Chapter 10: The Ware-Stone

The slanted cellar door at the back of Alator's house was closed when Freya arrived, a half an hour past dusk, so she rapped lightly at the back door instead. And when Finna opened it, eyes wide at the sight of a visitor, a wide strip of faded fabric holding wavy silver-streaked dark hair away from her plump face, Freya felt an instant of fear.

Until Finna stepped back and said, "Come in, dear. Alator has started dinner; I'm helping him here, and Master Emrys is in the front room reading. We're still waiting on your brother."

Freya entered the small living area of Alator's house, relieved that nothing had gone wrong while she'd been gone. The bald sorcerer was occupied soaking several lengths of dried sausage; Finna was evidently halfway through arranging individual bread loaves on a tray to bake. Freya set a small basket of fresh greens she'd bought from someone who had been harvesting the first of the forest's spring bounty on the table, and paused in the half-curtained doorway.

Merlin straddled his chair and leaned over the table, stacks of books and pamphlets illuminated by a single candle, one of which actually rose higher than his head, so close was he to the tome spread flat before him. Jacket discarded and sleeves of a clean shirt – deep blue, and it suited him - rolled to his elbows. One arm encircled his book, the other elbow bent to allow his long fingers shoved through and gripping his hair. The druid swirls shone, the tiny scales reflecting deep green where they caught the light, opaque black where they were angled away.

He was reading as though his life depended on it; she hoped it didn't.

Merlin didn't raise his eyes as she came into the dimly-lit room and crossed to his side, but he leaned sideways until head and shoulder rested comfortably against her middle. She glanced at the page over his shoulder, but couldn't read whatever language it was written in – and without thinking, she put her hand on his hair, much as she'd often done with Gareth when he was small, and very rarely these days, when Gwaine was sitting exhausted or discouraged at their table.

It was glossy and thick after its earlier washing, and she couldn't help combing her fingers through its softness, even down the back of his neck where it grew now shorter and thicker, as far as her fingers could reach down inside his collar, extending in the stripe down his backbone. Briefly he turned the side of his face into her dress at her waist, nuzzling at her like a very small child. Or a very large cat. She froze, her stomach flipping over, but it didn't seem to her that he even realized what he was doing.

Then he shifted his arm beside the book, and it looked like he was studying the tattoos, rather than the words on the page.

"Feels strange," he said.

She wasn't sure if he was asking her or telling her. She leaned forward to rub her fingertips down his forearm, the scale-covered tattoos feeling like thick calluses swirled over the softer skin underneath, dry and smooth. Her movement prompted him to shift away from her again, and she pulled a second chair around the edge of the small circular table.

"You're quiet," he said, looking at her. He didn't bother to cover the abnormality of his forearms, as if he thought nothing of it, or knew that she didn't, either. "What's wrong?"

"Nell is still missing," she told him. "I just… I feel sorry for Shefydd. I don't think he likes to be alone."

His eyes seemed to shine a little more. "I'm so sorry," he told her quietly.

She nodded in silent acceptance of his sympathy. "What are you reading?" she asked.

He straightened, taking a deep breath. "I don't know if reading is the right word," he told her with an amused quirk of his lips.

That distracted her too, momentarily – now that he'd washed, she wondered what he'd taste like… No, she reminded herself fiercely. He's not for you.

"Gaius has been teaching me, but I'm far from fluent. These are some writings of Taliesin, one of the greatest sorcerers Albion has ever had; he lived over three hundred years ago."

Rather than a more specific question about curses, Freya said, "What is it about?"

"Crystals." His eyes were deep blue in the low light, animated in the appreciation of his studies. She thought she could watch the expression of his eyes forever and be satisfied, as long as he didn't realize she was doing it. "Most notably, the crystals that have the power to show truth – past, present, and future, to those who know how to use them. There is one such in Camelot, but evidently its origin is in a cave hidden in a valley a half-day's ride west of the city. I may have to try to find it someday…" Even as she smiled to herself over his unconscious assumption of the outcome of the situation with the curse, his eyes dropped to the glittering scales, and a measure of life left his face.

"Any particular reason you chose that?" she asked, eyeing the top page on the stack nearest her; the one she could read was titled, Of Auguries and Dreams. Why was he choosing, then, to work his way through a more obscure text?

"Last autumn, the crystal was stolen from Camelot," Merlin told her. "Renegade druids. In the retrieval of it, some… things happened. Interesting, troubling…" His eyes flicked up to hers; she said nothing, but leaned her own elbow on the table, resting her temple against the heel of her hand to indicate her willingness to listen. "One of the druids had seen something of the future in it," he continued, "a future he wished not to come to pass. Later, he was wounded, and chose to die rather than attempt healing. And a few hours later… I looked into the crystal."

His expression didn't change, but his eyes took on a quality that was ancient, and haunting. "What did you see?" she said softly.

"Two of the visions I saw have come to pass," Merlin said, answering obliquely. "It is the third I would prevent. I saw the Princess Morgana crowned queen of Camelot." Freya considered this; Arthur was the older Pendragon, the heir. The princess would only take the throne in the event of his death without heirs of his own.

"You have questions," she said, "and you're looking for answers here?" She tapped the corner of the page with her forefinger.

His lips tightened and he gave his head a quick little shake of frustration. "I don't know exactly what Mordred saw, before he chose death; I don't know if it's possible to prevent the events of the vision in such a way. Aithusa once told me it was dangerous to meddle with the future, that you were just as likely to cause what you're trying to avoid."

"Aithusa?" someone said from the doorway, and they both jumped at the same time, turning as Gwaine sauntered in.

Merlin gave him a welcoming smile – a genuine smile, even as the darker struggle of thoughts she'd glimpsed receded. Not so much as if he were trying to hide something from Gwaine, but as though he'd learned to set his worries aside out of consideration for those whose company he shared, and enjoy the lighter emotions the moment brought without their hindrance. Not many people could do that, Freya thought.

"My dragon," the sorcerer said with a mischievous smirk.

"Oh, your dragon." Gwaine scoffed, grinning back. "Dinner's ready – and I look forward to hearing some of your stories tonight, my friend."

Freya followed them into Alator's kitchen. She couldn't help smiling at the two – so very different and yet getting along so well in such a short amount of time. Gwaine teased and provoked Merlin to better spirits, and Merlin answered in kind without taking offense, stepping right into the role of the younger brother, whether he realized it or not.

And Finna, wide-eyed and childlike as ever, willing to be astonished at the stories and claims of the two young men, while Alator grumbled skeptically in the corner…

We could almost be a family, here tonight, if you closed one eye and squinted with the other, she thought, and swallowed the lump in her throat with difficulty, along with a bit of Finna's fresh bread.

True to his challenge, Gwaine kept up a series of questions that drew story after explanation after story out of the young sorcerer from Camelot. With much, Freya suspected, the same goal as he'd told his own stories the night before. To pass the time, to divert Merlin's thoughts from their circumstances.

But as Merlin spoke of Aithusa, the young white dragon he'd run wild with in the hills and forests around Dinas Emrys and the farming village of Ealdor… as he described with dry wit and respect his years apprenticed to one of the best medical minds of their time, under the eye of a warlord king irrationally prejudiced against magic and especially dragons… as he spoke of his prince with sarcasm and hope, loyalty and an emotion deeper than love… Freya saw another result of the conversation.

Through his reminiscing, Merlin couldn't help but be reminded of how very much he had to live for.

In a few short hours, they would retreat below ground, to chain and restrain his body and fight and fight to keep his spirit. With these images in his head, these feelings fresh in his heart, Freya hoped, how could they fail?

The food gone, the dishes washed, Finna left for her home. Merlin took a mug of watered wine mixed with another of the plump healer's concoctions and a grimace, back to the table of books, and Gwaine joined him with a mug of unwatered wine. Alator remained in the back area of his home, napping in his own bed, Freya suspected, until midnight was closer.

She placed cushions on a bench below one of Alator's shelves on the side of the room opposite Gwaine and Merlin at the table, and paged absently through an outdated treatise on the 'worts' – motherwort, dragonwort, milkwort, to name a few she was familiar with. Too far to hear what the men were saying, and yet close enough to be lulled by the murmur of their voices. It reminded her of curling up safe in her alcove, protected and reassured by the domestic noises of another loved one in the room. One cushion under her hip, under her ribs, under her elbow as she rested her head on her hand. And slowly she stretched out until her arm was curled beneath her head on the cushion and the lines of the words and sketches on the page swam in the dim candlelight.

Gwaine let out a quiet snore, and she opened her eyes to see that he'd fallen asleep slumped in his chair, head hanging over the high back, legs sprawled before him. Merlin reached over without looking up from his page to remove the mug from Gwaine's slackened grip.

She blinked, and now Merlin's chair was empty. She hadn't even a moment to wonder, to worry, and she felt someone's hands arranging the light weight of extra fabric over her for warmth. Merlin's eyes crinkled at the corners as he slid the treatise out from under her elbow, and she put out her hand to grasp the collar of his jacket where it was draped over her shoulder.

It might have been a minute later, or an hour, but she woke startled to a man's voice spitting out a shockingly foul curse. Gwaine, she thought, but the voice wasn't right, and as she dragged her eyelids open, she saw her brother snort and struggle awake also.

Merlin was on his feet next to the chair, alarm vibrating through him as he stared with frightening intensity at – nothing at all. Into the blank air, for all she could see.

"What is it, mate?" Gwaine said, straightening and fighting the lethargy that pulled at her body and mind also. "What's wrong? It's not midnight yet?"

"Oh," Merlin said, not to either of them, but as if in response to some terrible news, received with such fatalistic calm it set dread curling uncomfortably inside her. "Oh, no."

The cushions fell as she finally pushed herself to her feet, a few seconds after Gwaine. "What, Merlin?" she asked, quietly so she did not disturb him unduly.

Still with that faraway look of dreadful concentration, he told them, "Mary's come home."

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

Gwen was relieved when she was finally allowed to sink into her chair at the head table, in preparation for the serving of food to commence. The banquet had been ongoing for hours, already.

The de Gransses, of course, had to be ready in the hall when the first guests arrived, some from quarters in the palace - like the knights, married or single each was allowed to escort a female guest. Then minor nobility, a few members of Lord Lionel's council, prominent leading citizens, from Lionys or having arrived that afternoon from surrounding acreages.

Of course there would be those who came late, and then there was the official welcome of the guest of honor, Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. Looking every inch the prince, from his shining golden hair down the impressive chainmail overlaid with crimson tunic embroidered with the golden rampant dragon of his kingdom's crest. Head high and hand negligently resting atop the swordhilt belted around his waist, Gwen watched him surreptitiously through the preliminary couple hours of the banquet.

She wondered if Merlin's dragon charm lay beneath the layers of Arthur's more obvious protection. The parchment of the scroll the sorcerer had given her rustled a bit in the silk-lined pocket of her gown.

Lots of mingling and chatting, light drinking and bite-size finger-foods on circulating servants' trays to whet the appetite. Music, though the dancing would be after the formal dinner had been cleared. Arthur's attention remained on whatever individual had claimed it at the moment, though one of his three knights was almost always within arms' reach of their prince, and their attention was spread wider, through the room, vigilant.

So far, so good, she told herself, relaxing into her chair. Not even a hint of a threat. She worked her foot in its thin embroidered slipper, which matched the plum-colored silk gown that she wore this evening, under the cover of the table. Her ankle had not given her trouble walking the town that morning, but if she wanted to be in any shape to dance, she had to rest it. And she found she did wonder about the prince's abilities – generally speaking, men trained to the sword were light and balanced on their feet, but there were exceptions. Percival was one.

"Are you all right?" Arthur said to her in an undertone, settling himself into the chair next to her as the other guests, at the high table and elsewhere, took their seats as well.

The high table had balanced the absence of Arthur's sorcerer by seating her at her father's right as the leading lady of Lionys. That way Elyan and Lancelot were on their left next to the host, and Arthur and Leon on the right next to her, the other two knights of Camelot at a lower table with their peers. Rather than the more appropriate setting of Arthur as the ranking guest on Lionel's right, and Elyan on his left, putting Gwen between Arthur and Leon, or even Arthur and Lancelot – the very idea made her cringe. Or being several seats away from the prince that had come with a potential proposal in mind, on her father's opposite side.

She smiled, hoping he would understand, and said, mock-serious, "He's a courteous young man, he'll be a fine king one day."

He looked at her for a surprised moment, then gave her a lopsided grin, returning in kind, "She's a lovely young lady and will make someone a wonderful wife."

She sighed. "I love Lionys and all its people," she told him sincerely, "just – not all at once." His blue eyes twinkled from the regal, stoic expression he'd been wearing all evening. "It's probably worse for you," she said, leaning forward enough to include Leon at Arthur's other side in the remark. "At least I know these people well enough to carry on a decent conversation, while you must meet stranger after stranger and remember names and details and answer the same questions diplomatically, again and again."

"Perhaps he should simply give a speech," Leon suggested in a misleadingly bland tone, and Arthur gave him a glare over the rim of his wine goblet.

"Oh, yes," Gwen picked up the line of teasing. "The state of Camelot, recent changes in policy, the health of the king, the responsibilities of a crown prince…"

"We'd be here all night," Arthur said, leaning forward as a servant on the opposite side of the table deposited an enormous tray of artistically-arranged sliced smoked ham, garnished with fresh leafy greens.

"We may, anyway," Gwen warned, then added, "Thank you," as he served a portion to her plate before his own. She saw in his eyes and on his face the shadow of the memory of midnight, and began to talk, keeping the conversation light and slow enough for them to be able to eat at the same time, giving Arthur bits of advice and clarifications on the most important guests.

This lord was blind in his right eye, so be sure to stand by his left, or at least don't be offended that he turns sideways when speaking to you… That dowager lady is almost completely deaf but won't admit it, speak loudly and slowly and always where she can see you… Those two share a land-boundary but make it a point of honor never to agree on anything… That merchant only this month turned the daily administration of his trade over to his grandson…

It did occur to her, that this was all the sort of information that would only be useful to him if he did marry the lady of the land. And she couldn't help wondering if he would be making an effort to remember the information past this night, or not. Either way, between her comments and Leon's occasional responses, Arthur did gradually relax.

"Your turn," she finally said to him, sitting back in her own chair.

"Pardon?" he said.

"Tell me about Camelot," she said. "Your family – your father. What's he like?"

"My father is… king," he said awkwardly.

She wondered if she'd inadvertently asked one of those 'hard questions'. But beside her, Lord Lionel was speaking to Elyan and Lancelot on his other side; Leon was still included in their conversation, but he was a quiet listener who soothed awkwardness with a gentle wry manner, acknowledging his inclusion with an occasional glance, but just as easily turning his attention to his plate or the rest of the room to give the two of them a greater illusion of intimacy in the crowd. And surely he knew his king's character by now, anyway.

"He's strict," Arthur went on, and she recognized that he was struggling a bit to describe his father, their relationship, in terms that would be honest – in light of their possible future connections – but as gracious as possible. "He's a good leader. He doesn't show weakness or indecision, he enforces and upholds the law absolutely. He provides for our peoples' needs first in every situation. He…" Arthur twisted his goblet on the snowy linen tablecloth for a troubled moment, then lifted his eyes to her. "He's a warlord," he finally said.

Which meant, Gwen could guess, that he'd been pretty hard on his son and heir.

Leon said neutrally, "He would never sit on the ground to eat with commoners. He would never show himself in public without first giving every attention to his appearance. He gives no one's opinion greater weight than his own. And he would never –" the older knight turned to look Arthur in the eye – "waste one moment worrying about a sorcerer."

Arthur grimaced at him, but didn't argue. And Gwen realized that not a single word Leon had said had been either untrue or disrespectful.

"He must be a good man," Gwen decided, and surprised both of them into looking at her. "I mean, he lost his own wife many years ago, didn't he?"

"When I was born," Arthur said, with a quizzical look.

"So – he had the raising of you alone," Gwen concluded, feeling an inexplicable warmth in her cheeks. "I'd say he's done a fine job – he must be a good man."

Arthur looked astonished, as if he'd never heard a compliment before. Leon said calmly, "I think it could be argued that Arthur is in spite of Uther…"

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

"Mary's dead," Gwaine reminded Merlin, with a troubled look at Freya.

Merlin correctly softly, "Nell's dead."

"What?"

Even as her heart twisted with grief for the sweet, absent-minded old woman – and who would tell Shef, sitting alone by his fire, that Nell wasn't coming home again, this time? - Freya couldn't help remembering what Merlin told her about his first visit to Thomas' home, the night they'd met. "He left a ware-stone in the Collins house," she told Gwaine. "I guess as a warning when anyone went inside?"

"So he can see inside there from here?" Gwaine said with a touch of disbelief. "And she… so that was Nell that we… damn witch," he finished viciously.

"She's got a basin," Merlin said softly, his eyes still unfocused. "Pouring a bucketful of water in it – the angle's wrong, I can't see the surface, what she's scrying…" His head twisted as though he was listening. "She's contacted someone, making a deal, promising freedom in exchange for – oh, hells."

"What?" Gwaine said.

Merlin took one long quick step forward so he was between them, lowering his head and his eyebrows, his lips moving silently. Then he said, "An unlocking spell. An unlocking spell? That wouldn't work against the wall-wards on the palace." His face twisted in confusion, he reached out almost absently to take his jacket from Freya's shoulder, and jammed his arms into it, so familiar with the garment and the action that he could do it without paying any attention to it whatsoever.

Gwaine stepped into his way when he turned to the door. "Where do you think you're going?" he said. Freya stepped to Gwaine's side so she could see Merlin's face also; he blinked and focused on Gwaine.

"She's sent someone to kill Arthur." Merlin's voice was an earnest plea for understanding.

"She can't get into the palace," Gwaine explained patiently, carefully, as though to a child. "The wall-wards will keep her out, and anyone else who is a stranger or intends violence. The prince is fine; he's safe."

Merlin shook his head slowly as if he wanted to argue but couldn't think of the right words, instinct fearing, maybe, what logic declared impossible.

Only… unlocking spells reminded her of a tiny barred cage and a dark moldy room and a man whose wide leather belt sagged with his gut as lamplight gleamed from greasy skin visible beneath the bristles of gray hair. A man who'd said of Thomas Collins, I've done business with him before…

An unlocking spell. "Gwaine, you said," she began, her throat tight in sudden fear, "they locked Halig and his men in Lord Lionel's dungeon. The wall-wards… don't keep out the criminals that the knights bring in, do they?"

Gwaine looked at Merlin with a sudden focus of alert trust, but stopped him once again with a hand on his chest. "Half a dozen slavers won't get far," he told the younger man. "Every one of the knights at the banquet, most of the guard pulled from the city to stand on ceremony – they won't even make it in the room, Merlin. They don't need you, you have to stay here."

Merlin twitched, and his gaze slipped past Gwaine, once again focusing on his mind's eye. "No," he said suddenly, flinging out one hand to cling to Gwaine's shoulder. "No, stop! She – oh, damn. Gwaine, let me go." Tears shone in the blue depths of his eyes. "She's laying an enchantment – through the scrying-water, she's strong enough for that – Gwaine, a sleeping spell. Everyone in the hall, everyone in the palace. Except Halig. He'll kill Arthur and walk free." He blinked, and a tear slipped. "Please, let me go." He was leaning into Gwaine's hand, now.

"Can't you do something to stop her, through the ware-stone?" Freya suggested quickly.

Merlin shook his head impatiently. "No, it doesn't work like that, it's one-directional and –"

"I'll go," Gwaine said, bending to one side to pick up his sword – sheathed and with its belt wrapped around the hilt – from where it was propped against the wall near the door. He flipped the belt loose and slung himself into it, adjusting the fit around his hips. "You stay here – I'll go save your prince for you."

"Gwaine," Merlin said, his voice choked on fear for Arthur, his desire to go himself, and gratitude.

Gwaine flashed them a grin. "I'll sprint," he told them. "Bet I'm faster than you, anyway."

"Not if I use –" Merlin stopped. Magic, he didn't say.

He wasn't supposed to, today, Alator had advised. Not with it unsettled and provoked by the curse, no one knew if the results would be trustworthy. Perhaps calling the pigeon and sending a message would be quicker – but she didn't know if there was any way to guarantee such a messenger would find Arthur immediately, if he were in an inner hall with no windows, no way to know for sure unless and until Arthur responded, which would leave them waiting... And maybe Merlin had a way of transporting himself instantly, but such a thing – even she knew, in her limited experience – required strong, solid magic and was risky even so. No, not in his condition.

"Wait," he said, so intensely he didn't have to touch Gwaine to check his departure momentarily. "How many slavers?"

"Halig, five others – two were injured, but not incapacitated."

"Merlin?" she ventured, when he didn't move or speak for a moment, looking south as though he could see the towers of the palace through the door, the dark and the distance.

"Emrys?" Alator's voice from the half-curtained doorway. "What is it?"

"Mary Collins isn't dead," Freya told him quickly. "She must have… used our neighbor, Nell, she's been missing… to make everyone believe Merlin killed her, but… he left a ware-stone in their house, and he's just seen her let Halig and his slavers out of the dungeon so they can kill the prince, and she's doing magic now –" she glanced up at Merlin and he nodded once in confirmation without meeting her eyes – "to make sure everyone is asleep so it can be done. Gwaine's going to the palace to help stop them."

A little shiver coursed through Merlin's frame. "I've dealt with this sort of enchantment before," he told them all, and faced Gwaine. "It won't be lifted except by the caster's will – or death. She's exempted Halig's men, but it'll be minutes only before you're affected… and then just a matter of time." Freya lifted her hand to her mouth, she hadn't realized that.

"It doesn't matter," Gwaine said evenly. "I'll go anyway. I'll just have to fight fast."

Merlin turned then to look at Alator, who crossed the room immediately. "I have to go to the Collins house."

"Too close to midnight," Alator said immediately. "You couldn't get back here in time. I'll go."

"You can't," Merlin said. "I'm sorry. She's too strong for you. Even if you take her by surprise."

Freya suggested swiftly, "What if Gwaine goes with Alator, instead of to the palace? If she believes that we think she's dead, she won't expect you, then if the enchantment is broken, then the knights will be able to defend themselves. Then Merlin could stay here…"

He reached out without looking to take her hand, his eyes on the floor. His voice was so gentle it broke her heart. "Let Gwaine fight the battle he has the skills for; let me fight mine."

Gwaine protested, "But your magic is –"

"It will suffice for this," Merlin said, dropping her hand and stepping to the threshold beside Gwaine.

"The curse, Emrys," Alator reminded him.

"His life is more important," Merlin told them. "You will not be able to stop me, until this is finished." Suddenly the cheerful gentle physician's apprentice had become a terribly implacable warlock.

"I'll go with you, then," the older sorcerer said decisively. His hand moved, and Freya glanced down to see him checking the hilt of a belt-knife. "Someone has to make sure you don't kill any innocents."

One corner of Merlin's mouth lifted in a cynical little smile, but he said nothing, only nodded agreement.

"Wait, do you know what you're saying," she said desperately, to all of them. If Merlin wasn't here, he would change, and then… he would be killed, or he would be lost. The cynicism that twisted his lips dropped away, and his smile was pure. No hesitation, to give himself for another… for Arthur. But he needs you…

"You stay here," Gwaine said to her, and Merlin and Alator looked at her also, all of them at once, so that she took a half-step back under the combined weight of three fierce looks. Then her brother yanked the door open and took off on a dead run, true to his word, Merlin on his heels but heading a different direction. Alator moved quickly in the shadows, following the taller, slender shadow of the young sorcerer.

She hesitated, but only a moment. Perhaps the rest of them could agree that Merlin's risk was necessary, the sacrifice of his life or humanity worth saving the heir of another kingdom, the prince of Camelot, his friend, but she did not have to accept that as the only option for him.

Because there was no one to hear, she added strong language to fortify her resolve. "The hell I will."

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

"Do you have other family?" Gwen asked, trying to steer their conversation away from the controversy that evidently was Uther Pendragon.

"Mm. My uncle, my mother's brother – well, she had two brothers, but the eldest died years ago. Lord Agravaine –" Leon covered a snort almost believably with a cough and a sip of wine; Arthur ignored him. "Was in Camelot the week before we left; he was intending to make a long visit."

"Oh, does he not live in Camelot usually?" Gwen asked. Leon's reaction, and Arthur's lack of one, made her curious.

"He handles an estate on our western border; he commands a contingent of knights that guards our lands and people from Odin."

Odin she'd heard of, before. He had the same sort of origins as Uther himself, another warlord who'd carved a kingdom from the wilderness, but one with no intention of providing peace and safety for the lands he held, instead squeezing profit and manipulating advantage and everywhere pushing his borders. She was thankful that several other Southron provinces and Camelot's ally Nemeth lay between Odin and Lionys.

Arthur slowly straightened, leaning on his forearms against the edge of the table. "Or at least," he said deliberately, "he's supposed to be."

Gwen looked at Leon, who was completely absorbed in his place setting, though his plate was nearly empty. "I don't follow?" she ventured.

"He had a treaty he wanted to discuss with my father," Arthur said slowly, eyes and thoughts far away from the sights and sounds and smells of the banquet hall. "I didn't pay much attention, I was occupied with preparations for this trip, but…" he cocked his head as though trying to remember something, or reason through a difficult calculation, then turned slightly toward his senior knight, addressing Leon without excluding her. "I find myself thinking of the last time we suspected Odin's men of attacking us on Camelot's soil. We were in company with the High Priestess."

Gwen blurted, "Really?" The priestesses were secretive and mysterious, the one woman who led and governed them even more so. A position, it was rumored, that had turned over in recent years to… Morgause of the House of Gorlois.

Arthur gave her a smile, patient with and unoffended at her interruption. "My father had a brief liaison with Morgause's mother Vivienne, Gorlois' widow. Thus, my half-sister Morgana is also the half-sister of the High Priestess." He paused, then said deliberately, "One of the reasons why she's studying magic at the Isle." Another pause, while Arthur frowned and turned his goblet on the tabletop. "Where Mary Collins studied, evidently, years ago."

Gwen was speechless. Last week she'd have laughed at any who suggested the old kitchen servant capable of significant sorcery, now she was finding out that Mary had been an initiate of the Old Religion? Almost guiltily, she thought that this was not banquet pleasantries nor even private dinner conversation – though no one was close enough to overhear.

Leon commented, "Morgause never showed much interest in you."

"Morgause wanted Morgana, I think," Arthur said, briefly rubbing the bridge of his nose. "She has her. She wanted Merlin too, I suspect, but whether allied with her, or simply not allied with Camelot, I couldn't say for sure."

Leon drummed his fingers once on the edge of the table. "Arthur," he said. "When Thomas threw that first fireball, in the street… was it aimed for you or Merlin?"

Arthur turned his head slowly. "Merlin shielded both of us. Was it aimed… I don't know."

"Are we sure, then, that it was you the assassin was meant to kill?" Leon said, mild but persistent.

Arthur shook his head. "Who would want to kill Merlin?" he protested. "That gains nothing for anyone but –"

"Your vulnerability," Leon pointed out.

"But your death gains nothing for anyone, either," Gwen mentioned. "I mean, it would be like someone trying to kill Elyan. My father – your father – would still have another heir."

"Odin has long wanted me dead," Arthur explained to her. "This wouldn't be the first time he hired an assassin."

"You think maybe he has an understanding with someone on the priestesses' isle?" Leon said. "You think maybe he's misleading Agravaine with this treaty, maybe he's planning something else?"

"With Morgause, even?" Arthur's lips tightened. "It's not an unreasonable assumption, I suppose."

"Myror had no magic," Leon said quietly. "Perhaps this time Odin felt someone else was needed."

"Someone capable of sorcery," Arthur agreed grimly, casting a wary eye around the room. "Someone to take advantage of my absence from Camelot, someone who could effectively separate me from Merlin… Damn." He glanced swiftly at Gwen. "Sorry."

"I suppose that's the thing with assassins," she sighed. Three days ago this conversation would have felt highly surreal to her. "Even when they're stopped and… well, essentially executed, there's still the problem of who hired them. I can't imagine that Mary or Thomas had anything against you or Merlin personally."

Arthur exchanged a glance with Leon. "Merlin isn't convinced –" he began.

And halfway through his sentence his voice dropped to a low hum, that reminded her of nothing so much as when she allowed herself to sink back into the luxuriously relaxing warmth of her bath, and listened to Enid through the water filling her ears.

She watched Leon cover a yawn and lean back in his chair. Yes, that looked comfortable. She did the same, keeping her head turned toward Arthur, who seemed incongruously tense and alarmed. No need for that, she thought. We're safe here in the palace. The wall-wards…

A passing servant bent to lay an empty tray at the corner of the next table, and that was odd enough that she turned her head from curiosity, or a sense that she was responsible to correct the oversight, when the servant kept going down, below the edge of the table, out of sight behind the draping of the white linen cover. Not swiftly, as though he'd tripped, just gently, like picking something up or kneeling down or…

Falling asleep.

…..*…..

LCT: Yeah, I'm sorry about Nell… there was kind of a hole in my original plot (I admit it, it happens sometimes) which I had to fill after the story was started, so this is the result… I'm not really big on character deaths, even minor ones, but this particular sequence seemed like the time/place for it to happen… and I'm sorry in advance for other minor character deaths…