Chapter 9: Sorcery of One Kind and Another
In the second month of spring in Arthur's twenty-first year, Morgana was plagued by an odd sort of bad luck, the sort of thing she didn't dare complain of to the king. Instead she made nervous excuses for broken vases and burned curtains, and sought out the court physician. Rejecting the idea of more and stronger medicine, she gave the old man little peace til he agreed to teach her techniques of meditation and self-calm. And, as her particular malady was exacerbated by uninhibited emotion, the exercises served to regulate the condition, at least temporarily.
Two weeks into Morgana's new treatment, her emotions were severely tested. A kidnapping attempt left her undressed and alone, running for her life, while her maid Guinevere, by all accounts her best friend in Camelot, remained a captive – and one of little value beyond her own person. Fearing what inevitably would become of her friend, Morgana persuaded Arthur to stage a rescue attempt. It wasn't the first overture of friendship, rather than rivalry, between the two, but it did serve to bring them closer to a better understanding and appreciation of each other's character and motivation. Prince Arthur trusted and enlisted another knight, Sir Leon – who was attached to the missing girl by reason of a childhood spent in common - in the quest unsanctioned by the king for being in consideration of a mere servant. They scaled the wall of the castle appropriated by the mercenary Hengist, located the maid in her cell, and exited the way they'd come, in the dead of night with no one the wiser. Both young men remarked upon the unusual level-headedness and fortitude of the rescued maid, throughout the action, and the ordeal. Morgana proclaimed herself in Prince Arthur's debt, for the return of her friend.
Morgana wore purple to visit her sister. It was a royal color, and suitable for blending into night's shadows. She still missed the boots, though, picking her way out of Camelot and into the roughest rough country around, to a little sliver of a cave where the torches and firelight wouldn't be seen at night by anyone around. A cave guarded by two of the silent, eerie black-knights her sister commanded.
"You've done well," Morgause told her distractedly, her eyes on the little white square of cloth in Morgana's hand. "The tears of Uther Pendragon have only begun to fall."
Her remaining reluctance melted to remember Uther's disgusting display of emotion. He'd always behaved toward her with such an effusion of feelings that she half disbelieved him. Even when she deliberately provoked him with her behavior or choice of words, and even when his temper flared, he was always so ready to forgive and forget and lavish her with more – another dress, another necklace, another banquet. And none of it ever meant as much as the few times when he'd spoken a line of grudging praise for his son, and Arthur's eyes had lit up.
He'd earned his father's love. And whatever Uther felt for her, wasn't real. The privilege and regard would disappear as soon as he realized, magic.
She just needed to be the one in control when that happened.
Handing the kerchief to her sister, she swayed a little closer to watch the cauldron of black bubbling goo swallow the bit of white cloth, dragging it down against all expectations of surface tension.
Morgause had already turned away, retrieving yet another object from a table placed further into the cave. A very strangely shaped root or a very strangely imagined doll and she found it hard to look away from the swollen-hard white shape, trailing tendrils from its grotesque limbs. Without a word, her sister laid the thing atop the black potion filling the cauldron.
It was sucked down even more quickly than the handkerchief – but at the moment the thickened liquid closed over it, a shrill scream as of terror pierced Morgana's eardrums.
Coming unmistakably from the cauldron.
Morgana gulped air and tried to keep her expression a studious sort of frown when Morgause turned to her with a triumphant smirk, as if Camelot had capitulated to them already.
"The mandrake root is very special," her sister told her. "Only those with magic can hear its cries." Almost lovingly, she took a short stubby branch and began to stir the sticky black mixture. "But for those without magic, it pierces the very recesses of the soul, twisting the unconscious into the very image of fear and dread. Uther Pendragon will find that his great kingdom counts for nothing, when he has lost his mind."
As she lifted her eyes from the cauldron, Morgana forced her face to mirror the same satisfied smirk that was on her sister's face – it felt stiff, but Morgause didn't seem to notice.
Lowering her voice into the cadence she used for magic-work, Morgause began the enchantment – of which Morgana caught the meaning of one word in three. With the power of the ancients, it began. And then something like scorn, tears and blood, and Uther's name. Insanity and devil and heart…
She couldn't help shivering. Of course Morgause's methods made perfect sense, and her ways were best and not to be questioned, but Morgana would have preferred something like sneaking Morgause into Camelot – she'd done it before, disguised as a knight – and maybe a few of her enchanted warriors, and storming the throne room to confront the king with his sins. Maybe it was justice to torment him with those sins, but…
It made the knot between her shoulder-blades tighten.
Then Morgause reached right down into the cauldron, and pulled out the mandrake, oily and dripping with the noxious liquid. She made to hand it to Morgana, who instinctively pulled back.
"I can't carry it like that. It'll drip all over."
Morgause stared at her a moment, a moment in which she was sure she'd disappointed her sister permanently, but then turned back to the table for an oiled leather bag with a drawstring mouth. Tucking the enchanted mandrake root into it, she jerked the strings tight and held it out to Morgana with an impatient slant of her head.
She took it by the strings and tied them to her belt to leave her hands free – but then she didn't leave the cave. Morgause lifted an eyebrow questioningly.
"There was one other thing," Morgana said, wishing that knot of tension would ease. She'd expected to relax tonight, leaving Camelot and the need to perform to expectations behind her, coming to her beloved sister, but… maybe it was just the unsettling nature of the root and the enchantment.
"What is it?" Morgause said shortly, looking from the cauldron to the table behind her as if already moving past their moment, in her mind.
"Uther has a hostage with magic in the citadel." She smiled with satisfaction to catch Morgause's full and intense attention, to be the one imparting knowledge that her older sister lacked. It felt like a single step closer to equality, to bridging the great gap of experience and training between them. "Did you know that the prince of Caerleon was adopted as heir to the throne for his magic? Evidently Arthur captured him this week in some border skirmish."
Morgause's lips and eyes tightened, and she stared over Morgana's shoulder, rubbing her fingers in a way that said, she wanted to pace, to prompt the corresponding speed of thought. The cave was too small.
"You've seen his magic?"
"No," Morgana answered, the swell of confidence in her chest abating somewhat. "They've got some sort of chain around his neck to block it. Arthur claimed his life is in no danger, that they're bargaining him back to Caerleon. Even Uther can't execute a foreign royal, I suppose."
"Every other link of the chain is fused? The Endel-Easnes, damn Uther. I could probably… but Caerleon." She stared into the darkness beyond the mouth of the cave for a moment.
"If we freed him, might he not be able to help us?" Morgana ventured. He didn't seem that inclined to friendly conversation when he stalked from the training field earlier that morning, but then… he probably thought that she was opposed to magic on principle, just like all of them. What other impression could she give with Arthur right there? And the irony was, Arthur assumed her to be interested in his release, already.
"You," Morgause emphasized, not looking at her. "Inside the citadel, he can only be of help to you, during the invasion. I don't know, Morgana, it isn't wise to adjust such an intricate plan as ours at this late date. Cenred and his army will cross the border in three days' time… How old is this prince? A boy, or a man?"
"My age," Morgana answered the sharp black glance promptly, as she always did. "Maybe younger."
"A barbarian? Stupid, and full of hate for Camelot?"
"I wouldn't say that," Morgana hedged, not quite able to keep up with the thinking behind the questions – but that wasn't her place, after all. "He seems intelligent, and controlled. I believe he and Arthur have come to some form of mutual… understanding. At least." Based on the quick and easy way they spoke to each other, even if it was all sarcasm.
"I don't want you caught helping him," Morgause stated, and Morgana whole-heartedly agreed with that resolution. "But you may not be able to remove the chain, either."
"We have three days." She didn't like to hear you may not be able to. "I can figure out a way to speak to him alone, and examine the chain. If you're familiar with it, surely…"
"The question is, what would he do with his magic unleashed," Morgause said, biting her lip and rubbing her knuckles in small, almost unnoticeable motions. "He might bolt for his own border. Or try to attack Uther – and you've already said, you don't want either Pendragon assassinated."
"No," Morgana said. Murder you all in your beds, I expect… "But I can speak to him about that, get him to agree to the chain removed on our terms."
"And you think a son of Caerleon would keep his word," Morgause scoffed.
"He has magic," Morgana said defensively. "Surely that makes him our kin, doesn't it? An ally at the least."
Morgause hummed, shifting her weight to twist away, absent in thought, then turned back. "If we kept him just as he is, chain and cell, we could be the ones to bargain with his kingdom. A little gold never goes amiss, or some alliance of mutual benefit, perhaps."
"We can't," Morgana said, dismayed at the suggestion. "We can't sell him. Even if he is a foreign prince, he's magic."
"We didn't capture him. We could call it a – reward for aiding his release. In any case, we don't know that he'd be friendly to our cause. Magic-users don't always see eye-to-eye, any more than anyone else."
Morgana felt a bit disconcerted at the idea, though of course it was logical. "But we have a common enemy…"
"There is that. He can have no love for the Pendragons, in any case." Morgause thought again, and Morgana waited. It had become abundantly clear, that year, that she had a lot to learn about tactics, from her sister. If she was going to try to form a pact with the stranger, she didn't want to make any mistakes. Any more mistakes, if she'd approached their introduction poorly.
"We can offer nothing more substantial than his freedom, or assurances of future aid," Morgause decided. "None of Camelot's land or wealth."
She was talking like it was theirs, rather than Uther's still – and Arthur's next. They were only meant to hold the reins of the kingdom temporarily, while the younger Pendragon mended Camelot's ways and laws.
"Perhaps," her sister continued slowly, "if Uther and Arthur prove more resistant to change than you – than we, hope. Perhaps this prince of Caerleon can serve as gaol-keeper. He can bring them back to Caerleon and keep them indefinitely – that would be a considerable prize, a perfect revenge, and serve as the foundation of a profitable treaty with their kingdom."
Morgana frowned, imagining that possibility. "I'm afraid that would make Arthur less likely to agree to our requests before he takes the throne again. He can be very stubborn – if we gave both of them or even just Uther, he might refuse-"
"It might be for the best," Morgause interrupted, inspiration lighting her from within. "It would be much harder for anyone to plot a successful counterattack, if both royals were far absent from Camelot."
"Yes, but…" Morgana began to think it would be better – more straightforward – to remove the chain and let Prince Merlin make his own escape in the confusion of the battle. Call it a favor, one magic-user to another, and have that be the end of it.
Morgause whirled on her, black eyes sparking with that internal fire that Morgana both admired and found intimidating, that was so hard to resist. "I have other ideas of how to handle this prince with magic, but they require careful thought. You must return to Camelot to place the enchantment on Uther now, and speak with the prince tomorrow."
Morgana touched the oiled-leather bag uneasily, to make sure it wasn't leaking at all, that it was fastened securely to her belt, out of sight under her cloak. She didn't want any of whatever that was, to touch her skin or clothing.
"Find out if he could be helpful, if he would be helpful, and what he thinks about terms," her sister concluded. "All right?"
Morgana was tired, suddenly, and dissatisfied with the night. Why couldn't anything ever be simple? "All right."
"And be careful, sister," Morgause added, coming to her to grip her shoulders and lean her cheek against Morgana's in a swift, hard embrace. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."
Nor I you, Morgana thought. But she only answered, with as much confidence as she could summon, "You won't."
"Courage. And do not doubt yourself, or our plan. And this will all be over soon, behind us, and our people will be free to live without fear." Morgause drew back, nodding to emphasize her words.
"Of course." Her sister shifted to attend the used cauldron and potion, and Morgana began to back away. As she left the cave, she added, "Good night…"
But Morgause didn't seem to have heard her.
As spring was dying into summer's heat in Arthur's twenty-first year, there was opportunity once again for the prince and the king's ward to cooperatively save the kingdom. A dispossessed noblewoman arrived with a strange skulking servant, and a seal of nobility to support her request for refuge. Gaius's suspicions were shared with Gwen to Lady Morgana – and finally to Prince Arthur, as the king was charmed thoroughly and swiftly. Within the week, he'd proclaimed the newcomer his wife and heir, over the prince's reservations.
The maid Guinevere, with the excuse of giving the guest quarters an extensive – needed – cleaning, found a suspicious potion. It was duplicated and exchanged, and the lady in question revealed herself for an actual troll – though unfortunately the king's enchantment was one of the eye as well as the heart. Further conspiracy, and potions, were needed – and Uther's tears over the perceived loss of his child served to break the spell. Morgana's childhood lessons in swordplay served her well enough to kill the inhuman servant, and Arthur himself dispatched the greedy scheming troll.
Arthur wasn't lurking. Nor was he skulking; that would be honorable for a hunter, but he wasn't hunting. He was… waiting unobtrusively for an opportunity to speak to a… a witness? a friend?... in private.
He'd been thinking about change. Because change was inevitable, over time, wasn't it. And especially when that time was one of stress, for any reason. He'd seen his father change, this year – some pounds were gone, some light from his eyes. The king had grown impatient with everyone, not just Arthur – contemptuously careless of Gaius, his council, and the whole cadre of knights. He'd seen Leon change from an uncertain novice into a knight quietly confident with command, a season and trusted warrior and friend.
The one person he thought had changed the most this year was the girl he was waiting for. Guinevere had gone from being her mistress's quiet shadow, dependable and loyal and obedient, to the physician's assistant, intelligent and authoritative when she needed to be. Twice this year she had argued him back to a sitting position when he'd denied the need for treatment of a minor wound – and he was not the only injured fighter she'd treated thus. She was the only one who could make him flounder for words, with those expectant dark eyes and those strong hands on her hips, and her black curly head tilted challengingly. She'd even addressed the council, once, in Gaius' absence, with calm self-assurance.
And now, how was it going to be for her, going back to her former work and identity as a lady's maid?
The chamber door in the alcove above him closed, quietly but firmly, and his heart thrummed anticipation. The footsteps tapping down the short curving stair were quick and light, not measured and confident, so he stepped out.
"Guinevere?"
Her lavender skirt swirled as she turned to him, taken by surprise. "Oh – Arthur – my lord, I didn't… see you there."
"I'm sorry I startled you - do you have a few minutes?" he said. "There's something I want to discuss with you…" Her hands were empty, so he figured it was an even bet that she'd been dismissed, rather than sent on an errand. Her mistress, he knew, hadn't emerged from her chamber yet that morning.
"Ah," she said, glancing down at her hands, then back at Morgana's closed door, before meeting his gaze shyly. "I guess I do." He gestured to the alcove by the window, and she added, following him, "Morgana isn't up yet. I brought in her breakfast tray and laid out her clothing… and then I tidied up and did some mending… and then I tried to inform her how late in the morning it was, and she said, Go away, Gwen."
He drew her to a halt beside the window, his back to the stair to shield her from any curious passing eyes as they spoke. "You're worried about her."
"I am." The corners of her mouth drew down, and she glanced at him as if wondering how much confidence she could share.
"It seems to me," he said deliberately, "as if Morgana hasn't changed at all, this year. That she's still her confident, assertive, outspoken self, and I cannot think how that could be if she was kept captive all these months…" He trailed off; Gwen was shaking her head.
"That's not what I see," she said in a low hurried voice. "I see she's completely changed. We used to talk about everything, and now she doesn't really want me in the same room, alone. I can tell she's thinking almost constantly, about something very important to her that she's worried about, but she lies and says she's fine."
"So you think she's trying to act the same as we remember her," Arthur concluded, "so we won't suspect how she's changed?"
Gwen nodded.
"But I imagine," Arthur went on, trying to be fair. He'd thought about how he'd act, coming back to Camelot after a year's absence. Maybe privation, maybe torture, maybe other things that happened to him he was ashamed of – and he figured he'd probably dismiss his manservant too, from an intimacy too vulnerable, thought they were nowhere near as close as Morgana and Gwen had been. He'd want to be alone or with so many people no one would pay him attention. And he'd hold tight to the façade of crown prince and act as expected, til it was true again. "I imagine I'd do the same, in her position."
Gwen's eyes shifted away, and she set her jaw just so; he interpreted the look.
"What else? There's something else?"
"Last night," Gwen said, slowly because she wasn't sure she should be telling him. "She dismissed me before I could help her ready for bed. And this morning… I could not find the gown she'd worn at dinner, nor the cloak that matches it."
Arthur gave her an uncomprehending frown.
"She took both garments to the laundresses herself, last night after I left. So what I thought," she explained, swaying slightly closer and glancing over his shoulder to make sure they could not be overheard, "what I thought was, what if she was not taken by an enemy, a year ago? What if she left voluntarily, secretly-"
"But why would she-" Arthur began.
"What if she was in love with someone the king disapproved of?" Gwen finished, eyes gleaming with something like hope. "And maybe last night she went to meet him, and didn't want anyone to guess?"
Arthur grimaced at the femininely romantic notion. "But you've said, you can't imagine who that might be, looking back at her behavior before she left. That she never had opportunity to meet someone, or continue meeting someone – and then there was no one else who went missing, like they'd eloped. And, that she'd never said one word to either of us?"
"Yes, okay," Gwen agreed. "But if I was wrong? And if something happened recently – like the life she found wasn't what she wanted after all, and she left him to come home, but maybe now he's threatening her to return, saying he'll expose her somehow…"
"Gwen," Arthur said, protesting her embellishments with his tone.
"What if it was someone common-born?" she persisted, and added in a more cautious whisper, "Or someone with – magic? We wouldn't notice such a person missing, not like one of the knights or nobility. Maybe even someone at Trevena-"
"Impossible," Arthur said immediately. It had been one of their first places to look, when no trace of her was found and no ransom letter received. "She wasn't there – and Sir Acollyn has been traversing the wastes of the outer reaches of Albion, searching where she could have been kept hidden without rumors, or…" He remembered what Merlin had said about disguises with magic, and the possibility that they'd overlooked her, hidden in plain sight.
And she had been interested in the restricted magic of the hostage prince.
"Perhaps she hid elsewhere til your men had left Trevena satisfied she wasn't there," Gwen argued. "And Sir Acollyn's search was… I don't know, a cover of some kind. Even if he didn't know…"
"Regardless," Arthur said soothingly, brushing his palms briefly against her sleeves, and she closed her mouth to calm and listen. "You won't be able to force her to confide in you. All you can do is be supportive and understanding, and after a few days…" She nodded, biting her lip and focusing on the lacings of his shirt. "Maybe something else will come to light, and – we'll deal with whatever that is. You know… you're not alone."
Tears made her eyes brilliant when she lifted them to his, and his breath caught in his throat. "I still miss her," she whispered.
"I know you do," he said, his voice sounding hoarse, of a sudden. He tried not to look at her lips, or to remember the feel of them on his mouth and the memory of invigoration that had followed… "So do I, really."
"I should go," she said, shaking out her mood like she twitched at her skirts. "I think I'll see if Gaius needs help with anything. Finding a new assistant, at least."
He smiled, watching her dip a curtsy and trot down the stairs, her footsteps echoing up to him light and familiar. At the bottom she cast a smile of her own up to him over her shoulder, and was gone.
And then he remembered he'd also intended to ask for her impressions of the hostage prince. According to Gaius, she'd tended Merlin briefly during his time in the stocks, and Gaius himself was being very closemouthed about the hostage. Thought that might have been pique, that he hadn't been consulted before his patient was imprisoned again.
Oh, well. Plenty of time to speak to Gwen again later – and a good reason to, also.
Following the scare and scandal of the troll, King Uther declared himself inclined to initiate a reprise of the Purge, perhaps to demonstrate and reinforce his authority in fact and in perception. Arthur was reluctant, but because both the court physician and the king's ward spoke emphatically against the proposal, the king was persuaded that a witchfinder was not a necessary person to add to Camelot's permanent staff.
The Midsummer Feast, in Arthur's twenty-first year, was interrupted by a lone warrior on foot, fully clad in plate armor, a person who refused to request an audience with the king with words, instead demanding attention by deeds of violence, from the portcullis to the doors of the banquet chamber itself. Revealing herself a woman, and giving her name as Morgause, she challenged Prince Arthur to single combat, which he succeeded in winning, despite his misgivings over fighting a woman. Before the disappointed Morgause left Camelot under banishment of the king, she confided in the king's ward, speaking of her ancestry – notably of the mother they shared, and how she had come to leave the family so precipitously and so young. Morgana was undeniably and understandably sympathetic and curious, but only the promise of future attempts at connection was possible, given the king's judgment on the ruthless and defeated challenger.
Merlin figured he'd made a mistake yesterday, by midmorning. By the time they brought his noon tray – cold chicken scraps, wilted greens and very stale nut-bread – he was sure of it.
Was it the quip about murdering them in their beds? or maybe the momentary magic to disarm Pendragon that they didn't trust, and wouldn't risk any more contact. No one had come but servants and guards, and none of them would talk to him.
He wandered his cell, around and around and back and forth, stretching his bruises and thinking of a hundred things he could do for simple pass-time, if he was allowed the use of his magic. He thought he'd rather have his hands chained and his magic free, than this.
And then, when a servant came to remove the tray from his midday meal, a guard entered his cell also, with two iron cuffs and a length of chain. A second showed at the door, hand ostentatiously on his sword-hilt, wordlessly warning Merlin to comply.
As if he couldn't have disarmed the first and overpowered the second to gain his freedom if he wanted, neck-chain or not.
"No, I didn't mean it," he said in dismay, resisting but minimally as he was pushed to the wall beneath the window-openings, his wrists captured in the iron cuffs and the chain locked to a ring bolted to the stone of the wall. "If Uther doesn't want his necklace back – it is very pretty but I'm nearly betrothed in my own kingdom – you could at least…"
The cuffs pinched as he reached for the departing guard – entreaty, and testing the strength of the metal, too. The guard ignored him, up the two stairs and through the door – but then, he didn't close it behind him.
Merlin straightened as the Lady Morgana, clad today in blue and purple silk, stepped into the doorway. She studied him; he let his hands drop and wished briefly that he'd been allowed a full bath and a change of clothes.
"The door will remain open," someone out of sight told the lady. "If you have need of us, just call."
"Thank you," she said coolly, not looking away from him. "I don't imagine I will."
Then she entered his cell, down the two steps, looking about – curious, but indifferent to what she saw. The fine hairs rose on the back of his neck, and an involuntary shiver chased a chill he didn't understand down his spine.
"If I'd known you were coming," he said, seeking refuge in gallantry, "I'd have cleaned up the place."
She smirked in response, and Merlin found himself intrigued, as yesterday, by the sense that she hadn't suffered at all, the while Pendragon said she'd been gone. She sauntered closer to him obliquely, and a stray draft tickled his nose with a whiff of something that made his nostrils curl. Was that the waste-bucket round the little corner dividing his cell into vague halves? Surely not, it was empty. But maybe if it hadn't been rinsed or scrubbed – he hoped she'd keep her distance. Offending her sense of smell was far different a prospect than whatever offense he'd caused yesterday.
Yet… she'd come to his cell, seeking further contact. Should he apologize for the provoking statement?
"I came to apologize," the lady said – but her tone was arch, teasing. Not sincere. "I was merely curious about the restrictions on your magic, yesterday, but I don't suppose I asked the right questions. Or in the right way."
"You have no need for apology," he said. "I spoke out of turn. Murder is not a subject for levity."
Her eyes were green, he remembered, from being closer to her in direct sunlight. They flashed at him now, as if he irritated her for some reason. Didn't she have a sense of humor?
"I myself could not speak as freely as I would have liked, with Arthur standing right there," she said.
"Which is why you've come here today?" he guessed, playing along.
She tilted her head, and waves of glossy black hair rippled and shimmered. "Will you answer the question honestly? If that chain around your neck was removed, what would you do?"
"Did the prince send you to ask?" Merlin wondered, feeling a touch of disappointment, if Pendragon doubted his principles that much.
She lifted her chin slightly, scoffing at his assumption to deny it. Then repeated, "What would you do?"
"It would have to depend on the situation," he said, choosing to answer honestly. "Who was removing it, and for what reason." If it was Pendragon, releasing him from his hostage-oath, that was one thing. But if it was Uther, trying to keep the chain clean of blood when he had Merlin's head chopped off… well, that was different.
"What if Gaius knew how to remove it?" she suggested, moving to the opposite side of the cell. Keeping those green eyes on him, but coming no nearer. That smell stirred in the air again, and he tried to ignore it.
"It wouldn't really change anything," he said. Except that Uther would probably be furious that he was free, and seek to repress him again somehow.
"Meaning?" she challenged.
Maybe he'd misunderstood her yesterday. He wasn't a typical handsome prince, but there was a slight possibility she'd decided to cast herself as a lady of rescue, stealing keys to throw into cells for the romance of adventure and intrigue.
"I surrendered to Prince Arthur," he explained gently. "I rode a day and a half to get here, and spent a night in this cell before they put this on me."
"The Endel-Easnes," she said.
What an apt name - endlessness. "Even now, if I wanted my freedom, I could still plot and fight for it, without magic," he said. "But Arthur holds my bond. And contrary to what you might have been told, we in Caerleon do have a sense of honor."
"And especially if you're royalty," she said sarcastically, turning to wander to the back of his cell, where the bed was.
Somehow he had to distract her from wandering past that bucket, if she continued her circuit.
"What about your honor where your kin of magic are concerned?" she said.
Nerves tightened almost imperceptibly, all over his body. "Beg pardon, my lady?"
The skirt of her gown flared as she turned to face him, and spread over his dingy little mattress, as she dropped to sitting on the edge of it. "Uther is your enemy twice over, sorcerer," she said, clearly baiting him with hypotheticals. "If you had the chance to strike a blow for the justice long overdue your kind, how could you refrain?"
Again, it would depend on the situation. If those voices he'd heard his first night, waiting futilely for their savior Emrys, had belonged to living people, innocent of any true crime, he'd have affected their rescue and defense against Camelot, dispensing with any who stood in their way, king included. Something like that would go at least a little way to blotting out the stain of blood on his hands from the innocent villagers of Evorwick and Stonedown.
But if he woke at midnight with his neck bare, he wouldn't sneak on silent invisible feet to the king's bedchamber to plunge a dagger into his twisted, murderous heart. That wasn't his place, to be judge and executioner of any man, to decide who lived and who died. Not til he wore a crown of his own, anyway – and then, he knew, justice and mercy would have to temper each the other, and he hoped he'd be wise in the application of both.
"Why are you asking me this?" he said, instead of answering.
"What if…" She leaned forward slightly, eyes hooded with uncertainty – flicking to the empty doorway, and back to him. Her voice lowered a bit more. "What if war broke out in the citadel, and it seemed likely the Pendragons would be dethroned? Would you not take your chance to strike back against Uther? Even… indirectly?"
He tried to study her in return, to see past the beautiful Lady… to someone who'd been absent for a year and returned unscathed. Who were you with this year, my lady, and what were you doing?
"Again," he said, speaking slowly, "it would depend, on who was attacking, and why. If it were my own king and people, of course I would join them in the fight. If not…" He shrugged, affecting nonchalance, though he was curious to figure her out. And ignore the idea that his king would whole-heartedly approve of the use of his magic in any conflict, against Camelot. "Caerleon has no allies I'd be honor-bound to aid."
"Again," she said, mocking him slightly. "What of magic-users? Are they not your people, too?"
He breathed, running his fingertips around the edges of the cuffs at his wrists, without clinking the links of the chains together. The only convocations of magic-users he knew of were the druid clans, and the sanctuary city of Helva. And they would not initiate a military campaign.
"I am not aware of any such group with any measure of legitimate authority," he said mildly.
She made a face expressive of dissatisfaction and disdain, sitting back on his bed and looking away. "You speak like someone who has little, or weak magic," she bit off her words spitefully.
"And you speak like someone who has some experience with the subject," he said, suspicions dawning. "Where were you this year, my lady?"
She shot him a sharper, more honest look that cut through her contempt – but only for a moment. "Are you saying you're not weak in magic? Not untaught or inexperienced? Are you saying that you'd join your kin of magic to overthrow a murderer and a tyrant? What might someone have to offer you in exchange?"
He stared at her, wishing he could read minds as easily as Alator. She was a stranger, he could not tell what her motive was, in this conversation. Whether this rhetoric was pretense, to trip him up in some continued test of Uther's? she was his ward, after all. And simply because Arthur hadn't known where she was, this year, didn't mean no one did. Or was she part of some other movement, more secret, more hidden? He was reminded of an old saying he'd learned in the fishing village on the coast of Caerleon, the cove their castle was named for.
Don't swim where you can't see the bottom.
His arms wouldn't quite cross over his chest, affixed to the restraining irons, but he leaned back against the wall, kicking out one boot in lazy indifference. "I'm not saying any of that," he corrected. "What happens in Camelot, or to Camelot, isn't my business. I'm Caerleon – and my king negotiates for me."
Her eyes narrowed. "I see," she said, surging up from her seat on his bed. "So that's why you and Arthur seem to get along so well – you're both the same. Afraid to stand on your own two feet and make your own decisions. You'd prefer to hide behind the law. Tradition and protocol, and unfeeling cowards."
"Hey," Merlin protested, pushing upright away from the wall. "That's both unfair and untrue, you're not-"
"You're a selfish bastard," she spat, stalking closer – though she kept out of the range of his reach, cuffed to the iron ring in the wall. "A traitor to your magic."
"You're wrong," he said, with calm anger.
"I don't know why I'm wasting my time," she said, sweeping blue and purple skirts past him. "I don't care what happens to you, anymore."
"Fare well, my lady," Merlin called after her, determined to show courtesy, even if she wasn't.
She ignored him. Head high, she exited the cell – and a moment later, it was closed and locked from the outside.
"Hey, I'm still chained to the wall?" Merlin called out.
The guards ignored him also.
Well, at least he'd distracted her from the stench of… Wait, no. The last few moments repeated themselves in his head and he wondered if perhaps that odor – as indelicate as the thought was – had come from her? He couldn't smell it in here, anymore.
And hells, he realized he'd managed to compound his own mistake. Now no one would be coming to visit him anymore…
As summer cooled into autumn of the seventeenth year of Prince Merlin of Caerleon, a bounty hunter with a cage-cart rattled into Beckon Cove on his way to Camelot. King Thurston was given the option of paying more for magical cargo than King Uther was offering; he summarily executed the hunter-slaver and turned the prisoner over to the prince and his tutor for analysis and restoration, if possible. The cursed druid girl was cured, eventually, and took up service in Beckon Cove.
The first month of autumn of Prince Arthur's twenty-first year, a convocation of kings and lords took place to discuss and sign a mutual treaty of peace. Prince Arthur inexplicably and carelessly demonstrated complete infatuation with the daughter of one of the visiting dignitaries, so much so that the physician and the king's ward expressed extreme skepticism of his sincerity. Reminded of the incident with another visiting lord and his daughter, and the enchantment that was broken at their execution, the prince's friends guarded both him and the subsequently enchanted lady from true indecency, and though the enraged father demanded single combat, the spell on Prince Arthur was broken in time for him to defend his life and apologize sufficiently for the honor of all involved. Neither the prince nor the maidservant Guinevere dared to address their first hasty spontaneous kiss in the prince's tent; it was meant to express sympathy and hope and conveyed more significance than either was ready to acknowledge.
A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.1 "The Tears of Uther Pendragon".
