Dawn has not yet blushed when Merlin cracks the door to Arthur's chambers, a plate balanced on one arm and a jug crooked in the other. At this hour, Arthur should be burrowed in bed, clutching at his blankets and the final precious moments of sleep.

Yet Merlin's not surprised to find him up and clothed, poring over maps that spread across his table and spill onto the floor. When Merlin sets down the jug, Arthur startles and squints, first up at him then at the delicate tendrils of light just visible through the window.

"It's time," Merlin says and proffers the plate.

Arthur waves it away with a vague "Later." His eyes are crisp and clear, no visible evidence of a sleepless night. Yet details betray—smooth sheets, a puddled candle, and the collar of last night's dress tunic, which peeks from beneath a fresh cloak.

Arthur scribbles a feverish note on a parchment, then rolls it up and sweeps from the room, brisk. Merlin hurries to catch up.

Shoulder to shoulder, they enter the cavernous council room, at its heart the Round Table that's already become something of a legend across the land. Despite the early hour and the revelry of the previous evening, Arthur is the last to round to his chair. The room is as muted as a funeral, devoid of the usual good-natured banter that prefaces a council meeting. Merlin diverts to stand like a sentinel against his usual column nearby, positioned so he can watch Arthur's profile. He's the only servant present.

Solemn, the knights wait for Arthur to sit, to speak. Next to him, an empty chair gapes like a wound.

"Thoughts," he says.

That does it, breaks the dam, releasing a swirl of ideas and questions and arguments. Arthur isn't the only one who lost sleep pondering the problem. Predictably, Gwaine's the loudest. He still wants to sneak attack, a small band of knights to extract Gwen from under Morgana's nose.

"A small group stands no chance," says Sir Kenneth. "We need more swords. I say we bring the whole of Camelot down on her head."

"A decoy," Percy says. "I could pretend to be Emrys and get close enough to use a knife."

Gwaine scoffs. "You won't get close."

Through it all, Arthur listens, stoic like a statue of an ancient king, letting his knights vent the fear and impotence that lend an edge to their words. He betrays nothing of what he thinks, shows no surprise at each new suggestion, even as they grow outlandish, knights grasping at straws. Only Merlin can see how tightly Arthur grips his sword fist beneath the table. He's certain Arthur has considered all reasonable options, and more besides.

Arthur already knows, what he must do.

Some problems can't be solved with a sword.

Sir Leon has remained nearly as silent as the King. But when he shifts in his seat, subtle, everyone defers. His words carry nearly as much weight as Arthur's. "Magic," he says, "is the only weapon Morgana fears." He looks to Arthur. "We need Emrys."

"Emrys might not even exist," says Sir Ector, who was old even in Uther's day. "Morgana is delusional. She sees sorcerers in every shadow."

At this, Arthur speaks for the first time. Voice low, yet everyone hears. "I think she's right."

"My Lord?" Sir Ector asks, flushing at the contradiction.

Arthur looks up, gazing over the heads of the knights at something only he can see. "I've mulled over what Morgana said. And I think she's right. There's a sorcerer in Camelot."

The knights murmur at this, eying each other with concern. The years have softened Camelot's attitude toward magic, but the old fear still runs wide and deep.

Merlin stays very, very still. He senses that whatever comes next, it's important.

"It explains much," Arthur says. "These past years, Camelot has enjoyed more than our share of good fortune."

Merlin feels it, the first, fragile seedlings of hope in his chest. Arthur seems so calm, so certain, as though perhaps Morgana has merely confirmed, something he never quite let himself suspect.

"Are you saying Camelot flourishes because of sorcery?" Sir Ector hisses, the word sour on his tongue. He's from the old guard, one of the few remaining knights who served under Uther, the only one who was a knight before the Great Purge. He remembers, what it was like.

"I'm saying that we can't be sure of the sorcerer's intentions."

"He's a sorcerer," says Sir Ector in disbelief.

Merlin clenches his jaw before he does something stupid, like open it. It's been years since he's heard such vitriol about magic. He'd thought that this level of prejudice had passed with Uther. Yet it seems Uther's insidious beliefs are like a cancer, impossible to root out, not entirely. Magic has all but disappeared from Camelot. But it has not been forgotten.

"Magic doesn't make a person a monster." Trust Gwaine to have Merlin's back even when he doesn't know it.

"Look at Morgana," Sir Ector says. "Anyone can see what magic has—"

"I'll have you remember," Arthur says, "she's my sister."

Sir Ector misses it, the warning that underlies Arthur's words. He's on a roll, face red and sweaty, working himself apoplectic. "Exactly. Magic has decimated your entire family."

The room goes deathly silent. There have always been rumors, of course, but only a few know the truth about Arthur's mother, his father, even among the knights. Somehow, Arthur doesn't flinch, no sign that the topic cuts him to the heart.

Arthur speaks loud. He speaks clear. "And a sword killed your son. Does that make all swords evil?"

Sir Ector's mouth works, but he has no counter, as though the thought has never occurred to him, that magic could be a tool like any other. Around the table, Merlin sees similar awareness dawn. Hope unfurls further, brighter. He's never heard Arthur speak like this in public, not once. In the early years, they sometimes bandied about ideas like this in private, when Merlin still sought to influence Arthur about magic.

But that was before Uther.

Whatever doubt Arthur had about the use of magic died with his father. Over time, he's relaxed the penalty for magic, yes, but it's not because he harbors goodwill toward sorcerers. He merely doesn't believe in executing people without proof. And in cases of magic, there usually isn't any. It's one person's word against another.

So whatever Arthur's doing now, Merlin tells himself, it's to get Gwen back. No more, no less.

"Sir Leon is right," Arthur says. "We must find this Emrys."

"There's no guarantee that she'll honor the bargain," says Sir Leon.

"Nor will I," Arthur says. "If Morgana is to be believed, Emrys is a citizen of Camelot. I will not bargain with his life, even to save the Queen's."

A murmur of uneasy disbelief at this. Even Merlin can't believe what Arthur is saying. That he'd go to such lengths, to protect the sorcerer who killed his father.

"Then you condemn the Queen to death," says Sir Ector.

"Not if we find Emrys—"

"But you said—"

"—and we ask for his help. Magic is the only weapon we have against Morgana."

Merlin almost can't breathe. Arthur has thought. Oh, how Arthur has thought. He's nine steps ahead of them all. It's like this crisis has released something in him, something long dormant.

Sir Ector is fit to burst. "If you do this, you'll publicly condone the use of magic. You'll undo everything your father worked for."

"For Gwen, I will do whatever it takes. Even if it takes magic."

Sir Ector's chair scrapes, loud. He stands, ponderous, ominous. "I've spent my life rooting out sorcery. I will not be part of this."

Arthur stands as well, unfurls to his full height, as if to remind Sir Ector that he's no longer a boy, he's every inch a man. Every inch a King. "Then you are dismissed. Leave us."

Stunned, Sir Ector doesn't move. He can scarce believe it, that Arthur deigns to send him away.

"Your father," he says, spittle flying, "would be ashamed."

Arthur doesn't budge. "It won't be the first time. Leave. Now."

Sir Ector draws himself up, the last vestiges of his honor. Then he leaves, his antiquated armor clanking with each step. Only when he's gone, when the doors slam behind him, does Arthur sit back in his chair.

It's not the first time Sir Ector has challenged Arthur's authority.

It will be the last.

Arthur's gaze circumnavigates the table, measuring them all. "If anyone else feels as Sir Ector, you may join him."

No one moves. No one at all.

Arthur sags minutely in his seat, almost in relief, the only hint that the confrontation with Sir Ector took more out of him than he would admit.

"Now," he says, his tone more gentle. "I must ask you all. Is there anyone here, around this table, who knows of Emrys?"

Silence deafens.

"Please," Arthur says, and there's something new and raw in his voice. His mask slips. He speaks to them no longer as their King, but as Arthur. "We shall go round the table. If you know anything, anything at all, I implore you to share. There's no tidbit too small. And there will be no penalty. I swear it on my life."

Arthur nods at Gwaine, who sits to his left. One by one, the knights shake their heads or chime an emphatic "No, my Lord." One by one, Arthur eagle-eyes them, sharp and focused, searching their faces the way only he can.

Merlin waits for the axe to drop. There are so many familiar faces around this table, men he's gone into battle with, eyes that could easily have seen him do something out of the ordinary to spare Arthur's life. Merlin might never even have noticed, so focused is he on Arthur, always Arthur. If they know something, they will say it. They must. For, like Merlin, they will deny Arthur nothing.

Yet round and round it goes, a litany of no.

Until they come to Mordred.

Mordred, who sits a few seats to Arthur's right, who doesn't look up from his hands, who up until now has been unusually silent. Mordred, the only knight who hesitates.

"Mordred?" Arthur prompts.

Mordred comes to some decision and looks up. But not to Arthur. He looks past the King, to where Merlin stands in the sidelines. Their gazes lock.

He says, loud and clear, "No, Sire."

Arthur frowns, uncertain how to interpret this tone. He won't let this go. "You've been quiet. What do you think we should do?"

Again, Mordred hesitates a beat too long. He continues to bore into Merlin.

"I think," he says, "we should ask Merlin."

Heads swivel to Merlin, who remains still from years of practice. Arthur is the last to look, but look he does, something in his face, an intensity behind his eyes.

"Ask me what?" Merlin says. His voice doesn't even shake. He looks back at Mordred, the sneaky little snake.

Mordred says, "Gaius found Emrys once."

Merlin stands stiff and straight. He looks to Arthur now, an apology in his eyes. "I'm sorry. Gaius kept his sources secret, even from me."

Arthur stares at him a beat longer, that strange energy. Then he blinks, some spell broken. He turns back to his knights with renewed vigor. "Our top priority is to find Emrys. I'm sure with proper motivation, Gaius' source will come forward. I'll hold the announcement today. And we should send envoys to the villages."

Everyone nods, the King's word is final. There's a flurry of movement in the hall as knights surge to their feet, hurrying to fulfill the King's wishes, glad at last to have somewhere useful to focus their energy.

Arthur stands but lingers, waving Mordred aside. He leans in and places a hand on Mordred's shoulder. Merlin drifts closer, the better to hear.

"I have a special task for you," Arthur says, low. "I'd like you to ride for the Druids."

At the word, Merlin chills.

Mordred smiles. His eyes flick again to Merlin. He thinks he's won. "Of course. I'll leave straight away."

If Mordred can find but a single Druid who's willing to speak, to tell the King what they know of Emrys, it will be all over. Likely there are those of Mordred's brethren who feel as he does, that it's past time for Emrys to reveal himself to Camelot.

It's past time for Emrys to fulfill his destiny.

Merlin can only watch, helpless, as Mordred strides away.

The courtyard is filled to the brim with all of Camelot, more people than Merlin has seen in this place, even for an execution. And still the crowd swells, spilling out into the streets of the upper town.

The King has called, and they have come. Arthur now stands on the castle steps, flanked by his knights, his expression grave. At the appointed time, he speaks. He informs the people that Morgana has returned, that she threatens Gwen's life. As he'd done with his knights, he begs them for anything on the whereabouts of Emrys, who, should he come forward, will be a guest of the crown.

There will be a reward, he says.

Word travels quickly, through heralds who echo the King's words all the way down to the lower town. Emrys, people whisper, a snake's hiss. He becomes the talk of Camelot, the name on everyone's lips.

Within the hour, a line of peasants stretches down the castle corridor and trails out onto the castle steps. They queue for an audience with the King, anyone who thinks they know anything about Emrys. For they all love their Queen and they loved her even before she was Queen, when she was only Guinevere.

Merlin forces himself to remain in the audience chamber long enough to determine that, despite their best intentions, the people of Camelot can't know about a man who doesn't exist. On any other day, Arthur and Merlin might have quirked eyes at each other, at the outrageous stories. They might have struggled not to laugh.

But this day, it's deadly serious. Arthur is unsmiling, giving each new person his undivided attention, leaning forward. Afterward, he extends an honest thanks and sends knights to check on every lead, no matter how small.

Soon, there will be no more knights to send.

When Merlin can't take it anymore, the way his heart rabbits at each new voice, he abandons Arthur to his never-ending audience and escapes to the library. There, he slides in to the forgotten room behind the bookcase and spends hours sneezing his way through dusty, forbidden books, searching for a clue as to the source of Morgana's newfound power.

He's only halfway through a stack of books as tall as he is when he closes his current tome, soft like a sigh. He sets it down on the floor, gentle.

Then he sets it on fire.

It's a pleasure, to watch it burn.

When it's blackened to ash, pages charred and illegible, Merlin lays his head on his arms, feeling as though someone has splayed and flayed him alive. He wishes he could scrub his own eyes, cleanse them of what they've seen, too many crude diagrams of rituals that involve blood and guts and—gods forbid—infants.

The things people will do, for power.

There's a reason these books are hidden.

Later, Merlin paces Arthur's chambers in a restless rhythm, fingers brushing this or that, poking every so often at the fire. He's nearly completed his tenth circuit of the immaculate room when he finally finally finally hears the turn of the key.

Arthur slips into his chambers without his usual level of fanfare, alone, and latches the door behind him. He sags for a long moment with his back to the door, head lolling against the wood.

Then he takes a step and kicks over a chair.

It skids toward the bed, toward Merlin, who's frozen in the act of plumping pillows. Arthur draws up, and they stare at each other through the canopy.

"I thought—" Merlin hefts a limp pillow, feeling out of place.

Since they'd been wed, Gwen attends the King herself in his chambers, one of the many perks of a servant queen. Merlin still dresses Arthur in his armor, but he spends less time in the King's bedroom than he used to. So now the sheets are tucked differently than he remembers. And there's evidence that Arthur sleeps on the right side, perhaps because it's closer to the door.

Arthur stares at him a second too long. "Of course." He stalks behind his privacy screen. "What news from the envoys?"

Merlin rounds the bed and rights the chair. "None, Sire."

"Strange," Arthur says, draping his cloak over the screen. Merlin hurries and snags it before it slumps to the floor. "Mordred should have returned by now."

"The Druids are not easy to find."

"Which is why I sent Mordred." Merlin assumes this refers to the young knight's uncanny tracking ability, which rivals Arthur's.

Merlin takes his time hanging the cloak in the wardrobe, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. He fights to keep his voice casual as he asks the next question, the only one that matters. "Did you learn anything of Emrys?"

"I did," Arthur says, and his tone is flat.

"And?" Merlin hovers in space, useless, nothing to do with his hands.

Arthur steps from behind the screen, sans shirt. Merlin turns away to light candles. Even though it's too early for candles.

"Let's see," Arthur says, ticking off with his fingers. "I learned that he lives at the top of the tallest mountain, at the bottom of a lake, and in a cave. Depending on who you ask, he's an old man, a young boy, or a crone. He or she has caused all sorts of ills across the kingdom, including poor weather, withered crops, and dead pigs. Oh, and he can turn himself into a bird."

"Handy, that," Merlin says. He feels giddy with it, relief.

Arthur frowns at him. "It's too early for candles."

"I'm…making sure they still work. Which they do, so." With thumb and forefinger, Merlin pinches the flame back out.

Arthur rolls his eyes and disappears back behind the screen. Although from the silence that follows, he doesn't seem to be dressing, moving, anything. This usually means he's thinking. At long last, Arthur says, quiet and small, "I don't understand why he won't come forward. If he's as powerful as Morgana thinks, why is he afraid?"

"Perhaps even he is leery of what she's become."

"Or perhaps he's leery of me. And rightly so." Merlin clamps down on a wick too hard. His flesh sizzles, and he yanks his hand back. Something in the way Arthur says this…

"You said he'd be a guest of the crown," Merlin says around the fingers in his mouth. So it comes out more like august of the crow, but Arthur gets it anyway.

"He will be." Arthur steps from behind the screen. Oddly, he wears a fresh tunic, but not one for sleep. "Until I have Gwen."

"And then?"

Arthur slings on his sword belt and cinches it with a flourish. "There will be a trial for the murder of Uther Pendragon."

The spare candle in Merlin's hand snaps in half and of course. There's no longer a serious penalty for magic. But there's still one for murder. No matter what Emrys might do to help Arthur now, Arthur will never forget what he did at their last encounter.

Arthur side-steps Merlin's open-mouthed dismay to retrieve his sword. Merlin's thinking all kinds of things like Arthur lied and Arthur never lies and Arthur is retrieving his sword.

"Since when do you wear your sword to bed?"

Arthur sighs, grim. "I'm not going to bed."

"Then where—?"

"We're going for a ride. Prepare the horses."

Merlin can't quite process this. "It will be dark soon." They rarely ride out at dark. It's always first light.

"We've just enough light to get there."

"Get where?"

But Arthur's already out the door. As Merlin scrambles to follow, Arthur pops his head back in. "Oh, and inform Leon, will you?"

The candle becomes a crumble in Merlin's fist.