If Merlyn’s backwards-time tutelage—turning the Wart into a fish, a hawk, even an ant to teach him how power works—was your favorite part of The Once and Future King, you’ll love how Ogion and the masters of Roke mold Ged. Le Guin pairs wonder with responsibility: names have weight, magic has costs, and a young mage learns—much as Arthur does—that true mastery is moral before it is magical.

If Wart’s journey from castle skivvy to the seat at the Round Table moved you—the boar hunt, the falcon mews, those awkward, formative lessons—Taran’s first quest in The Book of Three hits the same notes. He blunders, learns courage the long way round, and begins to grasp what leadership actually costs, much as Arthur does before the crown ever sits right.

If the book’s cheerful absurdities delighted you—Merlyn living backward, Pellinore’s endless Questing Beast, the Round Table’s rituals gently poked—Twain’s time‑tossed Yankee skewers the same myths with sharper teeth. You’ll get jousts turned into publicity stunts, court manners upended, and a witty lens on the gap between chivalric ideals and human reality.

If Arthur’s founding of the Round Table to tame violence—his lifelong struggle to make might serve right—stuck with you, Maia’s court in The Goblin Emperor is a perfect echo. Thrust onto the throne, he navigates assassins, etiquette, and engineering projects with compassion, working to build a just order rather than merely wield power.

If the aching humanity of Lancelot, Guinevere, and Arthur—love entangled with duty, the slow tragedy toward Mordred—was what you cherished, Ishiguro’s post‑Arthurian tale offers the same quiet, piercing depth. As a miasma of forgetfulness lifts, old vows and violences return, asking the Arthurian question anew: what do mercy, justice, and remembrance truly cost?