Part I: A Game for an Heir

Chapter 2: The Combatants' Feast

The banquet hall was overwhelming. Guests seated, standing, strolling, arrayed in gorgeous and expensive clothing and jewels, servants with wide trays dipping and ducking through the room – Merlin could hardly bear to watch, so certain was he that a collision and a ghastly mess were both inevitable. Yet he couldn't look away.

A trio of musicians kept up a continuous flow of light and airy tunes. The scents wafting through the air were intoxicating and largely unidentifiable to a village boy like Merlin. He kept his back to the wall, occasionally snagging a piece or fruit or a recognizable tidbit from a passing tray, though the fifteen listed combatants had a separate table prepared for them.

Merlin found the scrutiny exhausting and nerve-wracking. He preferred to keep to the shadows at the edge of the room and watch.

Uther, whom he had never seen before, had a loud voice and a ready laugh, though there was something predatory about his eyes and nose. He was a man in his min-sixties, still appearing in robust good health, though no one could know that for sure. Old Man Phillips had been the same way, and just last month had dropped dead while chopping his own firewood. There had been murmurs, nasty whispers that called to mind the old man's well-known grudge against Merlin, but he had been in full view of several villagers all day that day, and nothing could be proved. One way or the other.

Uther wore Camelot red, his heavy crown, and a collection of medallions on his chest, hanging from thick gold chains of varying length. He lounged at his ease upon a central throne-like chair, Sir Leon at his left hand, and an older man in a blue robe with ear-length white hair at his right.

The king's eyes fell once upon Merlin, who shuddered involuntarily and slipped behind a pillar, edging closer to the combatants' table where he belonged. Snagging a seed-dotted roll from a passing tray, Merlin leaned against the pillar that shaded him from the king's view, and studied his arena-fellows.

There were four women, one a sweet-looking girl in a wispy yellow dress, with long curly honey-colored hair, one a thirty-something brunette, comfortably plump and even motherly, a third a crafty sharp-nosed female of indeterminate age, wearing a blue turban of a color very similar to Merlin's own shirt. The fourth woman was much more ordinary, frightened-looking. All four were certainly sorceresses, though that did not mean they had no knowledge or skill with weapons. There were two others he pegged as magic-users, also, one a robed blonde with horrific scars twisting the left side of his face and his left hand, who walked stiffly and with a perpetual hunch to his shoulders. The other was just as scrawny as Merlin himself, somewhat shorter, with a moustache that did nothing for his buck teeth or bulging eyes.

The warriors, on the other hand, were fairly typical, a handful of swaggering, muscular guys who were nearly indistinguishable from each other. Two looked to be older – pushing forty, even – and one might have been younger than Merlin himself. One had a remarkable expression of calm nobility that Merlin kept checking, wondering if maybe it was a front. A mask that he wore to the ball. And where was that last one, the blonde with the blue-green eyes? Arthur, wasn't it?

"Lurking, are you?" someone remarked from behind Merlin, and he startled so badly the bread flew from his hand. He turned; it was Arthur, with a smirk on his face. "Jumpy, too." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah," Merlin agreed a little breathlessly. "I'm not used to – all this." He waved his hand to indicate the entirety of the sense-assaulting chamber.

Arthur snorted, a derisive sound that Merlin took no offense at. "Try to pay attention, won't you?" he suggested, pointing over Merlin's shoulder.

Sir Leon had risen from his place at the king's side. "Combatants will be called in alphabetical order," he announced. "Please step forward and present yourself to the court for introduction."

Arthur was already moving past Merlin when his name was called, confident that he would be first. He strode down the banquet hall as if he belonged there, and Merlin envied him his grace and poise. He himself would be lucky not to trip and pull two or three of the food-laden trays down upon himself – and the nearest ladies, too, likely enough. At the other end of the room, Arthur performed a correct and mannerly bow to the king, and drifted to the side, where a sweet-faced noble girl with a wealth of curly black hair blushed through her dusky complexion and pretended to ignore him.

The two male sorcerers were next, Cornelius and Edwin. Merlin made no attempt to remember names, but was sure he would know most of them in the arena the next day. His memory was just sharp for details – even the unwanted ones.

Three of the warriors were next, Kanen and Lancelot and Merlin didn't catch the third name, one of the older men, a grinning brown-haired man, and the one with the suspiciously-perpetual expression of gentle nobility. Then came the motherly sorceress, Mary, Merlin himself, and the fourth scared-looking sorceress behind him. He kept his eyes on the hem of Mary's sensible blue dress, and performed a jerky bow to the edge of the high table, escaping as quickly as possible in the opposite direction that Arthur had wandered.

After Merlin was another warrior, the youngest-looking one, Mordred, then the other two sorceresses, the sharp-faced one Nimueh, the soft girl with honey hair Sophia. Then the last three warriors, two of their names Tristan and Val, but Merlin's attention was caught by the sweet-looking honey-haired Sophia, dipping into a smiling courtesy before the king. She glanced up at Merlin as she rose, and he was shocked to glimpse a flash of red in her irises.

That was sidhe magic, he was sure of it. Not as bad as dark magic, but just as unpredictable. For the first time, Merlin faced the realization that one of these fourteen opponents would be the next ruler of Camelot. And even if Ealdor was not to be part of the kingdom, it was close enough to feel the effects of a bad monarch.

Was this such a good idea? he wondered. Uther would gain a strong successor, no doubt of that, but a hunger for power combined with a crown… Merlin shuddered.

Well, if he were not to survive, who would he prefer to sit the throne? Definitely not the sorceress allied with the sidhe. But who else might be good for Camelot? Maybe the one with the noble expression – was his name Lancelot or Kanen?

"Getting enough to eat?" Arthur said behind Merlin, who had sensed his approach this time, and wasn't taken by surprise.

"Why do you care?" Merlin asked curiously.

"I don't," Arthur shrugged. "You just look like getting enough to eat isn't really a regular thing with you."

Merlin grinned. "It's not." But that bag of grain would go a long way toward making sure the other children of Ealdor could not say the same.

Arthur was looking him over, taking his measure. "You carry no weapons," he observed.

"Of course I do," Merlin said. "I'm a sorcerer. My weapon is with me all the time."

Arthur stretched, and a knife flicked into his hand from a sheath concealed in his sleeve. "So's mine," he told Merlin, who laughed. Arthur shook his head, his mouth twisting sideways like he was fighting the half-smile. "I don't know – Merlin, wasn't it? There's something about you, I can't quite put my finger on –"

"I just told you," Merlin said, smiling. "I'm a sorcerer."

Arthur shook his head. "No, that's not it," he said. "Never mind – it'll come to me." He sauntered away from Merlin's side to drape himself over the back of the black-haired girl's chair. Judging from his smile, he was flirting with her. Judging from her smile, he was doing it successfully.

The rest of the feast was a trial in itself for Merlin. Some of the other combatants tried to engage him in conversation, clearly trying to evaluate him as an opponent, while others just as clearly ignored him – he hoped because they'd already decided he posed no threat. The sidhe girl and the motherly Mary paid him no attention, and the scared girl was in her own world, but the other three sorcerers each came to him.

Sharp-faced Nimueh, with startlingly blue eyes – who could have been his younger sister, or his grandmother – sidled close, her smile curving provocatively. "I can feel your power," she murmured in his ear. "If you want to work with me, I know we'd be perfect together."

Merlin stammered around his heart in a throat as dry as sand, and she floated away with a sharp, satisfied backward glance. Both Edwin of the terrible burn-scars and Cornelius of the protruding eyes approached him with greater arrogance, promising their protection if Merlin would loan his strength to theirs initially.

Merlin smiled noncommittally. "I'll think about it," he said. But he knew better than to pledge his strength to the control of another when only one victor would be proclaimed.

The physical fighters by and large overlooked the magic-users entirely, but the noble-eyed warrior paused as he was passing by. "Merlin, wasn't it," he said. Merlin looked into his quiet brown eyes, looked deep there, and saw nothing to support his theory that the man was playing a role to garner sympathy. "Good luck tomorrow, Merlin," he added sincerely.

"You as well," Merlin returned, surprised. "Ah-"

"The name's Lancelot," the young man said. He further surprised Merlin by extending his hand, but looked pleased when Merlin took it. As he drifted on, Merlin thought to himself that he'd do a good turn for Lancelot, if the opportunity came up.

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

Merlin escaped back to guest chamber three as soon as he could convince himself he would not be missed, and laid himself out on one of the three cots in the room. He did not expect to sleep, but he woke much later to the shuffling footsteps and voices of both his chamber-mates. He rolled over and squinted in the light of the candle in the hand of one of them – ah, Arthur and Lancelot. Merlin smiled sleepily. His luck held.

Both warriors had imbibed no small amount of wine, it appeared, both unsteady on their feet, and with an arm over each other's shoulder that would have been unusual in the light and sobriety of day.

"Who have we got?" Arthur questioned in a loud whisper. Already Merlin recognized that voice.

The candle lifted. "It's Merlin," Lancelot replied. "That tall skinny sorcerer."

"Think he'll enchant us while we sleep?" Arthur said, lowering himself to the cot next to Merlin.

"No, not this one," Lancelot said, heading for the furthest cot.

"Oi," Merlin said, "I am awake, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Arthur and Lancelot began removing their boots and outer clothing, readying for what might be the last night of their lives.

"No, it was bandits," Lancelot said, evidently continuing whatever story he'd been telling Arthur. "The whole village was razed by the time I returned."

"And your family?" Arthur said.

Lancelot's brief silence was sufficient answer. "So I learned swordplay," the noble-faced warrior concluded. "I thought, my life is forfeit anyway – if I'd been at home I'd have been killed, too. The least I can do is spend it making sure that happens to no one else. When Uther's offer of the kingdom to the victor came, it seemed a natural conclusion to my life – and I joined the contest."

Arthur grunted, and both warriors stretched out on their cots, arranging their blankets over them.

"Arthur, you're from Camelot, aren't you?" Merlin spoke into the silence. "Why didn't Uther just name one of his knights his heir? Sir Leon seems he would make a good king."

Arthur, sprawled on his back, tucked one hand under his head. "Uther was afraid that such a choice would cause resentment among the knights, might spark rebellion against the heir so named later on," he said. "He needs those ranks united in protection of the crown. Also, think you any of these knights would fail to volunteer, were they so allowed? This is exactly the sort of occasion they train for – contests to prove strength and nobility, to lay their lives down for the kingdom."

Merlin considered that. Yes, he supposed Arthur was right. He could understand that motivation himself, after all, though his life was offered on a much smaller scale.

"And," Arthur added, "Uther clears the board of any significant threat to the heir in one day. Anyone with the ambition or ability to stage a coup is here to compete."

"I didn't think of it like that," Merlin said, surprised.

"Why are you here then, Arthur?" Lancelot said. The dark and the drink and the impending death hanging over all three of them was forging a connection, which kept slumber at bay and encouraged them to conversation. "You're just that ambitious?"

There was a long pause, in which Arthur didn't speak. Deciding, Merlin suspected, if he trusted them. Then Arthur said, "My father was a knight."

"Ah, we're in the presence of noble blood," Lancelot teased. "Why didn't you become a knight, then?"

"My mother was a commoner." Another long pause.

Merlin could relate – to be stuck between two worlds, not truly belonging to either… he himself had never felt at home in his village, and his father the only sorcerer he'd ever been in company with. He wished he'd gotten the chance to say goodbye.

"My father taught me everything he knew," Arthur continued. "He taught me horsemanship and swordsmanship, made sure I earned my education. He taught me of loyalty and justice, freedom and honor."

"He sounds…" Merlin couldn't think of a good word. Arthur's father sounded much like Balinor, though with understandable differences of class and station.

"He died last year," Arthur said.

"And your mother?" Merlin asked, thinking of Hunith with a pain in his heart and a sudden childish homesickness.

"She understand," Arthur said. "I honor his memory and training in a way that driving a cart for the rest of my life cannot."

Merlin shivered. It was very close to what he'd said to his own mother. I'm useless here, he'd said, that last night, as Hunith sat holding his hand, keenly reluctant to let go. My magic is confined, resented, suspected. My gift will never be worth anything in Ealdor.

Is it worth one bag of grain? his mother had whispered.

Many men are worth far less, he'd answered.

"Right, then, Merlin, your turn," Arthur said, kicking out his bare foot so that it connected with the side of Merlin's face.

"Get off, that's disgusting!" Merlin protested.

"Where is Ealdor, anyway?" Lancelot asked from his cot in the corner.

"On the border of Cenred's kingdom," Merlin said. "It's a small village. Farms, mostly, a few cows. A hay cart."

"So you wanted to travel, see the big city?" Arthur said. "Take the throne?"

"Oh, no, I won't be the heir," Merlin said. The candle flickered; it had burned very low. "I can't keep my room clean or my chores in order, there's no way I'm capable of running a kingdom. I have one friend at home. A crown prince should be loved by all."

"Then why are you here?" Arthur's voice was puzzled.

"I came for the grain. Half my weight – that's a lot for a village the size of Ealdor."

Each warrior was upright in his bed. "They sent you as a sacrifice?" Lancelot said, shocked.

"No, of course not," Merlin defended his hometown. "I volunteered."

Silence. Several minutes passed. Lancelot eased back down, thoughtful. Arthur said, "When I said that there was something about you, Merlin… I've figured what it is."

"And what is it?" Merlin said.

"You're an idiot." The word was belied by the grudging respect in Arthur's tone.

Merlin laughed, and the candle guttered out.