Episode Nine: Excalibur
Merlyn let out a laugh as Skylark chased after a startled rabbit, prancing and flapping her wings in excitement, and inadvertently slowing herself down. The rabbit disappeared into the shrubbery of the trees and the griffin skidded to a halt, skipping back to Merlyn as if for praise. Obediently, she scratched her sweet spot, saying, "You'll never make friends with the wildlife if you scare them all off like that. What did that poor rabbit do to you?"
Skylark let out a deep purr and smacked her tongue defiantly against her beak so Merlyn pushed her away playfully, sending her into another canter along the lake. Sunstrider let out a displeased snort and Merlyn retreated to his side, giving him a scratch as well.
"She's just excited, boy," she said. "She isn't able to see me as often as you can."
He nibbled her hair before dropping his head to graze and the black-haired girl turned her head to see the sun rising in the east. She let out a sigh. "I'll have to head back soon. It's Arthur's eighteenth birthday today; his coronation. I want to surprise him with breakfast and a duty-free day. I think he'll like that after last week." And the fiasco with the druids.
Cerdan had shed his cloak, trimmed his hair and joined a caravan leaving the city, walking out the front gates with no issue two days after Mordred had escaped. By the end of the week, the King had been forced to abandon his vigilance when Othanden, a prosperous town by the Channel of Portsmere was besieged by Saxons. They were driven off but not before they pilfered many valuables and damaged the town centre. The King had been hungry to hunt them down but Arthur's birthday was nigh, so he gave the order for repairs and returned to Camelot's city without retribution. Robbed of two proceedings, the King was not pleasant, and his son bore the brunt of it, driven into the ground with his father's demands.
But Merlyn had pulled some strings – or more, strung herself up in them instead of Arthur – and he now had a full day to do as he wished before the crowning that night. She was eager to see his relief when she told him of his freedom.
And relief she did see, but instead of coaxing him out on a ride to show him some glades she'd been wanting to share, he said; "Excellent! I've been meaning to go on a hunt. Notify Lancelot, Gareth and Ector to ready their mounts. We'll head to the western forest and see what we can find."
She did so, a little despondent at his dismissal of her idea, though chatting with Lancelot cheered her up a bit. He was settling into his role perfectly, though he admitted that there were some knights who were a little frosty with him for undermining the Code of Camelot. Merlyn assured him that they were only jealous his good character and superior skills meant more to the prince than from which bloodline he hailed.
She returned to Arthur to ready him for the day and found him already dressed, strapping his belt to his hips. That was when she learned she wasn't actually invited to join them.
"You should be thrilled," the blonde knight said as he attached his scabbard to his belt. "A whole day to yourself. You can join Morgana and braid each other's hair or something."
She glared at him. "Why are you refusing my presence?" she asked, a little hurt despite herself. "I'm not some fanciful maiden who faints at the sight of blood."
"Thank the graces for that," he muttered, moving to the door and pulling on his riding boots. He caught her glare and sighed loudly. "It'd be inappropriate for you to be in the company of so many unrelated men," he revealed. "I don't see what the big deal is. I've been on hunts without you before."
"Not since I arrived," she said. "I've always accompanied you. How is you and I being alone together any different to there being a party of men?"
He shot her a droll look. "Have you ever heard the term 'lady of pleasure'?" he asked.
"You mean…" she gasped, catching on. "What? You're calling me a –"
"No," he interrupted loudly. "But I realised that I've been treating you as I would treat a manservant and it risks your reputation."
"What's brought this on?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips. "You never care about social propriety. If you did, I'd live in the stocks."
He sighed, straightening up. "My father," he began and Merlyn knew she would not like what he had to say. Nothing good ever came from him uttering those words. "Has mentioned that I should being thinking about my future, now that I am of age."
She cocked her head at him. "Okay…" she said slowly.
He took a breath. "He told me to start thinking about finding a wife."
It felt like the air had been punched from her chest. "A wife?" she repeated dumbly. "But the King has years left and you are still young."
"That is the way of nobility," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I am the sole heir so I must do what I can to ensure our line continues."
"Do you want children?" she asked, curiosity spiking. "If you did not need them, would you still want them?"
"Of course," he said, as if confused by the distinction. "I've always wanted children. Several of them, so they aren't lonely."
Her heart melted. That right there revealed just how much he suffered as an only child of royal blood; probably more than he realised.
"I want children also," she admitted with a smile, gaze distant as she imagined. "I know not how many, for the number constantly changes but there is always more than one. Siblings… so they can protect each other."
He was watching her with an inscrutable expression and she felt suddenly self-conscious. "What?" she asked.
He shook his head, turning to the door. "I'll return before sunset; be sure to have a bath and meal ready. Oh, and muck out my stalls while I'm gone – and clean my rooms," he ran a finger over the wood skirting beside the door and rubbed it against his thumb. "It's getting a bit dusty."
Merlyn jabbed a finger to the door. "Leave," she commanded and he raised a playful eyebrow.
"You know I'm the prince right –"
"Just go!" she laughed and pushed him out the door, shutting it in his face when he turned for another retort.
"I'll get you back for that, Merlyn," he sang before she heard his footsteps marching away.
She shook her head fondly and turned back to the room. Arthur's breakfast sat demolished on the table. His clothes were strewn on the floor. His bed was unmade and pillows thrown all over the floor. She shook her head; forget little ones, Arthur was enough of a child on his own.
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Merlyn didn't spend the day with Morgana, braiding each other's hair. The highborn was resting, suffering from disturbed nights once more. Gwen looked tired as she told the black-haired girl and Merlyn plucked a small, yellow blossom from her own hair, tucking it into her friend's.
"Remember to take care of yourself also," she said. "You'll turn out no better if you don't rest too. I'll see if I can find an alternate remedy to those tonics; sometimes different medicines work better on different people."
"The Lady Morgana would be forever grateful, and truthfully, so would I. It never grows easier to watch her suffer."
Gwen returned to Morgana's chambers and Merlyn went to clean out the royal stalls, greeting Tyr as he tended to one of Uther's steeds. The issue with Morgana's powers was dire. It deprived the woman of her rest, besieged her with images she had no hope of understanding and left her miserable and confused. Gaius' words still rang strongly in her ears and Merlyn was still fearful of accidentally stripping Morgana of her right to choose magic or not, but that didn't mean she couldn't soothe the intensity of the divinations. If she could find a tonic or even a spell that would take the edge off her emotional upheaval, then Morgana would not be so disturbed as to lose her rest.
Merlyn believed that the premonitions were there for a reason – for why else would destiny torment the compassionate woman – so didn't want to risk blinding her completely. But she also worried about causing more issues. The gift of prophecy was so obscure that Merlyn's book covered the chapter on dreamwalkers, fortune tellers and seers in a mere two pages. She needed more information.
But it was not to be that day – or for several days after.
Arthur was crowned. A black knight drove his horse through the far window, the stained glass shattering on the steed's armoured head. The knight threw down a gauntlet. Knight Owain picked it up. Mortal combat was declared for the following morn.
"Have you ever seen this Black Knight before?" Merlyn asked Gaius once they returned to their chambers, Arthur's celebration having been postponed.
Gaius didn't look up from where he mixed a concoction together. "I don't believe so," he said.
"You didn't recognise his crest?" she pressed, watching him closely, though his impassive face was long-since mastered.
"Crest?" he asked and she knew he knew something by his nonchalant tone. If Gaius was truly ignorant, he would be intensely focused on solving this mystery, not creating a burn paste. Poker face be damned; there were other ways of outing a person.
"Which house is it?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. I didn't see it that clearly."
He evaded a few more questions before snapping, "Merlyn, your faith in my all-seeing knowledge is both touching and wholly misplaced. Maybe if you've finished your work, you could go to bed and leave me to finish mine."
She conceded defeat. "Okay," she sighed. "I'm going." She walked up her steps then hesitated as her thoughts turned to the combat on the morrow. "Gaius?" she queried.
He sighed heavily, looking skyward. "Merlyn," he said, resigned.
"Do you think Knight Owain can beat him?"
The old man looked over, his craggy features no longer holding their impassiveness so well. She saw his worry; his dread.
"We'll find out soon enough."
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Knight Owain died. The Black Knight – who Merlyn knew had been dealt a mortal blow – stopped before the royal booth and threw down his gauntlet. "Who will take up my challenge?"
Arthur was delayed from jumping the barrier and another knight, Sir Pellinor, grabbed it instead. "So be it," the Black Knight said, helmed head turning to stare at the King before he marched away.
Merlyn said lowly to Gaius as the imposing warrior passed, "Should we tend his wounds? He took a hit?"
Gaius glanced at her. "Owain didn't land a blow."
The black-haired girl stared after the retreating knight, who stood tall and unhindered by injury. "No, I saw it. The sword definitely pierced him. He should be dead."
"Perhaps," sighed Gaius. "He already is."
Merlyn stared at him, aghast. "Dead men don't walk," she stated, as if the physician didn't yet know.
"Not on their own," he agreed and a shiver went down her spine. "I must speak with the King," he added and strode away without another word. Merlyn turned to watch as Arthur and his knights arranged Sir Owain's body into a position of honour, sword upon his chest. His scarlet cloak was spread over his body as a shroud while guards moved forward with a stretcher, prepared with the knowledge that it would be used that day, one way or the other.
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It was confirmed that the Black Knight was a wraith; Tristan de Bois to be more accurate, going by the hole in the man's tomb.
"How do we stop it?" she asked.
"We cannot," Gaius admitted. "Because it is not alive, no mortal weapon can kill it."
Merlyn shook her head, unwilling to believe that. "Surely there must be something."
"Nothing can stop it until it has achieved what it came for."
"And what's that?" she asked, already suspicious of the answer.
"Revenge," the old man confirmed and Merlyn shook her head.
"Always," she muttered. "It's always revenge. What does that mean for Sir Pellinor?"
Gaius looked down at the book on the table, open to the page on wraith's. "I'm afraid it doesn't look good."
"I cannot accept this," she said. "Sir Pellinor is a good man, a noble warrior. He doesn't deserve this senseless death." She turned away, pacing. "We've dealt with something similar before, with the griffin. You said, 'magic can defeat magic'."
"A mythical beast is not the same thing as a wraith, Merlyn. A wraith is created when one utters a vow of vengeance upon death and a powerful sorcerer calls upon that oath. The creature is sustained through dark magic and ill intent. A simple incantation will not defeat it."
"But there has to be a way!" she snapped. "You talk like it has happened before. Have you seen this in the past? What happened?"
"I have not," Gaius admitted reluctantly. "I have only read of such deeds." He closed his book and set it aside, sinking onto the bench seat.
"Then you might be wrong," she declared, ignoring his affronted glare. "What did you read in these chronicles?"
Gaius sighed, his aged features sagged with tiredness. "Geoffrey of Monmouth knows the tales better than I," he said, resigned. "He will be able to tell you more."
"Thank you," she said, darting close to drop a kiss on his brow before breezing out the door. She had until the next sunrise to figure out how to kill something already dead.
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Geoffrey of Monmouth was still in the Hall of Records when Merlyn burst through the door and she startled him so badly, he almost fell from his seat.
"Merlyn!" he gasped, clutching his chest. "Have some composure, please!"
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried, moving closer but unsure how to comfort him. "I didn't think – I thought, perhaps, you had left."
"If I had," said the Court Genealogist, pushing himself to his feet. "Then the Hall would be locked and you would have run into the door."
She ducked her head at his reproachful tone. "I apologise," she said, a bit more contained. "Only – I have need of your knowledge. Gaius believes the Black Knight is a wraith."
"Then we are in grave peril," Geoffrey said solemnly.
"Which is why I'm here. I need to find a weapon that will kill something that's already dead."
"Well," he said, thinking. "I've read of such things in the ancient chronicles."
She leant forward, hope rising. "What did they say?"
"Several fables," he shared slowly. "Speak of ancient swords."
"That can kill the dead?"
"The swords the fables speak of could destroy anything, alive or dead."
This was exactly what she needed. "Can you show me one of these fables?" she asked.
"Well, let me think," he said, moving to the shelves and perusing them. "Yes. Hmm…"
She tried not to be impatient but it was pressing between her shoulder blades like a hand urging her forward. Finally, he pulled a large tome off the shelf and placed it on the small, cluttered table beside it. He flipped through several chapters and finally landed on one with a large illustration on the right page. It was of a dragon with a golden sword floating before its open maw.
"This is the Chronicle of Beltain," he explained, scanning the paragraphs with his finger. "Now then… ah, here we are. 'Sir Marhaus looked upon the great sword, begotten in the dragon's breath and found it passing good'."
Merlyn jolted. "What was that?" she demanded and Geoffrey recited the passage once more. "Dragon's breath…" she murmured, mind whirling. She straightened. "Thank you, Geoffrey. You have aided me greatly."
She took off, leaving the genealogist bemused and resigned. "Always in a rush," he murmured to himself.
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Merlyn rushed to Morgana's room but Gwen had already returned home for the night. The highborn was dressed for sleep but it was clear she hadn't yet sought her bed. Her features were pinched with stress as she spoke.
Merlyn took her hand. "I have a plan to stop the Black Knight," she assured her. "Fret not; Sir Pellinor will not die if I have my way."
"Thank you, Merlyn," the older woman said, taking a deep breath. "That man is… not normal. I fear what he seeks is not merely to challenge the knights."
"It never is," the black-haired girl agreed. "He will be stopped, I promise you."
"I believe you," Morgana said. "I only fear for the lives lost beforehand."
Merlyn agreed, which was why she raced down to Tom's, despite the dark sky and knocked on his door. Gwen answered, a frown on her face that disappeared when she saw Merlyn.
"What's wrong?" she asked, keeping her voice low. Her father was, more than likely, asleep inside.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," she apologised. "But I've come to ask a favour."
"Yes?" her features were concerned.
"I've – I've come to ask for a sword. The strongest sword that your father has ever made."
"Whatever for?" the maid asked, opening her door to grant Merlyn access.
"To stop the Knight," she whispered.
Gwen nodded in acceptance then held her finger to her lip, moving towards where Tom was, indeed, sound asleep in the far corner. Merlyn hung back as the maid squatted and reached under the bedframe, quietly extracting a long shape swathed in red cloth. They retreated to the curtained division at the back of the house and Gwen placed the package reverently on her mattress.
"My father's been saving this," she shared, unwrapping the cloth. "He's always said it was the best sword he's ever made.
Merlyn gazed upon the shiny metal, reaching out to pick it up. She knew little about weapons, only that the pointy end faced away from the wielder, but even her novice eyes knew that this was a fine sword. "It's perfect," she murmured, running a finger along the centre of the blade. It was balanced exceptionally well.
"He'll kill me if he finds I've taken it," Gwen said, eyes on the sword. Merlyn replaced it upon the cloth and took up her friend's hand.
"He'll understand," she said. "You did it to save a life."
"I hope your plan works," the maid murmured.
Merlyn rewrapped the sword but didn't speak, though in her mind, she muttered, so do I.
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She ventured down to the bowels of the castle and stood before the dragon. He was less than helpful with her request. "The dead do not return without reason," he said. "Who has he come for?"
Merlyn swallowed. "The King."
The golden beast raised his head dismissively. "Then let him take his vengeance and the wraith will die without my aid."
"But it is not the King who is fighting," she argued. "Sir Pellinor has taken up the challenge. He will die without this sword!"
"Sir Pellinor's life is of little consequence to me. Perhaps Uther will take it as a sign to stop cowering behind his men."
"You're condemning a good man to death!" she shouted, outraged.
"The knights accepted their mortality the moment they pledged themselves to the kingdom. Their fate is not my concern."
"But Arthur's is," she argued. "And through his, mine!" she stared at his indifference and an ugly suspicion arose in her mind. "You are caged down here, imprisoned without the sky I know you long for. Alone and angry… you must be eager for revenge." The dragon was startled at her insight, releasing hot air through his nostrils. That alone told her that her guess had been correct. And it made her sick with anger. Of course – of course! Why hadn't she seen before?
She snorted sardonically, throwing up her hands. "It's always revenge," she spat. "For what else would you do down here but plot against those who you believe did you wrong – and not care about stepping on anyone else as you go?"
The dragon leant down, teeth bared. "It is not a belief that I was done wrong," he growled. "Uther betrayed the trust of a friend when he chained me down here. He betrayed not only me but himself and everyone around him! It is not a belief that he did me wrong. It is knowledge!"
He reared back, wings flaring and Merlyn realised her stupidity in angering the only one who could help her. "Wait!" she cried, flinging herself towards the edge. "Wait! I'm sorry! Please don't leave!"
He stopped, breath heavily with emotion and guilt settled into her gut. She was being horribly unfair. She'd let her hurt at being used fuel the cruelty of her words. "I'm sorry," she repeated more quietly. "I cannot know how you've suffered, of the destruction you've seen or the friends you've lost. I am only a village girl, trying to-to live up to this expectation you have of me. You want me to be this saviour for the future, this creator of Albion, but I, myself, am only learning how to make my own decisions. I do not have wisdom or-or authority; all I can use is my wits and my heart and hope the mistakes I make will not be catastrophic. You tell me to stand back and allow Sir Pellinor to die. To allow the King to be struck down. But how can I when everything in my being screams at me to do something?"
The dragon looked calmer, though his head was high above her own when usually he bowed down to speak to her as equals. He said, "You are young and still naïve but sacrifices are inevitable. You cannot save everyone, Merlyn."
"I know," she said, holding out her hands. "I know… but I cannot sit back and allow people to die. Because… because if I do, how does that make me any better than the people who kill? I must believe that I was gifted with this purpose by more than a fluke of destiny. I must believe that it was because the decisions I will make – that I have made – will lead us to unity. If I cannot believe that then I can't trust in anything I do and everything that I'm striving towards will fall to ruin. Please tell me I'm not wrong."
The dragon drew in a long, deep breath, letting it out in a loud whoosh of resignation. He tilted his head as he peered down at her. "A weapon forged with my assistance will have great power."
"I know," she said but he shook his head sharply.
"You do not know," he said solemnly. "You can only guess. You have not seen what I have seen. If you had, perhaps you would not ask this of me."
Trepidation slowed her breath. "What do you mean?" she asked warily.
"In the wrong hands," the dragon said. "This sword could do great evil. It must be wielded by Arthur and him alone."
"But –" she was quailed by his great golden eye narrowing. "I understand."
"You must do more than understand," he said tersely. "You must promise."
She stared up into his grave face and held his gaze unwaveringly. "I promise," she vowed.
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Merlyn entered Arthur's chambers and found the prince sleeping restlessly on his bed. The fire had burned low and the curtains were still hooked back, allowing the cold night outside to press through the windows and chill the room. She placed the wrapped sword on the table and moved over to draw the curtains before throwing some more logs on the fire and stoking the flames back to life. Once done, she grabbed Arthur's winter robe and the sword, and walked to the bed, relighting the candle on his bedside table before waking him.
He startled under her touch and jerked upright, hand searching for the blade she knew lived under his pillow.
"It's me!" she said, moving back and holding up her hands. "It's Merlyn."
Arthur squinted up at her in the new light created from the candle. "Merlyn?" he said groggily before flopping back onto his pillows and rubbing his eyes. "What're you doing here?"
Despite the impropriety, Merlyn dumped the sword and robe onto the sheets and crawled on after them. Arthur wrenched his legs up when he felt her weight on them. "Wha –"
"Budge up," she said and he moved up to sit against his headboard in incredulity. "I have a gift for you," she added, tucking her legs under her after kicking off her shoes and dragged the cloth-covered weapon into her lap. She laid her hand on it gently as she met his wide eyes. "But I need you to promise that you will fight in place of Knight Pellinor."
"Urgh! Merlyn!" he grumbled drawing his hands over his face in irritation. "I cannot take Pellinor's place; it's against the Knight's Code. He picked up the gauntlet therefore he must fight."
She leaned forward. "But the Knight's Code only applies to living knights, right? The Black Knight isn't alive. That means the rules no longer matter."
"What?" Arthur asked. "Don't be absurd, Merlyn? Of course the knight is alive."
"He's not," she insisted. "After Sir Owain's death, Gaius and I went down to the catacombs. Tristan de Bois' tomb was broken and there was no body inside. That knight outside wears Tristan's crest," she pointed to the window. "No other person wore the same crest but he."
"So another had taken it up," dismissed Arthur. "It may be illegal but it is not enough to break our laws."
"The law states in mortal combat, the knights must battle until one is dealt a mortal blow. Arthur," she grabbed his feet, still hidden under the blankets. They twitched beneath her palms. "Sir Owain struck a mortal blow. The blade went into the Black Knight's gut, only it didn't kill him because he's not alive!"
"What are you saying, Merlyn? That my mother's brother has returned from the dead and is now taking my knights down one by one?"
"I'm saying that your mother's brother has been conjured from the dead by a sorcerer to seek revenge on your father. I'm saying that Sir Pellinor has no chance to defeat him tomorrow but you can if you use this blade. I'm saying that you must trust me. Please."
Arthur sighed, looking away. He shivered a little as his exposed arms cooled in the air so she picked up his robe and threw it at him. He grunted but put it on. "Show me this sword," he requested.
She unwrapped it and gifted it to him flat across her palms. Immediately, interest sparked in his eyes and he leant forward, plucking it from her hands. He turned it over, inspecting it with a gaze more knowledgeable than her own.
"This is a fine blade," he murmured. He held it outstretched like he was reaching for something then drew it back in. "It has almost perfect balance. Where did you get it?"
"Erm, Tom. Tom the Blacksmith. Gwen's father."
"I didn't know he forged swords this well." Arthur slid from the bed, gripping the weapon with both hands and lifting into a swing pose, blade beside his shoulder. She smiled as he tested it like a child playing with a new toy.
"He worked on that one diligently. Said it was the best sword he's ever made. He was keeping it for a special circumstance."
He worked it over a little more before he lowered the sword to his side and sighed. "To usurp Pellinor's position would a declaration of doubt," he stated. "It would tell the knights that I don't trust in his ability to complete his task and he would lose all respect among them."
"But to allow him to fight, you condemn him to death. Which is better?" she asked. She climbed off his bed and moved to the window, edging aside the heavy curtain to look at where the Black Knight stood sentry, unmoving and unhurt; a dark stain on the otherwise moonlit grass. "Look at him, Arthur. He doesn't sleep; he doesn't eat. He is not mortal."
She felt Arthur come up behind her and he reached out to move the curtain further back. He, too, stared at the Black Knight for a moment. An idea popped into Merlyn's head and she spun around to face him. He was closer than expected but she was too focused on her idea to blush at the skin exposed by the deep V of the loosely tied robe.
"If the public learn that he is a wraith, would Pellinor keep his honour?"
Arthur peered down at her, blue eyes silver in the darkness. "It would, but if it is not revealed quickly, assumptions would be made."
"What if… what if Pellinor fought the creature but we told him to takes its helm off. Tristan has been in his tomb for twenty years. If he's not bone, he has to be horrific. The whole arena would see that he's not mortal and you could step in without anyone losing their honour or reputation or whatever it is you knights hold to such esteem."
"That… is actually not a bad idea, though it all depends on Pellinor dishelming the Black Knight."
"He is one of the more skilled knights in your collection. Do you think he can do it?"
Arthur moved away and Merlyn felt a momentary loss. He ran his fingers over his lips in thought. "He could do it," he said. "But what if the Black Knight's helm doesn't detach? As you said, he's been encased for twenty years; what if his headpiece has fused?"
"Well," she replied, not having thought of that. "I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we get to it."
Arthur shot her a look but she didn't see him coming up with any alternatives. He lifted the sword in his hand again. "Why is it so important that I fight the Black Knight? I am no more special than anyone else."
"Oh, er," she fumbled for an answer. "Um, I think, I think it has something to do with your, er, bloodline. You're related to him so you have the, er, power to kill him for good."
"Hmm," he said, still eyeing the blade. "The blood of my mother."
Merlyn bit her lip. "Well, you're not – you're not really killing him," she said. "He's already dead. Just, um, think of it as putting him to rest." She winced at the terrible pun and added, "I mean, he's not truly back. He's a wraith driven by revenge. That doesn't make a person so that thing out there isn't really your uncle."
"What are these inscriptions here?" he asked, lifting the weapon so the blade shone in the firelight. "On the front and back."
"Um," she stepped closer and peered at the words. It was the Old Tongue but she couldn't tell him that, nor could she tell him she could read it. "I-I don't know," she said lamely. "I didn't think to ask."
"Right," he said and walked to the table to lay down his weapon. "Well, it's late and I, apparently, have a fight in the morning." He gestured towards the servant's chamber. "You can sleep in there. We will need to be up early in order to meet with Pellinor before his bout. He will need to be informed of our plans."
"Yes, sire," she said and the thought of sleep had her yawning. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight, Merlyn," he said and she turned away as he shed his gown, moving to the room. She hissed as she hit the wall of icy air and wondered if she should start leaving the door open, if only so the heat could permeate the narrow space. She shed her shoes and dived under the covers, leaving the door wide open in hopes of feeling the fire's breeze.
With a workable plan in motion and hope brightening the horizon, Merlyn fell asleep quickly and deeply.
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The battle was fierce. The Black Knight was ruthless and unceasing but Knight Pellinor was skilled and informed. They skirmished for a little while before Pellinor managed to catch the edge of the Black Knight's helm with his sword. He wrenched it up and spun away from a slash, bringing his shield up to bear as Tristan's desiccated features were put on display, his helmet falling to the dirt below. The crowd erupted, several women screamed, men shouted in horror; one or two nobles fainted.
"Demon!" Pellinor shouted. "You are no knight!"
Arthur moved onto the dirt of the arena, in full regalia with his burnished sword held on guard beside his raised shield. "No!" the King cried, rising from his seat. "Arthur!"
The prince ignored him and Merlyn watched as the Black Knight turned to face the new threat. Sir Pellinor, as per instructed, edged around the enemy and dropped back into flank position.
"The Knight's Code does not apply for creatures of magic!" the prince decreed. "I challenge you, Wraith," he spat the word like it was dirty.
"So be it," Tristan intoned.
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Merlyn was tidying Arthur's chambers when the prince returned after meeting with his father. The black-haired girl expected him to be sullen and frustrated, as he usually was after facing the King. Instead, his features were thoughtful, his attention far away.
"Would you like some tea, sire?" she asked to draw him back. He blinked, as if only just realising she was there, and glanced up.
He nodded his head and moved to the table, flopping into his wooden chair and resting an elbow on the scarred wood. Merlyn unhooked the kettle from the fire and poured the hot water into a pot filled with his favourite tea leaves. She'd thought he might need it to calm down, but now she was curious as to what had him so preoccupied.
"Copper for your thoughts?" she asked as she set the tray on the table, removing a teacup and filling it with steaming brew. She breathed deep the rich, earthy scent.
"My father… said that I mean more to him than Camelot." He watched his fingers trace meaningless patterns on the tabletop. "I always thought… I always thought that I was a disappointment to him, but he said that I was his son and he would not wish for another."
Merlyn felt warmth bloom in her heart for the misguided king. He was a bit of a tyrant and refused to listen once his mind was made up, but he loved his son and it was about time he told him.
"That is great news," she said. "And he should be proud. You are a great man, Arthur, and you will be a good king, with or without your father's approval."
"Thank you, Merlyn," he said. He took a sip of tea but yelped as he burnt his tongue. He jerked the cup away but dropped it in his surprise and the scalding liquid spilled all over his lap. "AHH!" he screamed, leaping up to try to escape the burn.
"Oh no!" shouted Merlyn, looking for anything that would help. A pitcher of water stood at the other end so she leapt for it, spinning and throwing the cooler liquid at his front. He stopped, staring at her as water dripped from his shirt and trousers, some having splashed up to hit his face. He blinked in disbelief. Merlyn snorted in laughter and covered her mouth to try to contain it.
"Merlyn," he growled slowly, holding his arms from his wet body like a displeased cat. She backed away slowly, not liking the look in his eye. She held up her hands.
"In no way was any of this my fault," she said. "I only made the tea, I didn't force you to drink it while it was still hot."
"Merlyn," he growled but this time with more intent.
"No," she said, pointing at him. "You did this to yourself."
He leapt at her and she shrieked as she dodged, darting around the table to avoid the bear hug she just knew he was going to give her. She grabbed some grapes in order to provide a counter-attack and tried to think of an escape plan.
"You'll never catch me!" she declared as she ran.
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I hope the conversation between Kilgarrah and Merlyn was believable. I tried to smooth its rough edges as I read through again but it still feels a little jumpy and unintelligible… but this whole chapter kind of feels… discordant. *shrugs*
On another note, I'm from the east coast of Australia and can I just say, you guys are lucky you got this at all. If anyone watches international news (or is from Australia) then you heard about Cyclone Debbie hitting Down Under (now it's hit New Zealand – be safe guys!). But just. Wow. Worst storm in my memory and I've lived here my whole life! I'm lucky I lived on a hill but my valley town is gone. I have friends who are homeless with no insurance claim because they're in 'flood zone'; others who have lost whole herds of cattle despite putting them at the highest point in the region. Places that are only just now being accessed because the roads are gone… just… wow.
But nah, global warming doesn't exist guys. It's a myth. Increased severity in weather events is just a bad set of years. Nothing to worry about.
Sorry – I might be a little bitter right now. .
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Reviews are love!