Chapter 14

Arthur could not move his eyes from the blackened pole at the center of the crowd. What he felt was far beyond any definition of fear or grief; an abyss of certain loss filled him with shock, as if he was looking down at his own chest to find a knife quivering in his still living heart. The pain from his actual wound was not as real as the pain he felt on approaching this abomination. But his knees did not buckle; he was still alive and he found himself moving forward.

Nightmare or vision, the memory of the blackened corpse of the musician Ambrose, still tied to the pyre, rose up in excruciating detail. He had believed the man guilty of sorcery without any evidence. He remembered Merlin's horrified disgust and how easily he had ignored his protests. Looking at the still form at the center of the pyre, he tried to tell himself that he couldn't tell who had been slaughtered. Not Merlin. Not his idiot of a servant. Not his friend.

The slim frame of a young man lay on it's side, almost curled around the pole, still bound in chains, facing away from the crowd. Other lighter chains lay beneath him, shimmering slightly in the ash. There was no smell of charred flesh. The blue shirt, covered in black soot, was too familiar to deny, as was the remnants of the ruined leather jacket, stained with blood and smoke. But it was the curve of the man's ear that pierced Arthur through to the heart as he drew closer. His head reeled as he almost fell. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees; he tried hard not to waver. He kept his movements careful and measured.

Unbelieving, still hoping for a miracle, but filled with dread, the King reached down. to touch his servant.

"Merlin."

He spoke softly that none might hear his voice break.

"Merlin," he called again, trying to ignore that there would be no answer. Steeling himself for more horror, the king gently slid one arm under the still form of his servant and turned the young man towards himself. Merlin's face was black with smoke but untouched by the fire. Arthur closed his eyes in despair. Shaking with disbelief and certain loss, the King tried to lift Merlin but he hadn't the strength and they both fell to the ground. Covered in blood, his friend's body was already cold. Frantically, Arthur tried to find a pulse but his fingers found nothing as they slipped on the blood that stained his neck. There were deep slashes along his arms and across his chest and down his legs. The king gave up his effort with strangled gasp and pulled Merlin into his tortured one armed embrace, his hand carding through his soft black hair.

He was so cold, as if he had been dead for hours, not moments. The flare of the fire had just been fading when he had entered the square. But had all been for nothing. The unthinkable was real. They hadn't been quick enough.

Arthur could hear the knights approaching. Mordred's voice was soft as he stood close to Arthur, but it seemed to the King that he spoke from a vast distance. He did not want to listen. There was nothing that anyone could say that he could understand.

The cold from Merlin's body struck through him like the pain of his own wound. He held his friend closer, his heart keening silently, still gasping with the shock and the pain of what had happened.

Mordred reached down, his hand covering Merlin's forehead tenderly in a silent gesture of grief or of blessing; it hardly mattered which. Arthur heard him inhale sharply.

"He's alive!"

Mordred's pale eyes shone like quicksilver as they bore into Arthur's gaze. The king looked down in shock, his heart beginning to beat again. Merlin was so cold, so utterly lifeless in his embrace that he could hardly dared to believe. Trust.

"Arthur, he's alive," the knight repeated.

"Blankets," Arthur cried, suddenly not caring if he looked like a madman. Even as Mordred pulled off his cape, wrapping it around the servant, the guilty silence from the village deepened. In the blackened disaster of the crowd's vengeance, the King held his friend close as more blankets and cloaks were produced. There was a buzz of whispers among the Merlin's companions but Arthur had no idea what they said or what they asked of him.

Because against all logic, Arthur felt the first touch of hope. He could barely feel it; even with Merlin pressed close to him, he could barely perceive it. It was a deep quivering, a trembling of hope; Merlin was shivering.

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The King looked up at the crowd that stood mesmerized by the scene that had unfolding. Percival had already carried Merlin to another house, along with the other knihgts, who stood guard. Mordred had looked worried but hopeful, as Merlin had been carefully lifted from Arthur's embrace and the King was helped to his feet. None dared to gainsay their movements.

Looking at the faces of the villagers he felt a terrible anger rise up in him. He wanted to condemn them for what they had done. Fear had rampaged through their village, destroying almost everything, even his own servant, who had boldly offered to help. And yet their madness ended as it had begun, at the pyre. The anger in his heart was unanswerable. But Arthur understood that in some ways, he had acted no differently than they. That knowledge sat heavily on his heart. The headman Garret stood in front of him, flanked by old Drummond, who owned the house where he had been quartered, and some of the other farmers. Their faces were drawn with guilt.

"The sorcerers released the spell on your crops," Arthur stated heavily, glancing at the now healthy foliage that climbed and wreathed around the fences and cottage plots. "And yet you burned Merlin as a sorcerer."

"He tried to kill you, my Lord, said an old man bitterly, looking up at Arthur, through thinly veiled anger of his own.

"Seems like we all forget, he was the one that stabbed you and then let this sorcerer knight disappear with you! That was magic , sure and clear it was. And no one can tell me different."

"Sir Mordred saved my life," responded Arthur with some heat. "Not all who have magic seek to destroy, as you have now learned." His voice grew bitter. His own understanding of Mordred's magic had come almost too late for Merlin. "My servant struggled with the assassin until the last second. I owe my life to him and Sir Mordred!"

The men gawped like fish, their eyes round and uncomprehending. Arthur closed his eyes, feeling his wound flame anew. Dizziness made his head swim. Merlin had been so cold. It was clear that the men of the village were waiting for some words of judgement or of condemnation. But Arthur could find nothing in his heart that would make sense to these people.

A nameless farmer spoke up. "Your servant had the the magic coin in his knapsack. It's a magic thing, an evil thing." The headman, Garret, pulled the Runemark from his pocket and handed it to him.

"How should that condemn him in your eyes? You know the manner of it's arrival; he is my servant," replied Arthur, rounding on the man who had spoken. The mystterious coin was cold in his palm.

"And he had this too." Garrett produced an oval dark stone and held it up. "It spoke with his voice when we put it in his hand. It is a thing of magic! " Garrett dropped it with distaste and Arthur caught it with a sudden movement. The farmer looked down at the stone , shimmering in the King's hand, before he boldly raised his eyes again. "Your father taught us about the evils of sorcery, Sire. I am only a simple man, but this is magic and it's best to destroy it and everything around it immediately."

"My servant does not have magic, anymore than the musician you killed had magic." The King's eyes were blazing.

"We know that now," began Garrett almost tonelessly. He looked at the other men as if they could lend strength to his words. "We have killed an innocent man and Ambrose stopped us from killing another one. Sire, there are no words." There was a weight now in his eyes as he spoke, for fear of Arthur's retribution filled him.

"You didn't hear the music," cried Drummond. "The music came out of the fire, and it was Ambrose playing... I know it my Lord. He played at my daughter's wedding."

"It was Ambrose sure enough!" Voices repeated the phrase, murmurs rising around him. Their words beginning to weary him as he held up his hand for silence. Only an old woman still spoke up one last time, her strong, bony hands twisting together as spoke up.

"And he kept the fire from your servant...he saved him. No one played like Ambrose, no mistaking it was him," she said. "And no mistaking your servant is still alive, your Majesty!"

Arthur held back the retort that sprang to his lips. He had no more explanation than they did and he was shocked to find, that in his heart of hearts, he didn't really care. Somehow, by some miracle, Merlin had survived and magic had saved both his life and his servant's in the space of a few hours. Mordred was still the same devoted knight he had always been. But all of his certainties about magic had crumbled and he hardly knew what might take it's place. The King pocketed the Runemark and the stone.

"I trust Merlin," he said simply.