I do not think that I have mentioned that I possess no magic whatsoever. I knew, of course, that Merlin was a splendid magician, and that he used his powers whenever necessary for the benefit of Camelot, though he could do so only in secret, for magic was banned on pain of death. I however, despite sharing a father with this extraordinary prodigy – and a Dragonlord at that – was sadly lacking in this talent, though, as I might have mentioned, I was able to communicate mentally with dragons, and to some extent with humans.

Mordred possessed no little magic, being a druid, and he knew that he could reveal this to me because he trusted me, and because I was Merlin's sister. He did not use his powers often, for he had used it whilst a servant of Morgana and many spells reminded him far too much of this time for him to wish even to think on them; and he certainly did not use spells for trivial purposes, as Merlin often did, as he regarded magic as a serious art that should be used wisely and only for those things that a man could not accomplish. He knew, of course, that Merlin had magic, and one day it occurred to me to tell me how he and Merlin had met, for with all that had happened he had entirely forgotten that I did not know.

It transpired that Merlin had met Mordred when the latter was much younger – Mordred is five or six years younger than Merlin, and so was just a child when this first meeting had taken place, when Merlin was a somewhat irresponsible youngster on the edge of adulthood. He had aided in a plan to smuggle the child out of Camelot, for it had become known that the boy was a druid and so possessed magical powers that were considered highly undesirable by the King and his followers (the King being at that time King Uther, who was much more cruel towards those possessing magic than I could imagine his son ever being). Morgana and Arthur (then a Prince) both had helped in saving the boy from his imminent execution. I could hardly imagine Mordred in such a position; I pitied him yet more than I did already, for his life had been riddled with the most unfortunate circumstances. And it seemed from this that Mordred owed his life to Arthur just as much as Arthur owed his life to Mordred.

I must mention this conversation in the midst of what seemed like far greater issues because Mordred happened to mention – I forget when – the name Emrys, and I seized this and asked him what he meant, because Morgana had tortured me to find out who Emrys was, though I had not truly known, and I knew the name to be one of a singular importance.

'Do you not know?' Mordred looked at me in the most immense surprise.

I shook my head.

Mordred leaned in closer, and though we were alone in his room he spoke in a whisper: 'Emrys is the man who will, if the fates are anything to go by, destroy Morgana. He is the subject of the greatest prophecies of the age; he is the greatest magician of our time.' His eyes seemed to laugh then, not unkindly. 'Have you not guessed? – He is your brother.'

'Merlin!' I cried.

I looked in astonishment at Mordred. He was not one to lie, and when he spoke with such conviction it was as well to believe him. Merlin! Merlin was the Emrys I had heard tell of – the name mentioned by Aithusa that had drawn me to Ismir, the figure sought by Morgana – a figure whose identity Mordred had known all along, even at the witch's side! I had to turn away a moment to make sense of it all. Merlin – the greatest magician of our time! I knew he was a magnificent sorcerer, but to hold that prestigious title – he was the one to kill Morgana, the one she feared above all else, the one –

'Good God,' I murmured, still dazed. 'I shall have to make sure I do not get on his wrong side.'

'If you are not already,' replied Mordred without a hint of humour.


I knew now who Emrys was, and therefore I had to make sure, it occurred to me not long later, that I was not captured by Morgana again. I did not know if I would be so strong this time, with the information plainly at my disposition. I had been willing to die then. I had a good many things to live for now. For a long time I wished that Mordred had not divulged this information, but I did not voice this, for I thought it unlikely that I should have to confront Morgana again, not whilst I was safe in Camelot.

But Morgana, of course, was out there somewhere, still waiting for her chance to strike. Mordred said more than once that the darkness was closing in – that very phrase, repeated until it made me shudder to hear it. Merlin too was on his guards, though he said little of his fears or predictions to me, as we were barely on speaking terms at the present time, and at any rate he was unusually quiet and sullen.

However, one day he came flying into the quarters crying something about an attempt on Arthur's life preceding a pair of knights who were supporting the King on their shoulders. King Arthur sat on the bed reserved for patients whilst Gaius, who had come in with them, tended to some wound he had sustained in falling off his horse, or that was what I inferred from the scant conversation. I was then mending one of my dresses, and did not mean to eavesdrop, but I at length had to put down the sewing and ask what exactly had happened. Sometimes it is not advisable to ask such questions, but so much had been said already that it seemed safe.

'We were attacked by bandits in the forest,' Merlin said quickly, not looking at me. 'The bandits we survived, but something caused Arthur's horse to start and he fell off.' He glanced at Arthur before looking back at the floor and continuing. 'His saddle also came off. It looks like an accident, but...'

'But it wasn't,' said a voice from the doorway, and Sir Leon entered looking flustered. In his hands was the saddle that the King nearly always used for casual rides. 'It has been re-stitched so that it will easily break. It was done intentionally – here, sire –'

And out of my line of sight he showed the saddle to the King. I knew little of these things, but I was aware of a number of ways that would make the saddle dangerous without it being visible to the rider.

The name Tyr Seward was then mentioned, and I recalled the stout, friendly man who worked for the King in his stables. It seemed as if they had named him as the prime suspect, and a minute later a couple of the knights went away again to follow some order from the King's lips.

It was all so chaotic that I did not quite follow what was going on. An assassination attempt from so simple and innocent a servant seemed like a ridiculous suspicion to me, but I expected that was because I had seen far more suspicious things lately – namely the figure in the corridor whom I could not get out of my mind.

I had not yet told anyone about this. It had not seemed to me of any importance, but the more I thought on it the more I became convinced that nobody else knew of it. Had it been Gwen, merely escaping from some nightmare or wanting fresh air? Or had it been a spy, someone working against the Castle?

I then cursed my overly romantic mind for forming such pointless deviations, and returned to my stitching.


A couple of days later I went down to the market-square to do Gaius's shopping. (Merlin and I did this alternately, for Gaius was permanently busy and Merlin almost that.) I had acquaintances on the stalls, and always found this a pleasant task, chatting merrily with people I knew, nodding at those I recognised, and browsing stalls filled with things I couldn't afford before moving on to the actual task at hand. That particular day was one of those marvellous ones that one gets near the end of winter – not warm, but sunny and dry, crisp and clear with a beautiful blue sky. The market was busy as usual, packed with people walking, chattering, bustling, haggling – crowds of them, crowds that I had to push through to get where I wanted to be. I did not mind; I rather enjoyed the organised chaos.

The butcher Wilfrid was just wrapping up the cut of meat I had chosen when I happened to see something out of the corner of my eye that caught my attention. For a moment I did not know what it was. Then I saw the Queen herself navigating the crowd, trying to remain incognito with her hood up and her head down. I narrowed my eyes, for she appeared exactly as the suspicious figure had that night. Quickly I received the parcel of meat, and hurried as quickly as is possible in such a swathe of people after the dark cloak that swished in and out of view.

I do not know what made me shadow her; I imagine my paranoia at my nocturnal sighting of a few days ago contributed. I had long believed that it had some meaning in the events of current times. Now the figure – or rather, Queen Guinevere – had appeared for a second time.

She stopped then, a little aside from the crowd, next to a stall whose owner was haggling loudly with a stubborn customer at the other end of his table. She was talking to someone garbed all in black and dark blue, whose face was similarly shadowed by the over-large hood that overhung it. A brief conversation; I could not get near enough to hear it; then the Queen moved away and so did the other person.

It was an old woman – I glimpsed her as she turned away and headed down one of the many narrow ginnels that run between Camelot's closely-packed houses. A woman with the sort of face that illustrates the books of fairy-tales that Merlin had shown me in his attempt to teach me how to read – the face of a witch.

I blinked, cursing my mind once again for romanticising the situation. But this did not sate my curiosity, and so, tucking the meat into the bag than hung over my shoulder, I abandoned all common sense and decided to follow the mysterious old woman.