AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story occurs in an alternate universe branching off from the end of the second season. And in my AU, although Morgana is back in Camelot, she didn't spend a year with Morgause becoming an irredeemable super villain. Also, Arthur knows about Merlin's magic.
XIXIXIXIX
The Errant Ones
*PROLOGUE*
Lancelot pushed his way through the crush of people inside the tavern until he found a vacant chair. The village was large, and he dared hope that someone could help him.
"A what?" the barkeep asked.
"A manticore," Lancelot repeated loudly, enunciating each syllable. "It's a giant . . . cat, with a man's face and dragon wings. And spikes on its tail."
The patrons on either side of Lancelot glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes, and the barkeep concentrated on wiping out an empty mug.
"It did come this way?" Lancelot said. The barkeep continued cleaning the mug.
"A monster mighta passed through these parts," the barkeep finally said. "Didn't stop to chat."
The man on Lancelot's left gulped the last of his ale and stood, pounding his mug down on the wood.
"It just came," the barkeep said, "ate, and left." He picked up the other man's mug and, clamping it in the same large hand as the mug he'd been wiping, walked away.
Lancelot realized he should have asked for food before asking questions: he was starving. But he was determined to find Merlin and Arthur, so decided to try his luck outside with the hostlers, or maybe some other villagers. The night air was chill and damp; puddles formed in low places; remnant rainwater dripped off roofs, and fog loitered. As he walked, mud sucked at his boots, but his thoughts distracted him: magical creatures were usually gossip-fodder for years, and it should have been harder to distinguish the true stories from the embellished ones. That there were few stories—that no one wanted to talk—it must've been bad. Or the barkeep really had told him all there was to tell. Or the manticore was still alive and killing. Which meant that Arthur and Merlin . . .
Lancelot buried the thought.
"Are you looking to die?" a woman's voice said in the darkness by the stables.
Lancelot turned around and jumped back, startled—she was surprisingly close. She had dark eyes and even darker hair, knotted at the nape of her neck. She wore a tattered coat over a baggy dress —clothes which hung on her, large and lumpy, as if she wore something underneath. She repeated her question.
"Do you ask everyone that?" Lancelot said.
"Only people chasing man-eating monsters." She circled him and he noticed her sturdy, muddy black boots.
"Who else asked about a manticore?" he said when she'd come back around to face him.
She eyed him. "Dead men."
"No," Lancelot heard himself say. "That can't . . . you're lying."
Her face softened and her eyes turned curious. And then she casually said, "You travel alone?" gazing at the surrounding night, the stables behind him.
Lancelot said nothing.
"Of course, luckier men were also chasing it." She met Lancelot's eyes. "And I happen to know the sorcerer and the warrior who destroyed it."
"Where?" Lancelot said, springing forward and grasping her shoulders. "Where are they?" The pommel of his sword brushed against her forearm, and he remembered his courtesy. "Please," he released her. "I need to find them."
But Caradoc just eyed him again.
Arthur spotted Blaise's back through the trees—the sorcerer looked straight ahead, his dark blue robes heavy and unmoving in the soft breeze Arthur felt against his cheek. It would rain later.
As Arthur approached, he saw Merlin some distance beyond, in a clearing. Sunlight glowed on the back of Merlin's extended, open hand. Light overwhelmed Merlin's eyes—the golden telltale of sorcery Uther had always warned about—and from the ground a plant burst forth, grew in a matter of seconds and blossomed flowers that wilted and fell, pollen lost in the speed, never to be planted elsewhere. Several leaves fell off as well, and the plant grew larger. Merlin smiled to himself.
"If he's smart about it," Blaise said, confirming he knew of Arthur's presence, "he'll care more about whether the roots are growing."
"He doesn't know we're here?"
Blaise poked the air in front of him with one calloused, ink-stained finger—the air rippled and shuddered. "After twenty years of study, one learns a few tricks."
Arthur reached forward. He felt like he was pushing against the hide of an animal, though his fingertips felt no texture; the air again rippled. "What is he doing?" Arthur asked.
Blaise opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered. They stared silently ahead as Merlin's hands chased vines around the forest floor, weaving them into intricate knots.
"Do you know how long it took me to learn that?" Blaise finally said. "Ten years. And I had to work for it."
Merlin reached up and shouted a spell to the sky. Arthur looked up and saw the clouds darken and move, spiraling around the spot above Merlin.
"Maybe I was just a poor student," Blaise continued. "Although, it wasn't like I really had a teacher . . ."
Blaise's attention suddenly darted past Merlin. Arthur looked in the same direction and thought he saw a dark-haired woman in a red dress. But Arthur blinked. And there was nothing.
Rain fell around Merlin.
"Was that Ninaeve? The priestess—checking up on us?" Arthur asked.
"No, that was someone else," Blaise muttered. And then more clearly, as if his train of thought had not been interrupted, "Not a lot of people know enough magic to teach it."
Arthur let it pass. A torrent then hit them, while Merlin stood in a center of dry calm.
"Of course," Blaise shouted, "I wasn't born with magic." He paused, as though he understand whatever game Merlin was playing—the rain stopped and Blaise continued in his normal tone. "No innate prerogative to learn."
"You chose to endanger yourself?" Arthur brushed the wetness off his sleeves. "Was that why you left Camelot?"
Blaise's face darkened. "Someone had to keep the knowledge alive," he said quietly. "Anyway, Merlin found the book with these spells yesterday."
"So now he's practicing showing off?"
"No," Blaise said warily. "I think he's breathing."
Morgana tried to care about whatever was being said in front of her. But what did it matter if she did? Uther wanted her there in the great hall—a pretty face among all the rough knights and wizened elders. It puts people at ease, he had once told her—how old had she been then? So. That's what she was doing. Making people easy. Making them amenable—malleable. She used to like being in the thick of things. Until she realized that Uther listened to no one but Uther. And she was merely his ward, his pretty little tool—she had no say. Arthur used to listen to her—sometimes he still did—but Arthur was missing.
Gaius asked a question. The petitioner responded. Uther sat slumped in his throne, silent and withdrawn.
Everyone was worried about Arthur—it wasn't like him to abandon Camelot. Uther probably thought him dead. Afraid you've lost your precious dynasty, Morgana thought smugly—and immediately regretted it. Because whatever else, Uther genuinely loved his son.
It was his only saving grace.
A woman was crying. Silently, unremarked by the crowd of nobles amongst whom she stood. Morgana tried to recall her name. She was a noblewoman, as tall as the women around her, brown-skinned and straight-spined; she wore a rich blue dress with pink and yellow lace trimmings, but her brunette hair had been hastily tied up and was falling down around her face. She brought a kerchief to one eye and wiped a tear away. Morgana tried to place her—her brother had died some time ago—killed by Morgause when she had challenged Arthur . . . Ettare, that was her name, and she was staring horrified at her kerchief.
A sound disrupted the hall, but Morgana only registered it as an afterthought: Sir Lamorack bursting through the entrance and colliding with the exiting petitioner. Instead, Morgana watched Ettare, who quickly folded her kerchief, hastily tucked it into her sleeve, gently probed her eyes with a finger, and then clasped her hands and drew herself up, a proper noblewoman—clearly distraught. While everyone focused on Sir Lamorack.
Who had news of Arthur.
"It's from Bayard," Lamorack explained to Uther, who had snatched the letter out of Lamorack's hands. Uther's eyes darted back and forth as he paced the courtroom, more animated than he had been in weeks.
"He is sure?" Uther said.
"He swears," Lamorack said. "But I've sent spies up anyway to check."
Morgana couldn't tell if Uther had heard—he kept pacing, kept reading. The silence of the room became palpable.
"No." Uther stopped. "Leodogran will not get away with this. Assemble the army—we ride for Cameliard."
A weary spy was standing before King Leodogran when Princess Anna entered her father's private reception room. It was a round room adjacent to Leodogran's chambers, and Anna came in through the door connecting the two. Her white dress absorbed the bleak light of the overcast sky coming from the open window opposite the King's desk. Two large tapestries hung on each side of the window, complimenting the one hanging behind the King. The window also had two chairs on either side, along with several stacks of books. Five burning torches leaned out from the stone walls, and a moist breeze flit against all three faces.
Anna sat down in the chair beside Leodogran's desk and ran a finger under her tiara, sweeping back wisps of hair that had escaped her braid. She glanced at the parchment piled neatly on the wooden table; some were stacked flat, some were rolled alongside vellum scrolls. Quills and inkwells were lined on Leodogran's right, next to his clasped hands, as he leaned patiently forward, careful not to smear the ink of his interrupted correspondence.
"You have news?" Anna said formally to the spy once she was situated.
"I have, my Lord," the spy replied to the King.
Arthur blinked a drop of sweat from his eyes as he returned from daily exercises. He walked alone down the corridor to the small room he and Merlin shared. As he entered, a bolt hit the wood of the door.
"Arthur Pendragon," Anna said, crossbow in hand. She sat on his bed wearing a simple white dress, and a tiara Arthur had only seen her wear on formal occasions. As she spoke, she pulled a second bolt from the gauntlet around her forearm.
Arthur closed his eyes with resignation and shut the door.
"I'm sorry," he sighed and looked at her.
"For what?" Anna loaded the bolt without taking her eyes off Arthur. "For lying about who you are?"
"I've shown you who I am."
Anna took aim. "Then for bringing a belligerent, obtuse warlord to our gates."
They stared at each other, neither budging.
"Are you going to shoot me?" Arthur said simply.
Anna held her aim.
"Get out!"
Gwen heard Ettare's voice through the closed door as she arrived at the Lady's chambers. She hesitated, wondering if she should wait a moment—or an hour—before delivering Morgana's flowers; but a maidservant ran out, crashing into Gwen and crushing the flowers.
"Is everything all right?" Gwen asked, unable to recall the girl's name. The girl looked terrified and guilt-ridden, and fled. Gwen stared after her, but there was nothing she could do. So she brushed off her dress and rearranged the flowers to hide the damaged ones, and knocked on Ettare's door.
"Go away!"
"Please, Lady Ettare. Lady Morgana sent me."
The door cracked open and Lady Ettare peeked out. "The Lady Morgana? Wha—why?"
"She thought you seemed upset yesterday, and hasn't seen you about today, so—here," Gwen offered the bouquet. "She wanted you to have these."
Ettare considered Gwen in awkward silence before stepping back to let her enter.
Her room was fairly small for a noblewoman, but mostly clean. Ettare, however, was disheveled. Her hair was uncombed, loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were swollen and red. She cautiously raised a finger, exploring each eye, and then limped over to a window, beneath which was lined a dozen empty vases.
"I think one of these should do," Ettare said, and Gwen noticed the Lady's right shoe in the middle of the floor.
"Here, let me," Gwen rushed forward, flowers still in hand, and picked up a silver vase, whorls and knots twisted around it in decoration. It rattled. Confused, Gwen emptied the contents onto the table: a broken string of pearls.
"Don't bother about those," Ettare said, snatching up the string and loose pearls and concealing them in clutched fists.
"It must have been a lovely necklace," was the only thing Gwen could think to say. She carefully placed Morgana's flowers in the vase and fussed with the arrangement. Ettare limped back over to the window. Gwen glanced at the fireplace, where a bundle of fresh black flowers—something Gwen had never before seen—lay on a pile of ashes. She thought she saw a gleam of red—a ruby ring?—and counted three dead, singed flowers hugging the stones.
"I didn't notice," Ettare replied curtly, opening her hand outside the window and letting the pearls fall to the ground below. "You will thank Lady Morgana for me."
"Of course," Gwen said. She hesitated; but finally stepped closer to Ettare. "Are you sure you're fine? I know it's not my place, but Lady Morgana commanded me—"
"You will thank Lady Morgana for me," Ettare repeated as her eyes began to water; she turned away from Gwen, whispering, "no one can help me." She lifted her hand to her eye and caught something small, pinching it between her fingers.
"Lady Ettare!" Sir Lamorack's voice resounded from the other side of her door as he pounded on it. Startled, Ettare glanced at Gwen, the pained expression of a trapped deer warping her face. Gwen felt helpless as the door flew open and six knights filed into the room, led by Sir Lamorack. Behind them, head down, followed Ettare's maidservant.
"Lady Ettare," Sir Lamorack announced, "you have been accused of practicing magic."
"What?" Ettare regained her composure and glared at the maidservant. "By whom?"
"Look at her right foot," the girl said quietly, not meeting Ettare's eye.
"Lift your skirts please," Lamorack said uncomfortably.
"I beg your pardon," Ettare sneered, but her eyes were watering again. Again she lifted her finger to gently poke at her eyes, but Lamorack grabbed her hand. Gripping her right hand firmly, he brought his free hand to her face, lifting a tear gently away.
Except that it wasn't a tear—it was a small, tear-shaped piece of glass.
"Please," Ettare begged, "I'm not a witch—I'm not doing this to myself."
Lamorack stepped back. Tentatively, he pinched a corner of Ettare's dress and slowly lifted the skirts just enough to reveal her feet—Ettare's right foot was glass.
"Please," Ettare begged again.
"Um, you," Lamorack turned to the girl, "said there was a potion?"
"It's under the bed," she answered, with more assurance. Lamorack nodded to one of the knights, who bent down and retrieved a small bowl with some plant in it, soaking in water.
"I've been having trouble sleeping," Ettare said. "That's a family remedy."
"Then you won't mind if Gaius takes a look at it?" Lamorack asked. Ettare drew herself up proudly and grimaced.
"Of course not," she said through gritted teeth.
Lamorack nodded. "You'll have to wait in the dungeons. I'm sorry," he said as the guards surrounded her. She started to protest, but her eyes were watering yet again—another glass tear. They escorted Ettare out and the maidservant followed, head hung low. Gwen was left alone and ignored in the empty room.
The doors to the throne room boomed shut; Arthur tried to stand against them, but it was as if the impact shoved him forward—a misgiving of the imagination, he knew. Leodogran stood by a window staring out, his hands clasped behind his back, the morning light unforgiving upon his stiff, pensive features.
"You wished to see me, Sire," Arthur called across the room, feeling rooted to the spot.
Leodogran lifted a brow. "And yet I did not send for you."
Arthur shifted on his feet.
"King Uther of Camelot rides for Cameliard," Leodogran said, as if apprising the Captain of his Guard of a serious situation—or perhaps that was another trick of Arthur's imagination.
"He comes looking for the son who disappeared from his ken, and when he finds you have been serving us, he will assume we have enchanted you." Leodogran turned to face Arthur. "Do you know what Uther Pendragon does when he thinks magic has taken someone he loves?"
"I thought my men and I were in danger," Arthur said tentatively. "I couldn't reveal my name." The distance felt too great, but Arthur didn't know how to close it.
"And yesterday?" Leodogran stepped towards him. "Did you believe you were in danger then?"
Arthur took one step forward and hesitated. "No," he said quietly.
"And did you feel in danger when you chose—of your own free will—to stay in Cameliard?" Leodogran paced forward. "Did you feel threatened into stayi—?"
"No." Arthur finally felt free to move.
"Then why is Uther marching on my kingdom?"
"Camelot will not strike Cameliard—I swear."
"Oh we're long past your guarantees."
"I can stop my father."
"You can start a war."
"I will fight—"
"Do. you. know what Uther Pendragon does when he thinks magic has taken someone he loves?!" Leodogran exclaimed. Arthur stood speechless.
"If you fight for me," Leodogran continued, "you will convince him beyond reason that we have enchanted you. If you plead for mercy on our behalf, he will think you are enchanted. If you show anything less than intolerance for all magic, he will think you have been enchanted—Uther is on his way to free you from imprisonment. Why did you stay, knowing the consequences?"
"I didn't know this would happen."
"You sojourn to an enemy's keep and send no word as to your whereabouts or well-being? What did you think was going to happen?"
"I thought—" but Arthur had lost his clarity. His throat became ice in his neck.
"Inform your men," the King said.
"I'm not leaving like this."
"You're not leaving at all. At least not yet. If you do, Uther will merely think that you have escaped and will just keep coming."
"What are we going to do?" Arthur asked.
"What needs to be done," Leodogran said, striding to his throne. Arthur remained as Leodogran turned around. The King stood silently, staring, until Arthur—defeated—accepted his dismissal.
Again the doors closed on Arthur's back, but this time he was outside the great hall. Leodogran collapsed onto his throne and rubbed his face.
From the door behind the throne, Blaise stepped forward. "What did you think was going to happen?"
"I had hoped . . ." Leodogran closed his eyes. "I had hoped I could keep on hoping."
The council of Camelot stood arrayed to judge Lady Ettare. Sir Ulfius, Uther's officially-appointed steward, stepped forward as the doors opened and Ettare was escorted—limping and leaning on her guards—into the great hall. Sirs Gylberd and Oswald flanked Ulfius on his right while Sirs Cynan and Andronic stood to his left. Gaius was as far to the side as possible without disappearing into the gathered court. When Lady Ettare stopped in front of Ulfius, she tried defiantly—desperately—to maintain her composure. She seemed to wring her hands, but as Gaius looked closer, he saw that her right fingertips betrayed a singular sheen—glass.
"Lady Ettare," Ulfius began.
"I'm not a witch," Ettare interrupted, the harshness in her voice silencing Ulfius.
"Of course you're not," Morgana's voice broke in from the far end of the room. She marched up to Ulfius and placed herself between him and Ettare. Sir Gylberd rolled his eyes and Oswald sighed audibly, but Ulfius waited patiently.
"Do you have evidence of Lady Ettare's innocence?" Ulfius said, as though speaking to a child.
"Do you have evidence of her guilt? Or do you only have the word of a servant—I thought that counted for very little in Camelot."
"Ettare's personal maidservant is in a position to know," Gaius stepped forward. "And I thought you believed everyone's word mattered."
"You still don't have proof—"
"I'm turning into glass!" Ettare doubled forward in a spasm of pain. The two guards at her side each reached for her; she batted them away, and they waited helplessly for her to recover.
"She's been cursed," Morgana said. "You would condemn a woman for being a victim of witchcraft?"
"If Lady Ettare is the victim, then who is the perpetrator?" Andronic asked. "And if a curse is upon us, then why is no one else afflicted?" Morgana had no reply, and when she turned to Ettare, Ettare was crying—she brought her right hand up to her face, but then recoiled as the glass of her fingers touched her cheek. A glass tear fell from her eye and hit the floor.
Lady Ettare opened her mouth—but had lost the will to speak.
"Gaius," Ulfius said, "what was in the bowl beneath Lady Ettare's bed?"
"Nightshade. It looks as if she was trying to extract its poison—rather crudely, I might add."
"A real witch would know how to use nightshade correctly," Morgana said.
"Being new to sorcery is still practicing sorcery," Oswald said. "Perhaps she is in some contest with a more proficient witch. She is involved somehow."
"Who was the nightshade for?" Gaius asked Ettare.
"Myself—I—" Ettare stuttered, without conviction.
"Whom?" Ulfius stepped closer, but Ettare offered no elaboration. "Magic is at work—that is undeniable," he continued, "and you are only aiding the real sorcerer by concealing his identity."
"Lady Ettare," Gaius said gently, "something is going on—help us."
Ettare squeezed her eyes shut, and this time a real tear rolled down her cheek.
"Pelleas," she finally said. "His name is Pelleas—but I didn't—I didn't know he could do this."
"What do you think your father's going to do?" Merlin whispered.
Arthur said nothing. Gathered in the great hall, the murmuring court awaited the King. Servants lit torches to compensate for the waning daylight, while nobles glanced at Arthur and Merlin, hoping the Captain of the Guard or Blaise's apprentice might know something to confirm or refute the rumors that had been flying all day. Arthur and Merlin stood off to the side, near the front of the hall, and around them, the nine knights who'd accompanied Arthur from Camelot whispered amongst themselves—none wore armor or weapons; they wore the fine clothes, appropriate to their obvious stature, that Cameliard had provided.
Merlin nudged Arthur: Princess Anna entered the hall. She wore a purple gown, and her tiara atop her cascading hair. The full council followed immediately behind her, two by two.
Anna took her place in front of a chair beside the throne. She stood, watching as Blaise placed himself behind her and the rest of the council split, half moving to one side of the room, half to the other—one, Alaric, made a point of standing next to Arthur.
The doors of the hall remained open; but Leodogran walked quietly in from the door behind the throne. As all eyes turned to him, Merlin saw Caradoc, closest friend of the Princess, making her own quiet entrance—with Lancelot right behind her. They moved discreetly to the side, near some servants. Caradoc was dressed as a peasant and blended well, but Lancelot, in his travel-stained mail, was painfully incongruous.
Merlin glanced at Arthur, but Arthur was staring at Leodogran, who, like his daughter, remained standing. Anna's face was unreadable, but Merlin had no doubt she'd seen Caradoc come in.
Leodogran surveyed the silence, absorbing every stare.
"Camelot marches on Cameliard," he announced.
Murmurs erupted, stealth gasps of what? Why? Sir Madoc of Camelot inhaled sharply, Sir Rigel muttered an obscenity, Sir Taran instinctively reached to his side, and all nine knights looked around awkwardly. Alaric and Cole of the council glared at Arthur. Arthur shifted. Merlin quickly looked to Lancelot, who nodded in confirmation.
"Do we know Uther's intentions?" Sir Idris of the council asked.
"Perhaps he comes in peace," Alaric stated acidly. "To make an ally of his enemy."
"You're not helping," Erling, another councilman, whispered into Alaric's ear.
"We can guess them," Leodogran answered Idris, but addressed the court. "It seems we have been keeping his son from his side."
Like a wave, all faces turned to Arthur. Arthur did not meet them; he looked to Leodogran and Anna, but their expressions still revealed nothing. Anna, however, unlike her father, did return Arthur's gaze.
"And when Uther retrieves his son," Lucas the Old said from the opposite side of the room, "will he simply go, leaving so much magic unmolested?"
"We all know very well he won't," Alaric snapped.
Murmurs of agreement. Arthur stepped forward to speak, but Merlin's firm grip on his shoulder checked him; the nine knights drew tighter together.
"We have fought off invaders before," Sir Cole said. "Uther is no different."
Arthur snorted before he could catch himself.
"Except," Cole added, "that Uther has been idle."
Again Arthur tried to jump forward to speak; again Merlin prevented him.
"Idleness is not the reason Camelot doesn't have to fight off annual attacks," Blaise sneered.
"So what?" Cole said. "If an army marches against us, we are at war!"
"No!" Arthur pushed Merlin's hand away. "There will be no war. I won't allow it."
"How will you stop it?" Anna asked. "In Camelot, does the Prince command the King?"
Leodogran lifted his hand, signaling silence. "An army marches: we have no choice but to prepare for war," he said. "And hope our preparations come to naught."
Leodogran gave a final, hard look to everyone gathered, then exited through the same door from which he'd entered, Anna and Blaise trailing after.
"So this is what the word of Arthur is worth," Alaric hissed—Erling pulled at his elbow and gave Arthur an admonishing look before dragging Alaric through the small back door. The rest of the council also followed Leodogran; Arthur remained, avoiding all eye-contact. His nine knights waited for his orders; he gave none. The great hall emptied, accusatory glances thrown at Arthur by many, but by others, pained looks of deep betrayal. Merlin watched. He watched the nobles as they left, and he watched Arthur, knowing the inner turmoil that Arthur was burying.
But in the shuffling crowd, unremarked by any around her, Merlin noticed a dark-haired woman in a red dress, staring at Arthur. She reminded Merlin of the Priestess Ninaeve, and perhaps there was a resemblance—she caught Merlin's eye for one instant and then vanished, as though no more than an apparition, with no one but Merlin—and Lancelot—staring at the space she'd occupied. Merlin wondered why only they two had noticed her, thinking also that Lancelot had recognized her—but Lancelot avoided Merlin's questioning stare and instead glanced around for Caradoc, who had also disappeared—to report to Anna, no doubt.
"Wait in your rooms," Arthur finally ordered, in a tone that brooked no argument, and Merlin followed him out into the vacant corridor where Arthur paused, as if lost. Merlin glanced at the unassuming door that led back into the great hall, waiting for Lancelot to follow.
Arthur abruptly—and briskly—walked away; Merlin chased after. They walked in silence to the room they'd shared since finding themselves in Cameliard. Leodogran had offered Arthur other accommodations, but Arthur had humbly refused. As soon as they entered, Arthur paced to his bed, then to the window; Merlin, still wondering if Lancelot was somewhere behind, slowly shut the door.
"We have to stop this," Arthur paced back to his bed. "I have to stop this," he sat.
"This isn't your fault," Merlin said.
Arthur looked up at Merlin, grateful and disbelieving.
"Won't your father see reason?" Merlin asked.
Arthur's expression turned condescending. A small knock interrupted them—Lancelot pushed the door open hesitantly. Arthur stood.
"What are you doing here, Lancelot?" Arthur lightened momentarily.
"I promised I'd find you."
"Well. At least someone is doing something right," Arthur sat back down on the bed.
"How close is Uther?" Merlin asked.
"A few days, maybe. He nearly emptied Camelot, from what we heard."
Arthur brought his hands together and rested his fingers against his lips. "This can't end in war."
"What are you going to do?" Lancelot asked.
Arthur just sat unmoving.
Ettare's right foot and calf were entirely glass, reflecting and refracting the candlelight of Gaius's chambers. Her eyes were red and raw, but she wasn't crying. "The nightshade was for Pelleas," she said as Gaius scrutinized her foot and leg. "I was going to finally invite him to my chambers."
"How long has this been going on?" Gaius asked, standing up.
"Since Prince Arthur disappeared. Or did you mean how long have I been turning to glass? About two weeks, I suppose."
"May you're body soon match your heart—as hard as stone and as cold as ice," Morgana read from a small strip of parchment before tossing it back onto the pile of other notes. Morgana had insisted on overseeing the delivery of everything Pelleas had sent Ettare to Gaius's chambers—she had carried the notes and several bits of jewelry herself, with Gwen and Ettare's maid bringing empty vases, dead flowers, other jewels and even a silk dress. Gaius had looked at them all, but could find nothing that was conspicuously enchanted.
"At least you're not melting," Morgana muttered to herself. Ettare's maid had been dismissed, but Gwen remained, wringing her hands—waiting, like Morgana, for Gaius to finish his examination.
"How did you first meet Pelleas?" Gaius asked, taking Ettare's right hand, which had now become glass past her wrist.
"It was months ago. He said something to me in the square—it was after the witch fog—some comment as though he knew who had been behind it and who had really lifted it—I thought he was bragging—trying to impress me. As if he was the one who lifted it, and he didn't fear the law."
"I know for a fact that Pelleas did not lift that fog," Gaius said.
"I didn't believe him, of course. I just thought he was an arrogant merchant, or maybe a traveler. He started . . . wooing."
"He tried to court you?" Morgana asked, incredulous.
Ettare nodded. "I couldn't convince him to go away. At first he was an annoyance—I've turned away more aggressive suitors. At least, that's what I told myself. Then he became a pain, and then . . ."
"He frightened you," Gaius finished, his voice tender.
Ettare drew herself up. "He was just—he was just an annoying nobody trying to . . ."
"He's a very dangerous sorcerer," Gaius told the council the next morning. "One we all know."
"He's Nimueh's Pelleas?" Cynan asked in disbelief.
"I knew his name sounded familiar," Ulfius said. "But Lady Ettare described a younger man—Pelleas would be as old as any of us by now, surely."
"Pelleas was a favorite of Nimueh's," Gaius said. "Who knows what she taught him."
"Why didn't Lady Ettare report him?" Oswald said.
"If she had," Gylberd added, "we could've hunted him down. As it is, it just looks like she's been consorting with him."
Gaius sighed. "She didn't know Pelleas was a sorcerer when she first met him, so she had no reason to report him. By the time she realized, it was too late to avoid appearances: he was 'courting' her, after all."
"How do we find him?" Ulfius sighed.
"And can we lift the curse without him?" Cynan said. "Lady Ettare is slowly dying—she isn't going to still be alive as a glass statue, is she?"
Silence.
"I honestly don't know," was all Gaius could say.