A/N: I'll go ahead and give you this notice: I'm going to be doing something with this sequel I haven't done so far, which is, to write from female pov. The second part of this story, (whether it grows into its own part 3 or just an end to Lionys) I will most likely revert back to Merlin&Arthur pov… we'll see.

Also a new genre heading: romance. Arthur&Merlin will take something of a back seat to developing other relationships, at least initially…

The Towers of Lionys

Chapter 1: MisDirection

"I can see them opening the city gate… My lady, they're here. He's here!" Enid rushed in from the balcony overlooking the city, cheeks flushed with excitement.

She only shifted her position on the overstuffed cushion and turned a page of her book. Trying with all her might to keep contained the turmoil of emotions the older girl's words had stirred up in her again.

The idea of arranged marriage was an old one. As a child she'd paid it little mind, daydreaming about a handsome prince falling irrevocably in love with her at first sight, though the most important thing about him at that time was the white stallion he'd give her rides on. A few years later, she was convinced that she'd probably meet a dashing knight, noble if penniless, while she was charging about the countryside on quests of her own.

As she'd entered her teen years, her daydreams had coalesced and focused on one young knight, one of her brother's companions, now the captain of her father's guard. Though he had always been too correct and polite to show her anything beyond solicitous deference, and she'd never dared breathe his name specifically even to Enid, she never ceased hoping she could someday turn his heart and his head, and together they could persuade her father that their marriage was meant to be. That she need not consider a stranger. That Lancelot would be the best husband she could ever hope for.

The missive they'd received from Camelot that winter was a surprise. She'd turned down two offers already since she'd come of age – one from one of her father's cousins, and one from a northern knight who'd already buried two wives – without second thought or a moment's concern. But – a prince.

Her father, Lord de Gransse, would not pressure her into anything she truly didn't want, but she knew her duty. At least allow the visit, Father had suggested. It doesn't mean he's going to want you, Elyan had added, at once teasing and comforting.

"No need to get excited yet," she told Enid, turning another page though she hadn't read a single word on the last one. "It'll take them a quarter of an hour to ride here from the gate. Unless they were galloping?"

The older girl made a face at the joke and went to throw open the wardrobe, as eager for the visit, the first meeting, as if she were the candidate for bride. "But a prince, my lady," she gushed. "They say that Prince Arthur is very handsome."

"Hm," she said, refusing to agree, or to raise her eyes from the page she wasn't reading. "And arrogant and self-centered and vain, no doubt." And no one would ever be as good as her knight in shining armor, as sweet and gentle and caring… if only she could get him to look at her.

"And noble and courteous and fair," her maid teased. "You never know – this man could be your husband."

Her heart did something totally against the laws of anatomy, and she wanted to rush to the balcony and hang over the railing for the first look at him. Prince Arthur of Camelot. Prospective groom.

The scary thing was, it was possible. She couldn't deny it, and that made her feel giddy. The great IF. If he was decent, tolerable.

If Lancelot continued oblivious to her – she couldn't propose to him, after all, or suggest the union to her father without the knight's knowledge and agreement – and how long might she spend persuading both men, one to give her and one to take her?

It made her feel hollow inside, anxious and lost, the enormity of the decision that stared her in the face – the rest of her life at stake – happiness and changes and… family.

"Do you have a preference?" Enid asked, and she looked up, drawing her attention back to the practicalities of the moment.

The red velvet gown, highly suggestive of the Camelot colors, was hung over the open door of the wardrobe, obscuring the mirror, while the older girl held the plum-colored silk up to her own body for her mistress to decide between them. Enid was statuesque, tall and slender yet curvy, her hair and coloring almost as dark as Guinevere's own; not for the first time she thought of how perfect that dress would look on her maid's frame.

A thought struck her suddenly, so daring and so brilliant that she let the book fall and pushed to her feet. "I have an idea," she declared.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The thyme and the hawk-weed in particular were wilting. They needed sunlight; all the plants did.

She did.

She stood barefoot on her rooftop, stretching in the warmth of the early afternoon, closing her eyes and tipping her face up to the blue of the sky. It was the first day of which could be said decisively, spring.

This afternoon, she decided, she'd bring all the pots and trays she could carry on her own up to the flat roof where she kept her garden. The heavier ones she wouldn't risk trying to manhandle up the narrow, steep stairway on the back of the house; another day or so wouldn't make much difference, just until Gwaine came home. He could erect the canvas frame at the same time, that she used to shield the delicate plants from stronger winds, torrential rains, or harsher sunlight as the season progressed into summer.

And then – then she could begin to plan her day-journey into the forest to find and transplant the herbs and seedlings that she needed to supplement the ones that survived the winter inside her home.

The air smelled crisp and new. It filled her with a restless exhilarating energy, but at the same time, she wanted nothing more than to sit still and soak in the life of the new season. Breathe deep and let the sun caress her skin. Spring made her love her home a little more; it also made her want to run away eagerly, seeing new things, new places, new people, new…

She smiled at the contradiction in her heart, as she dropped down onto the low parapet formed by the wall rising higher than the level of the roof, a two-foot ledge than encompassed the whole house, as it did for nearly every other building in Lionys. Her home was in the second row, technically, behind those that fronted the main street of Lionys, but in her case, the older couple that owned the street-front shop-and-quarters had no inclination to use their roof, so she was allowed the entirety of it for her garden.

Her attention was caught by the commotion at the city gates, nearly two hundred paces away. The guards were opening them… usually travelers made use of the smaller side door, still large enough for a single horse to pass through, each one by one. The doors were opened for visitors of status, or larger convoys.

Her body lazy but her mind active – she blamed the weather, gorgeous spring day – she sat on the low parapet and watched the activity at the gate resolve into a procession of several riders and a cart.

The main street was wide enough for two wagons to pass each other while leaving enough room for folks to walk on either side, dividing the city into East and West Halves as it ran straight from the city gate to the many-towered palace at the south end of the city. Each Half was further divided by crooked alleys and winding lanes, some buildings sharing walls, as hers did with the house in front, some built so close as to make jumping from one roof to the next not only possible, but irresistible, if one were a young boy or a criminal.

The new arrivals were still too far away for her to see properly, but she could tell that the foremost rider wore chainmail, and a voluminous red cloak. That suggested Camelot to her – a diplomatic envoy, perhaps.

As the little cavalcade approached at a leisurely walk, she watched the citizens of Lionys part before them, drawing to the side out of respect and curiosity, until there was quite a crowd to either side of the street, and a widening path was created for them. Some folks waited, watching, while others even strolled alongside the mounted men, but very few that she could see ignored the strangers to conduct business as usual.

They were closer now, and she could see that the two men who rode abreast behind the single knight in front were more plainly dressed. Not a glitter of chainmail, not a fall of crimson from their shoulders, as was the case with the two riders behind them, and ahead of the cart, which was driven by a servant – she guessed – in nondescript brown.

Those two, though. She watched them with the same idle curiosity as the rest of the townsfolk. Knights would wear armor, and livery. Noblemen sent for negotiations would dress more formally. Servants would be in the cart or behind it.

The one on the left, as she looked at them, was fair-haired and rode with the easy grace of a natural horseman, in spite of his plain attire. To her that suggested a measure of wealth, the leisure time to pursue riding for its own sake, or for other recreation. Or training, she supposed, but then why not dress as the other knights?

His companion to the right was as dark as he was fair, and he rode… with the unceasing watchfulness of a bodyguard, even as they seemed to be exchanging conversation.

They were less than fifty paces away when it happened.

She wasn't paying much attention to the gawking pedestrians, content in her vague puzzling of their identities, when a swift, violent gesture from the base of her row of buildings, even with the riders, caught her eye. It was the sort of movement that made her think confusedly of stocks and rotten vegetables – but no one would throw things at visitors –

The black-haired man twisted so violently in his saddle he spooked his own mount, throwing his hands out heedless of his reins or balance – which he kept quite easily – and the light of a dozen torches splashed against the air mere feet from the blonde man, obscuring them for a moment. The blonde man drew the sword at his hip in a grim, practiced motion, almost simultaneous with the three knights, trying to control their horses and seek out the source of the light.

The attack? She glanced down from her rooftop perch to see the brown-clad arm retracted into an alley.

The black-haired man had kicked free of his stirrups and leaped down, sprinting after the assailant, ignoring whatever his light-haired companion shouted after him, lost to her in the babble and cry of the startled crowd. He shoved through the panicked, confused people, took a quick glance down the alley, and disappeared.

She looked back at the blonde man – clearly the leader, by the way the knights looked to him – he sat back in his saddle, the set of his shoulders unhappy but resigned. He exchanged a few words with the foremost rider, shoved his sword back into its sheath with an air of dissatisfaction, then made a signal to indicate they should proceed toward the palace at the far end of the street. All four looked considerably more tense, the red-caped three closed in around the plainly-dressed fourth, while the cart driver hunched nervously on his seat.

Standing from her seat on the wall, she hurried to the back of the roof.

From there she could see several blocks of the alleys that intersected at the corner of her house. She looked down the row parallel to the main street, north toward the gate, and saw nothing. Not that she expected to. The surprise of witnessing what could only have been a sorcerer's attempt to assassinate one or all of the strangers was quite likely the most exciting thing that had happened to her in years. She was plain and ordinary; people like her didn't actually see

She turned her head and saw him, a hooded fleeing figure dashing into sight at an intersection several blocks back from the street. He paused, his head turned toward her as if he wanted to risk returning to the street for another try at the passing procession, then he twisted and darted further way, at right angles to his original course, before ducking down the next row to the left, clearly deciding to try to lose the pursuit.

He was familiar, she thought, adding astonishment to surprise. She wasn't the sort of person to know assassins, but who

The black-haired man skidded into view, halting at the same intersection as his quarry. And in the instant that he hesitated to check the options of direction, she saw him.

Humble, by the plain cut of his clothes.

Confident, to follow a sorcerer willing to attack knights, which also meant…

Magic. Not an amateur, obviously, as he had protected his companion adequately, foiling the attempt on his life.

Determined to succeed in his chase, which to her said he cared a great deal about his job, the pay or the person, and because of Humble, she inferred it wasn't the pay, and so he was also…

Loyal.

He lifted his head fractionally, and though she couldn't be sure, at that distance, whether he was looking at her or not, she made a life-changing decision in half a heartbeat.

She put out her hand, fingers straight and held together horizontally, shoving smartly forward before bending her fingers to the left.

The man you seek turned, then turned again.

Instantly the black-haired man understood her signal for directions, instantly trusted her. He whirled and took off running again.

Freya took several breaths, trying to calm her racing heartbeat and the inclination of her breathing to little hysterical gasps of disbelief. Well. She'd certainly have a story to tell Gwaine when he got home.

She scanned the West Half of the city slowly, but could not see where the attacker – so familiar, if she could only think of how she knew him, who he was – someone she'd felt surprise to label sorcerer and assassin, but otherwise… no, it was gone. There were no further indications of magic performed, though she watched for several moments, but a such a man would probably chose to shake a pursuer in the twisted warren of the city, rather than risk an open confrontation. She thought ruefully that the stranger had little chance of catching the attacker.

She returned to the front of the roof, but the three knights had hustled the fourth – the most important, in spite of his distinct lack of finery – down the street. All she could see now was the back of the cart, the party's baggage protected with a canvas cloth.

A deep breath of the spring air helped to calm her, as she watched the mood of the people settle, the object of curious gossip fading. And soon, like a school of minnows in a brook after the ripples of a tossed pebble have disappeared, the townspeople were back to business as usual – errands, deliveries, shop-tending, ware-hawking.

She smiled down at them, and it occurred to her that she should bring the daisies to the roof first.

…..*…..

She knew she had to give it a fair shot. She owed that much to her father and her brother, both of whom had worked and sometimes fought, to provide for her family, for her, the absolute best for the present and future, both. She owed it to Prince Arthur, honestly, for extending the offer in the first place, and for making the journey.

She owed it to herself, also. That was harder to explain, even in her own mind, but… she didn't want to look back on this choice in twenty years and wonder.

It made her feel self-conscious, knowing that he'd come to look her over as well, as a future bride. Like a filly in a pen. Discuss her pedigree, analyze her conformation, put her through her paces. Stare at her so long and so hard she was too befuddled to learn anything about him.

Well, maybe she could figure a way around that, at least.

"It's not lying," she said, to silence Enid's objections, as she fit the tiny pearl buttons into tiny tight buttonholes, between the older girl's shoulder-blades. Enid, who'd done these buttons up Gwen's back before, had her hands busy at the back of her waist, buttoning the bottom of the row.

"He's going to be angry," Enid predicted plaintively. "I've never had a prince angry with me before."

"Well, then, at least we'll know that about him, won't we?" Gwen said persuasively. "We won't just get company manners, we'll see what he's like if he loses his temper or how he deals with offended dignity."

"What if this makes him decide against you?" Enid said, turning though the back of the plum silk dress gaped open. "It will be my fault if you're never queen."

"I never wanted to be queen," Gwen said cheerfully, circling the older girl to finish the buttons. "And if something like this makes him decide against me, then he's not the sort of man I want. In any case, it's better if he knows right away what sort of bride I'll be – honestly, Enid, it's in my best interests to be as naughty as possible."

"My lady!" Enid gasped, her warm brown eyes filled with horror.

"Oh, Enid, don't worry. It'll be a minor misunderstanding, a small joke to ease the tension." Enid mumbled something about tension that she thought was probably disagreement, as she pushed the last tiny pearl through its buttonhole, then prodded her maid across to the dressing table. "Sit down, please, so I can reach you," she ordered playfully, loosening Enid's long dark hair from its braid as her maid obeyed, perching uncomfortably on the cushioned stool. "It's been a while since I did your hair."

"What's Lord Lionel going to say?" Enid said.

"He'll say, Guinevere," she lowered her voice in mimicry of her father's disapproving tone, picking up her hairbrush. "Come on, we never do anything fun anymore."

She found the ribbon that matched the plum silk and began to wind it through the maid's glossy hair, twisting it up loosely onto her head to leave her neck bare, then arranging the tendrils that escaped by her face. A knock sounded on the door, and Gwen put a stop to Enid's reaction by pushing down on her shoulder.

"I'll get it," she told the older girl.

Opening the door only partially, to keep the sight of her maid in one of her best gowns hidden, she startled a look of faint surprise in the pair of warm brown eyes that met her own, giving her heart a flip. But where Elyan might have scolded her for remaining in one of her oldest outfits and leaving her hair in the same twist at the back of her neck that Enid had put it in before breakfast – and her curls did have a tendency to escape their bindings sooner or later – Lancelot would never question her choice of dress or the state of her hair. It wasn't his place.

She wished momentarily that she'd worn the plum silk and the ribbon in her hair, to surprise a different look in the captain's eyes.

"My lady," he said. He'd called her Guinevere twice in her life – once when she was eight and had fractured her wrist tumbling from the cherry tree in the orchard, and once when she was fifteen. After she'd kissed him by ambush. "Our guests from Camelot are approaching and will arrive momentarily. Lord Lionel wishes your presence in the grand hall to greet His Highness."

No. That wouldn't do at all. "Tell my father I would prefer to receive the prince in the solar," Gwen said, "in half an hour, if it pleases him?"
"But my lady," Lancelot argued gently, "The introductions…"

"If I end up married to the man," she said – and was disappointed to see only warm concern, not sparking jealousy, in his eyes – "I'm sure we need not insist on formalities. I am a lady, after all, and have a right to some harmless caprice, on occasion."

"Harmless, on this occasion?" Lancelot said, with gentle inoffensive humor. "Very well, my lady. Half an hour, in the solar. Unless your father insists."

He wouldn't, though, Lord Lionel was not that kind of man, or father. She nodded as he bowed his head and turned to stride away. She leaned out into the corridor to watch him, the broad shoulders, the straight muscular frame, the quiet confidence of his gait, the soft slight wave at the end of his dark brown hair. He didn't look back, and she sighed, turning back to the room to see if Enid was ready.

Nope. No matter what she managed to notice or learn of Prince Arthur while his eyes were on Enid, she knew there was no way he could ever measure up to Lancelot.

The solar was a room of life and breath in a palace of cool stone. The fountain kept the air moist, the windows admitted and magnified the warmth of the sun, and green things flourished all around, in pots and great troughs laid in the floor, on shelves and hanging in nets from the high ceiling. There was furniture scattered throughout, in cozy groupings, light comfortable pieces made of wicker padded with colorful down cushions.

It had been her mother's favorite room. Neither her father nor her brother had much use for it, not being the sort of men to enjoy sitting peacefully for long. There was of course always much to do in running a province as vast as Lionys, and they were both active men. When there was time for leisure and recreation, they took theirs out-of-doors. So the solar had become Guinevere's particular retreat, and Lionel and Elyan both knew why she came here. They would respect her request, both what she had asked and what she hadn't, and they would be granted privacy, within reason.

Enid was too nervous to sit, so she wandered, playing uncomfortably with the necklace Gwen had given her to wear. Gwen had taken her little book with her, and sat on a padded footstool below the large chair she normally used.

"This is a bad idea," Enid said, absently stripping yellowing leaves from a wash of ivy trailing from a high shelf which supported its root system. "What am I going to say to him?"
"Say whatever you like," Gwen returned, feeling oddly more confident now than she had been since responding to the message Camelot had sent, two months ago. "Or say nothing at all. You're the lady."

"Yes, but he's the company," Enid argued, agitated. "And a prince! What if –"

"My lady." They were interrupted by a voice from the door, and both turned to see that it was Sir Percival, Lancelot's second in command. He was the biggest knight in Lionel's employ, a man who saw much and said little. His eyes widened in momentary astonishment, taking in the way the two girls were dressed – Enid in the plum silk and Gwen in a plain cream-colored day outfit of voluminous trousers and bodice - and positioned within the room, before his expression subsided into private amusement.

Gwen felt a tiny bit more relief. If it had been Lancelot, he might have felt it his responsibility to correct any misconception between the daughter of his lord and the visiting royalty, in spite of her wishes and the fact that his status was lower than either of theirs. Percival, however, would simply say nothing and watch events play out.

"May I present His Highness Prince Arthur of Camelot," he added, stepping to one side and bowing slightly as the prince entered the solar. "My lord, the Lady Guinevere de Gransse."

Gwen rose from the footstool as Enid turned from the ivy. Arthur was golden-haired and blue-eyed, as she'd heard, but though his expression was pleasant and he was attractive enough, he wasn't beautiful like Lancelot. He stood in the doorway for a moment to cast his gaze swiftly around the room, then came forward.

He was dressed simply, for a member of the royalty, in plain dark trousers and a wine-colored shirt with a neat well-tailored vest of dark brown leather over it. They'd heard also, of his reputation as a warrior – he led his father's knights as Lancelot led her father's, Elyan being more involved with the administration than the protection of their lands - and his build and walk hinted at that, though he was unarmed. There was a silver ring on the first finger of his left hand, but he wore no other ornament; his hair was damp from a quick freshening-up after his travels.

"Lady Guinevere," he said, giving her a quick glance before settling his attention on Enid.

They both curtsied, and Enid managed, "My lord." A pause of excruciating awkwardness followed. Gwen watched him take in the details of Enid's figure and dress, beginning with her eyes and face, but his expression gave away none of his thoughts.

Then he offered, "You have a very beautiful room here, to enjoy while you relax." He didn't sound embarrassed or self-conscious. Or pompous.

"Oh! thank you," Enid said. She was nervous. She didn't meet his eyes, and her color remained high, and she angled her body in the plum silk gown reflexively toward Gwen as if waiting to receive a cue. "Um. Would you care to… see more of the room?"

Arthur's face relaxed into a smile, and it increased his charm. "Thank you very much, I would," he said. "For a fact, I am a bit tired of sitting." Blue eyes sparkled with a hint of humor – a joke? Gwen thought, surprised – and she found herself responding with a smile of her own. Another quick glance to her, and Arthur offered his arm to Enid.

She blushed a little more and looked swiftly at Gwen before tucking her fingers into the crook of his elbow. Gwen fell in behind them, close enough to listen to the conversation. "You had a pleasant trip, I trust?" Enid asked him, solicitously enough, but to Gwen she both looked and sounded more stiff than was normal for her. "And met with no troubles?"

A slight hesitation. Then Arthur said blandly, "We reached Lionys without incident."

They were moving at the pace of a slow saunter; reaching the back of the room, they turned to follow the line of windows that looked out over the town. Arthur's head turned from Enid to take in the view – but it was no casually curious perusal. Gwen had to skip a little not to step on his heel, as he slowed still further.

Enid grasped a little desperately at the topic of the weather for the past week, as it had affected Lionys, and how she guessed it might have affected traveling from Camelot. Arthur murmured something agreeable every time she paused, but half his attention was not in the room.

Gwen wished she could somehow signal Enid to make a comment about the wealth and industry of Lionys, perhaps the view was making the prince consider the addition of their province to the kingdom of Camelot, as would happen if he married her. Though Elyan would inherit the title and right of governorship upon their father's death, her marriage to Arthur would put Lionys under a Pendragon king. She'd like to know if he placed the greater consideration upon her property or her person, in deciding whether to extend a proposal.

Enid stammered into a moment of silence which seemed less awkward than before, then broke it by saying, with more genuine feeling than she'd shown, "I love this view. Lionys always looks so peaceful and happy from here."

Arthur made a noise of vague concurrence, and commented, "Perhaps it is the feeling of this room which colors your perception." It was said politely enough, but could almost be construed to imply that Lionys was not peaceful and happy, although the implication seemed unintended.

She stepped up to his other side at the window, looking at his face rather than through the panes of glass, as he and Enid were. Coupled with his unusual scrutiny of the city, section by section, and that brief pause before he'd said reached Lionys, without incident, it made her wonder what he hadn't said.

"My lord," she said, before she remembered that she was playing the part of Guinevere's lady's maid, not Guinevere herself. But she gained a good bit of his attention, and he did not seem the least bit offended at her addressing him, so she continued, querying softly, "Is everything all right? Did something happen?"

Enid's eyes were on his face in growing concern also; he stepped back from the window so he could see them both at once, with a look of resignation. "I apologize, my lady," he said, addressing Enid though he spoke to both of them. "The situation is being handled, and I didn't want to worry you. I'm just… used to being the one to face… problems, not to sit by while another does so."

Gwen was convinced he almost said danger, instead of problems. Enid was nodding to accept his apology, but Gwen said bluntly, "What happened?"

He looked at her more fully, as if seeing her as a person, now, instead of just someone fulfilling a role, took in every part of her face. "On the ride in," he answered, still mostly addressing Enid, as was appropriate if she was the ranking lady in the room, "there was an altercation with a sorcerer. No one was injured, and my sorcerer followed to apprehend the one responsible."

"Oh my goodness, how awful!" Enid gasped.

A sense of responsibility and rare regret made it hard for Gwen to speak. "I am – so sorry, my lord, that such a thing would happen to you here." Who? And why? And what would he think of Lionys, then…

His eyes lingered on her. "Please don't apologize, we don't even know where this man is from, and –" again that flash of humor that eased tension and included both girls – "to be perfectly frank, it's something I've grown rather accustomed to. Merlin and I seem to attract trouble of this nature, sometimes." It was a surprisingly fair attitude, for a prince to take mere hours after his life had been threatened in a foreign city. His gaze went past them to the window again.

"Merlin?" Enid said, then, "Oh, Merlin Emrys. The sorcerer in Camelot."

"Yes," Arthur said, his lips twisting sideways as though he was holding back a wider grin.

Gwen thought, your friend. There was more than righteous indignation or concern that justice be dealt, there was worry in his distraction.

"I am sure Lord Lionel's knights are doing all they can," Enid said consolingly, looking past Arthur to Percival stationed at the door of the solar.

"You call your father Lord Lionel?" Arthur said curiously, extending his elbow to her once again.

The older girl lost a shade of color, but at least she didn't glance guiltily at Gwen. "Um, occasionally?" she answered, taking the prince's arm with more hesitation than previously.

As they began to circumnavigate the room once more, Enid searching for and finding the topic of the room itself for conversation – its design and creation and tending required. Gwen noticed that Arthur kept glancing down through the window, as if he expected to be able to recognize his sorcerer at that distance. Or if he feared to see some evidence of obvious magic performed somewhere in the city. It made her feel uncomfortable as well, not only the thought that a guest might be attacked with magic, but that two sorcerers might face off in the lanes or alleys.

She veered down a side passage between the fountain and a great round marble-bordered garden with a small peach tree in the center and budding bushes all around. Percival straightened slightly with the respect she was due as she approached.

"The prince was attacked in the city?" she said to him without preamble.

"Your father sent Elyan and Lancelot and Prince Arthur's senior knight with some guardsmen to search in the vicinity," Percival answered. "They said the prince's sorcerer pursued the attacker immediately."

"But that has been, what?" Gwen said, "An hour, now?" Percival inclined his head in assent, his eyes on her face showing his readiness to obey any order she might give. "I don't suppose there's anything more to be done, then, is there?" she said, mostly to herself. "Thank you, Percival – and could you please have someone let us know the minute Arthur's sorcerer returns?"

Percival bowed again. "There's no need to fear, my lady," he reminded her gently. "The wards are in place along the palace walls – whoever attacked the party from Camelot will not be able to enter here."

She nodded, only partially reassured. There was no threat to her, and of course Lord Lionel and Arthur were secure as well. But Elyan, and Lancelot… they hadn't even the defense against malevolent magic that Arthur's sorcerer would have. And Arthur was worried about his friend.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Dust and flakes of stone gritted under her bare feet as she crossed to the stair at the back of her home, and she considered that she'd have to gather new lengths of willow also, whenever she could make it out to the forest, for a new broom. Stepping over the parapet to the stair, she gave the descent the care and attention necessary to keep from slipping and bumping every block on the way down, even as familiar as she was with the short, narrow steps.

The daisies were up, tiny feathery green beginning to show in the center of the dark earth in the pots, placed on one of the weathered plank tables that formed her rooftop garden. The thyme and hawk-weed were up as well, soaking in the afternoon sunlight. Perhaps the sorrel would come back this year, that way she wouldn't have to dig another series of plants on her day in the woods, and then she'd have to dip a bucketful of water from the barrel at the corner of the building that caught the drainage of rainwater to moisten the soil of the plants that were on the roof. Oh, and the daffodils should be done today, she couldn't forget the dry bulbs she'd been saving wrapped in cloth.

As she reached the ground and put her hand against the door of the house to push it open, thinking the threshold needed sweeping also, there was a whisper of sound behind her, the soft scrape of a boot on the dirt floor of the alley.

She turned with a smile for whatever neighbor it might be, and froze, her reaction and recognition immediate. The cloaked figure loomed, eyes blazing from the depths of his hood, and she gasped his name. He'd managed to shake the black-haired man, after all, and he'd seen her.

"I'm very sorry, Freya," he said. "But he's too persistent. I hoped you hadn't recognized me, but…"

His arms lifted in swift menace, his body slammed hers into the doorframe. His eyes glowed golden, and then –

She woke in a small room that wasn't much larger than a closet. Windowless, and airless. There was a fat candle stuck on a dusty rotting crate with its own wax, smoking slightly as it burned. She sat up slowly, her head feeling thick and dizzy. A smell lingered, of filthy gutters and the worst of sickrooms, and though the floor was dry, she found she did not want to remain sitting on it.

Managing to gain her feet, she tried the door. There was a fraction of give in the thick planking, but it remained secure against her best efforts.

There was an ache in the pit of her stomach that first she identified as anxiety. But after a few calming breaths – she wasn't hurt, after all, and currently wasn't being threatened – it didn't ease. She ought not to be hungry, either, there had been the last of the chicken stew for a noon meal, and some dried pear… She pressed experimentally on her middle with her fingers and the ache intensified like that of a bruise. Like she'd been kicked while unconscious, but - she ran her hands quickly over ribs, sides, arms – it was only the one place, in the middle of her belly.

That teased a memory. Years ago, when she and Gwaine had been fooling around, he'd snatched her to throw her over his shoulder, his bones and hard muscles bruising the tender softness of her abdomen. She'd kicked him and beat on his back with her fists and finally her brother had been forced to put her down again.

Well. That made sense, she supposed. Thomas had used magic on her, had carried her unconscious over his shoulder, to – wherever here was. Some place she did not want to be.

An indefinable panic rose in her throat.

But she forced it down. And investigated the door to see if there was any gap she could see through, or hear through…

There were footsteps, loud careless footsteps, that had her retreating to the back of the closet-room. Scattered around the clumping footfalls was the sharper jangle of metal – keys. The noises stopped just outside the room, metal scraped, and the door opened outward.

The man was fat and coarse, his skin unpleasantly shiny where it wasn't obscured by the bristle of gray hair on head and chin. He lounged in the doorway, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood, casually perusing her from head to bare feet.

"Well," he drawled inexplicably, "you better be worth it." She took an involuntary step back. "Take off your dress," he added.

She crossed her arms, wondering if she was awake at all, and not simply caught in a nightmare. "I will not," she said, lifting her chin.

He snorted. "So you're one of those." He slouched forward until he was inside the room, still leaning casually on the doorframe. He left the sliver of wood dangling from the corner of his mouth and hitched his wide leather belt a little higher on his sagging paunch. "You know the name Halig?" he said.

She did. Halig was a slave-trader. But that was illegal in Lionys.

"Then you know you're not here for ransom, and I didn't buy you for my own use." He was not being sympathetic, just roughly reasonable. "Take off the dress."

Freya shook her head.

He moved swiftly for a fat man. Before she could so much as flinch, he had one hand fisted in the hair at the back of her head, and one hand clamped around her wrist so tightly she could feel her bones shift.

"I don't mind bruising you none," he said. Several of his teeth were rotting in spite of the pick, and his breath carried the stench. "Bruises don't matter much to a buyer, but the attitude…" He gave her a brutal shake, yanking her head back so far she would have lost her balance but for his grip on her arm, a grip white-hot with pain. "We'll sell you with bruises, but not the attitude," he reassured her. "How many – is up to you. Hm?" He shook her again, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out, overwhelmed by his bulk, his strength, his stench. The pain. "Be a good girl. The cooperative ones, the pretty ones, the smart ones – I can ask a higher price. That gets you a better class of owner, you see? Take off your dress."

He released her in a shove against the back wall. He'd broken the cord she used to bind her hair, and it spilled down over her shoulders.

She couldn't run. She couldn't scream, with no assurance of anyone hearing or helping, and his threat hanging so heavily in the tiny room. She could only wait for an opportunity better than this one.

Freya turned her back to him, and he snickered, but otherwise made no attempt to touch her or continue the conversation. Her right wrist was throbbing, her fingers numb and clumsy, sometimes sending little splinters of pain shooting from fingertip to elbow, but she managed to unfasten the row of buttons down the bodice of the dress, collar to belt, and peeled it off her shoulders, sliding one arm out and then the other.

Humiliation brought tears to her eyes, but she pretended it was the discomfort of her wrist. She leaned over to step out of the top of the dress without losing her balance, one foot, then the other.

She didn't want to, but she turned to face Halig, clutching her dress to the front of her. He stretched out his hand, making an impatient gesture of command for her to give him the dress. She didn't, and he stepped forward to snatch it from her anyway, tossing it over his arm.

"Nothing personal," he informed her. "The clothes is sold separately. This way, they stay clean, and I've found it makes my merchandise easier to handle –" he leered at her – "for me and the customer, both. Less likely to run, easier to retrieve if so happens. Which isn't often." He looked her over again, the thin white shift that fell mid-calf and had only inch-wide straps over her shoulders in place of sleeves. "Doesn't cost much to feed you, see, so if we have to wait out some… bruising… til I can get good money for you, it's profit for me in the end anyway. C'mon."

He reached for her and she lifted her arms defensively. He chose to grab her right forearm, through carelessness or design, and she stumbled quickly after him, doing her best to keep up. She would not cry out, she would not beg or bargain or even ask him to switch his grip to the other arm.

Down a dim stinking hallway to a larger room, smelling more strongly of damp and mold and fear. There were cages, though currently unoccupied. Two larger ones like prison cells, and a row of others not much larger than a clothes trunk, held about three feet off the ground by a sturdy shelf that formed the top of a line of storage cupboards.

"You can't," she said, raising her arm in his hand soothe pressure moved off her wrist to her forearm. "Do you know that I was kidnapped? Whatever he told you, the man who brought me here –"

"I've done business with him before," Halig said, taking little notice of her struggles or her surprise. He pulled her to the row of smaller cages and selected the one in the middle, swinging the door open. "You I never seen before. In you get."

"I have a brother," she protested, "we have some money –"

He snorted. Probably it was something he heard before, maybe a lot, maybe it didn't matter to him if she told the truth or not – she was his, and to him that was a sure thing.

She struggled then, she couldn't help it. Not even a dog would be put in a kennel that small. He merely tossed her dress over the top of the row of cages and used both hands to stuff her unceremoniously into the opening. The back of her head banged on the edge of the top of the cage, and in the second of blinking away the disorienting sting, he also kicked her shin sharply. She drew her leg up instinctively, and he shoved her, releasing her arms as she fell backward onto the bars that formed the floor of the cage. She tried to kick him, but he caught her ankle and forced her leg to bend, as he closed the door of the cage.

Then, with another jangle of keys, he locked it, retrieved her dress, and sauntered from the room, slamming the door again. Another key, another lock.

A/N: So, here's chapter 1. I'm going to switch between the two girls' pov but keep things more or less chronological, kind of like a 'meanwhile back at the motel' device.