, don’t you? All this time, you thought that you were nothing more than its caretaker. That one day you would return it to Merlin’s care, that if anyone were to choose the wielder, it would be him.

But it’s you. It’s always been you. The weight of your responsibility crushes your shoulders like the Sicilian mountain. Excalibur, in this moment, does not seem to you a prize but a terrible burden. Who would take it up? The matchless blade, the blessed scabbard? You think of Robena and then mistrust yourself. She is strong, but does she have the inner strength to bear that blade? Has she been made unsuitable for Britain by her travel abroad? Would that weight destroy her like you fear it would?

No, there is only one way to settle this, isn’t there?

There must be, as always, a contest. A challenge. A rescue. And a terrible foe. One that only the pure-hearted champion could defeat.

“No,” you say, to both of you. “I need to find a [i]dragon.[/i]”