Chapter 21: Sword and Shield
Gwen tried to listen as Merlin continued to explain to the large dragon the need they had – for Arthur to reclaim an enchanted sword – and the request – for Gwen to accompany him. The prince pulled her forward for both of them to join the dragonlord – why was it she had no problem thinking of Merlin as a sorcerer, but dragonlord still brought an image to her mind of someone massive and bearded, decked in layers of fur? – and she couldn't shake the feeling that Aithusa was watching her.
But the closer she stepped, the more her perception of the magical creature overwhelmed her self-consciousness. The clarity and brilliance of the white scales no longer reminded her of sun on snow; she could feel the heat subtly radiating from him. To warm and comfort a friend – or to incinerate and destroy an enemy, with equal passion and steadfast loyalty. The shimmer of sunlight over the dragon, bone and muscle and claw, as he lowered his head to the ground, the large orange-gold eyes fixed on them, was the white-hot flicker of the heart of a bonfire, a forge. The sun.
"You can still change your mind," Arthur's voice said, the slightest hint of gentle teasing, and she looked up to see the prince already perched on Aithusa's neck, behind those skull-spikes and upward from winged shoulders.
"It's perfectly safe, Gwen, I promise," Merlin said from beside her. "He won't let you fall."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," Gwen said quickly. "He's just so –"
"Magnificent?" Aithusa rumbled, his teeth showing as long and thick as her forearm. "Breath-taking? Dazzling?"
"Vain?" Merlin murmured.
The great golden eye shifted, the vertical pupil narrowing as a smoky snort puffed from his nostrils to curl about the young sorcerer; Arthur chuckled as Merlin coughed and waved the air to clear it facetiously. Then he bent to form a stirrup with his hands and give her a leg up to the dragon's neck, Arthur reaching to provide her with a handhold.
She settled in behind the prince, legs and hips – and though she snatched at him as the dragon straightened to his full height without warning, she bit her lip on the startled squeak that threatened. Arthur's muscles felt tense against her, though he only shifted to retain balance with the dragon's movement, as he might have on a fractious stallion. The young dragonlord, the only one who'd approached Aithusa from the cover of the glen's overhanging branches, though Gwaine was a yard or so further forward than the others, stepped back.
Arthur called down to him, "Merlin – don't do anything stupid."
The younger man's grin flashed wide. "Me?" he protested innocently.
Gwen had one moment to think that Merlin hadn't actually agreed, when Aithusa leaped up, unfurling his great white sails of wings open behind her with a rippling snap. She felt compressed for an instant, and ducked down against Arthur's back, squeezing her eyes shut as the rush of air snatched breath from her body and filled her ears. For one heart-stopping moment she struggled, afraid she wouldn't be able to draw air into her lungs, then the dragon leveled out its climb into the sky and she jolted upward from her perch enough to gasp – and then she could breathe again.
They were high.
Much higher than her tower balcony, which overlooked the city. The treetops below them appeared to have the soft texture of green wool. The movement of the dragon's body as he beat his wings steadily was unsettling, though rhythmic, rushing through the cold upper air. She was thankful for her fur-trimmed vest, for Aithusa's heat seeping into her, for Arthur's broad warm back that she clutched close to her for stability also.
The brightness of the morning sun over Arthur's right shoulder and the steady cool stream of the wind made her eyes tear up. She blinked the moisture away to the corners, clearing her vision, and realized that Arthur had freed one arm from his grip of the central rounded spike on the back of Aithusa's skull to point, his blue eyes bright as the sky that surrounded them as he looked over his shoulder.
"Camelot!" he shouted down to her.
She leaned just a little to follow the line of his arm, and saw the white-stone citadel. It was beautiful, strong and delicate, and looked small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, at this distance; she wondered if they were visible from there. She tightened her arms around Arthur's middle in comfort and support, both giving and receiving.
A moment and maybe several dozen miles later, he pointed again. "The Forest of Ascetir." She couldn't distinguish the landmark from the surrounding countryside, but it didn't seem to bother Arthur; he switched hands to point off to the left. "Valley of Chemery."
Gwen snuggled against the prince's back, watching him come to life in this new exploration, seeing more of his kingdom at once than he ever had before. Seeing how he loved the land, guessing that each briefly-shouted name held a story of adventure for him, memories good and bad, victory and loss.
She never wanted anything so much in all her life, than she wanted this man. To call him hers, to listen to these stories and learn these places for herself. Perhaps someday to be the reason for that boyish exuberance so smothered recently by the burden of hopeless responsibility.
He fell silent after a while, watching ahead. She realized her nose and the tips of her ears felt quite numb from the wind, and nuzzled into his back, though the thick leather of his dark vest wasn't exactly soft. He covered her hands clasped at the base of his breastbone with one of his.
With her eyes closed, the movement of the flying dragon was soporific, the press of her body to Arthur's soothingly delightful. She might even have been tempted to doze, were it not for the knowledge of their altitude and the less-than-comfortable scales-and-bones spinal ridge as her seat. She felt Arthur shift, felt his words as a faint warm breath stolen the next instant by the chill of the wind.
"The White Mountains," he said, pointing ahead of them. Now, those she could see. "Coming southeast – there. And Dinas Emrys at the end, overlooking the pass."
Gwen remembered the little he'd told her – I left Camelot, I was captured. Merlin and I joined the squad meant to take the hilltop… descended to attack from the rear… I was wounded… She shifted her left hand to a position over the scar on the prince's body; he didn't seem to notice.
Aithusa's wing-beats slowed, then stilled, the leathery membranes rippling as the dragon glided, tilting downward. They whooshed through the pass below the level of the hills – Gwen glimpsed part of a ruined wall on the bald brow of Dinas Emrys – and wriggled against Arthur to keep her balance as Aithusa banked to the right. She had just enough time to clench her teeth so she wouldn't bite through her tongue, and they landed with an earth-shaking jar that sent a flight of starlings skittering in panic from a nearby tree.
Arthur turned to twine his arm through hers as the dragon bent to the ground again, to aid her in dismounting. She slid sideways, her off leg clearing the backward-leaning ridge of the dragon's spine – and kept going, the drop to the ground farther than she'd anticipated. She staggered as the ground seemed to tilt under her, putting her hand out for balance – and encountering a scale-smooth foreleg, hard and steady as a tree-trunk.
"Thank you," she said breathlessly, stepping out of the way as Arthur leaped down – but the prince landed unsteadily, collapsing to hands and knees, reaching to the back of his left thigh. The arrow wound, she remembered. "Arthur?"
"Hells," he moaned, "now I know why he decided to ride a horse to Camelot instead." She sensed Aithusa's head swing round – Arthur must have also, for he added hastily, "Not that I'm not immensely glad for your help." He straightened, getting one leg then the other underneath him.
"As I am to give it, Prince Arthur," Aithusa said mildly. "But it was not the most agreeable of flights for me, either." The white dragon reared back, twisting his head on sinuous neck.
"But Merlin says –" Arthur protested.
"With Merlin it is different," Aithusa informed them inoffensively, continuing to stretch sinewy muscles before coiling up almost catlike, wings folded and tail curled. "He is not passenger, he is partner."
Arthur gave a small, courteous bow. "We'll try to be quick," he promised, beginning to hike uphill.
A rumble sounded inside the great beast, and Gwen suspected amusement. "You'll try."
As she followed the prince, she watched his limping gait gradually even out, and was satisfied that it was no more than lingering soreness after their unorthodox ride. They walked only twenty yards or so before a great cavern opened the hillside before them. Arthur paused just to look, hands on his hips, as she drew even with him.
"I haven't been here in seven years," Arthur told her. She didn't know how to respond, and so followed him silently to the mouth of the cave.
The darkness breathed, charcoal and sulfur, and moved, and Gwen found herself clutching Arthur's arm again, as her eyes focused and picked out the details of the greater dragon, larger than Aithusa by about a third, she guessed. His scales were the red-brown glow of dying coals, his eyes a yellow-green, showing intelligence at once ancient and alien, compassionate and clever.
Focused on her. Evaluating. And while Aithusa might have studied her for approval as a prospective mate for the friend of his friend, the great dragon's gaze stripped far deeper, for a graver purpose. This dragon weighed her potential as queen. She shivered, and thought, I'm going to to do my best…
"Kilgarrah," Arthur said, bowing to the great beast as he had to his younger kin.
"Circumstances are nothing but auspicious, young prince?" Kilgarrah's voice was slow irony, the rasp of age apparent to Gwen after hearing Aithusa's voice.
"Anything but," Arthur said, his lips twisting with the distasteful admission. "Once again. Kilgarrah, may I present the Lady Guinevere of Lionys."
Instead of the polite curtsy she would have made to a human male deserving her respect, Gwen found herself bowing at the waist as Arthur and Merlin had, watching those green-yellow eyes watch her.
"Your chosen queen," Kilgarrah said, and it wasn't a question.
"Yes," Arthur said, and she winced at the note of uncertainty in his voice.
"The betrothal isn't –" she began to explain.
"Remember, young Arthur, your death will not prevent the fulfillment of prophecy." Kilgarrah evidently understood Arthur's doubt a little better than Gwen had – she realized that the prince didn't know if he would live to fulfill a betrothal or marriage. "It is an honor to meet you, my lady. But why have you come here, so far and in such haste?"
"Morgause has awakened the Knights of Medhir," Arthur told him. "She has enchanted my father with mandrake and has put her sister upon the throne of Camelot."
Kilgarrah made a noise of polite disinterest. "My allegiance has never been with Camelot," he said neutrally.
For a moment, Arthur didn't speak. Gwen snuck a look a him in profile; she saw that his jaw was clenched, and wondered if he feared to ask the great dragon's allegiance for himself. If he feared to hear another answer in the negative after the devastating disappointments he'd suffered with the members of his family.
"But it is with Merlin," the prince finally said.
The great dragon blinked, and answered simply, "Yes."
Gwen breathed a sigh of relief. He would help. Pledging to Merlin was just as good as pledging to Arthur.
"Thank you," Arthur said sincerely, sounding relieved himself. "I was hoping to retrieve the sword Merlin brought here a year and a half ago. He thought maybe such a weapon would be effective against the Medhiri."
"There is but one weapon that can slay something which is already dead," Kilgarrah agreed. "A blade forged in a dragon's breath."
Gwen experienced another wave of calming reassurance; he'd essentially confirmed their hope. Already dead, she repeated to herself, and repressed a shudder. Yes, that would make sense why they couldn't be killed – couldn't die again.
"It's in the chamber?" Arthur questioned, gesturing to the cave wall to their left, beginning to pick his way over the rubble on the floor.
"Even so." Kilgarrah shifted his great reddish mass, keeping his eyes on them.
She followed, uncomprehending, as Arthur ran his hands over the rough stone of the wall, shifted to his right. Then gasped, as his arm completely disappeared into the rock.
"Ah, here we are," the prince said, giving her a grin over his shoulder. "Perhaps you would feel better closing your eyes? I'll lead you – and your hand, I will hold any time."
Mutely, she placed her hand in his, and he tugged her forward. She winced and squinted as he was swallowed up by the rough gray rock, and sucked in a lungful of air as their twined grip encouraged her steps to follow – and she met no resistance. They were in another tunnel, a short narrow passage, dim but sufficiently illuminated by daylight. She looked over her shoulder through whatever illusion hid the opening; Kilgarrah's teeth gleamed in an expression of amusement.
Then Arthur said, in a tone between amused annoyance and real anger, "Dammit, Merlin."
She turned as he released her hand and found herself in a small chamber, about twice the size of her balcony, not dissimilar to the cave of the kings' crypts where they had passed the night, but for its size.
And for atmosphere.
It was quiet here, no echo. Peaceful, she would have said. She felt a presence – or a host – but not of the dragons. Not wary and selfish, but compassionate and generous… though to her knowledge no one was buried here, as they were in the other cavern's chambers.
She shook the feeling off, and began to examine the physical surroundings for whatever irritated Arthur. Chests and boxes, dusty and unassuming, securing without flaunting their contents. On a chest to her right, a dusty pillow with a tarnished gold circlet askew on it, the gold and diamonds looking more like brass and glass; to her left atop another chest was a cloth covering a curiously lumpy ornament. She moved toward it, as Arthur circled the opposite direction, and stopped with her hand on the cloth as the sword came into her view.
"In," Arthur said aloud, sarcastically, "a rock?"
She didn't know much about swords. There were the ordinary, battered training weapons, each barely different from the others. She'd seen some of the older knights selecting from the array, preferring one over another for various reasons – grip and balance and length and thickness of blade and so on. Many had hereditary weapons they owned but didn't use, and she knew that certain few warriors or lords or kings had a single unique sword – even a few stories where such a weapon was named.
This sword seemed one of those. It was simple, yet elegant, and very nearly glowed in the soft dim light. Perhaps because the blade was sheathed in a boulder very nearly to the hilt, or because it was obviously the central piece in an old and tragic collection, or perhaps because she was aware that it had been imbued with magic and represented Arthur's hope of regaining his kingdom and his family, but she felt something very near awareness from the sword. Acceptance of her. But not invitation.
"What is that?" she asked, stepping over to the stone but not touching it nor the weapon encased in it. There was a definite handprint there, almost black on the rough mottled gray of the stone, the blade inserted right through the palm. Darker lines that she'd initially taken for cracks or moss curved and swirled – and created a pattern around the hand. A pattern that looked very similar to the tattoos decorating Merlin's forearms.
"Blood magic," Arthur answered, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like he wanted to scowl but didn't fully feel it. "Old and young beyond the wall, unlock the future with one call. When Merlin – and Kilgarrah, I suppose – blasted the cave out of the side of the mountain to free the dragons woken from their four-decade sleep after the wars."
"And he was thirteen?" she said faintly, impressed.
He nodded. "Not a quarter of an hour later he was down, wounded by a pair of Vortigern's men. I grabbed the sword –" he mimed the action, turning toward a covered weapons-rack in the back corner that she hadn't noticed, "and ran out to fight…"
"Dinas Emrys was your first battle, wasn't it," she said. He nodded again, staring at the sword. And here they were, facing another battle.
"My father was only a warlord, then," he said pensively. "My first memories of him were – between battles. Proudly celebrating victory, or grimly planning another campaign, strategizing defenses or attacks, with Tristan de Bois, or Lord Godwyn, or..." His eyes still on the sword, he added in a very low voice, "I do not want to live like that, Guinevere. I want peace. For all the land." She waited, not speaking, and he concluded, "But Morgause will not bring that. She will not leave Morgana alone to rule."
Gwen bit her lip. There was an aspect of the situation that bothered her. Perhaps because she also had a brother that would administrate a province, one day. She had known for years that if something were to happen to Elyan, her father's male heir, that the responsibility would fall to her, like it or not, but if she had only been told something had happened to Elyan, what would she do?
"You will fight Morgause," she said softly, and he met her gaze, the blue of his eyes holding a hint of iron gray. "You and Merlin. Arthur, I believe in you. In you both. But – will you fight Morgana?" His darkly-golden brows drew down, and she hastened to explain. "Her coronation is official and arguably legal, now. What if she fights to keep the throne, even after you have overcome the high priestess?"
"Once she knows I am still alive…" His protest faded, and he sighed deeply. "Morgause is a snake. My uncle is a traitor. It is hard to understand how my sister could be innocent in all this, but… I have to give her a chance, Gwen."
"How?" she asked.
"I'll think of a way." He sounded determined. "But now – my sword is stuck in solid rock."
She dared to reach out to touch the hilt. Not to grasp it, but with her fingertips, enough to tell that there was no give, it wasn't the slightest bit loose in its granite sheath.
"Merlin put it here for safekeeping," she said, "but it was meant for you, right?"
"He told me, you know where this'll be if you ever need it," Arthur said.
"Maybe you should just – pull it out," she suggested.
He stretched his hand out, then gave her an uncertain look. "You try," he said.
It was an odd request, but she obeyed, tugging futilely on the hilt. "Fine, now you," she said shortly, a bit embarrassed. He gave her a look that questioned the intelligence of the proposal, in light of her failure. "It's your sword," she said. "It's your kingdom. Take it, Arthur."
He reached again, and this time touched it, slid his fingers familiarly around the hilt without applying any force to draw it, for a moment. The glow seemed to Gwen to intensify, the prince conversely to calm. Then his muscles tightened, and the blade slipped cleanly from the stone. His face lit with a private joy, and as he stepped away from her to reacquaint himself with the weapon's weight and balance, she inspected the handprint on the rock – unbroken by any fissure where the sword had resided. There was no gap to tell where the blade had entered, at all.
Arthur turned back to her with a small crooked smile. "What would I do without you?" he said lightly.
She shrugged, stepping to meet him. "Cry," she guessed, and he tipped his head back in a swift but genuine laugh.
"You could be right," he allowed, and her glance dropped, without conscious intent, to his mouth.
Thinking of their first kiss, of the one light salute she'd given him on the stair, in the cave. Thinking of Isolde saying, for the first time, both of us realized that he needed me, as well. Two winters ago, the two smugglers had realized, and begun to enjoy, a mutual romance. Thinking of Freya, receiving flowers from Merlin after such a short time knowing each other.
Gwen turned in a confusion of emotion, and was all the way out into Kilgarrah's cave before she remembered either the dragon's presence, or the illusion she passed through. She stumbled to an abrupt halt, but Kilgarrah's attention was behind her on Arthur, also emerging.
The great dragon lifted his head, rearing upright at the sight of the sword in Arthur's hand. "Guard it carefully, young prince," the ancient creature advised gravely. "The runes inscribed on the blade are a caution and a promise: Take me up. Cast me away. The sword is for you and you alone. In your hands, it has the power to save Albion, but the ability to make war is a force to be applied with great wisdom. Trust those who gather around you."
"Like my father did?" Arthur spoke as if without thinking, and with bitterness.
Kilgarrah dropped his head, and the gravelly voice softened with something like compassion. "Every man's bane is himself, young prince. Every man has weaknesses – and to rule alone makes a weakness a vulnerability. Trust those who gather around you now, include them in your rule, and it will be strengthened beyond compare."
Arthur turned from the great dragon to look at her, and she was suddenly conscious of the trousers she was wearing for how many days in a row now, and the windblown tendrils of hair that had escaped her uncombed braid. But the prince smiled at her.
"Thank you, Kilgarrah," he said.
"Keep the hope, await the king. Once and future peace will bring," the great dragon said.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin wished, a bit, that he had gone with Aithusa. They hadn't flown together in so long, and this was Arthur's first flight. He was sorry to miss it, the exhilaration and speed, the simultaneous rush of danger and assurance of safety, the feeling of owning the view that spread out below and all around.
The chance to tease the prince endlessly and mercilessly about any hint of nerves or nausea. He was quite sure Gwen wouldn't do that.
But this trip didn't need both of them. With Aithusa's speed and strength and magic, Arthur didn't need Merlin's protection. And perhaps his presence with the scouting party did increase their risk of confrontation if they were discovered by mercenaries or knights, but any contact at all, of course, was contrary to plan. And if they met any of the Knights of Medhir, they would likely need Merlin's magic for any hope of escape.
There were other reasons he'd suggested that Arthur make the aerial journey. It made Merlin nervous to think of how serious Arthur had been about stalking Morgause down to challenge her. He didn't want the prince within stalking distance of Camelot, without him. He doubted that any of the others would disobey the prince's orders the way he had, last night; he doubted that any of the others would be able to force Arthur's retreat for his own good, the way Merlin had.
And Morgana.
Merlin allowed the brown mare he rode to jog along between Leon's and Tristan's mounts without consciously guiding her. He dismounted when the others did, and stood quietly with his eyes on the white towers of the citadel visible in the distance as Leon gave them all instructions, without really paying much attention. Then followed Gwaine and Tristan around to the north, where the grate-guarded tunnel to the lower levels was hidden in a clump of young beech trees.
He had his own mission to complete, this morning.
It hadn't been much of a surprise, to see his third vision from the crystal of Neahtid come to pass. Ever since he'd seen it, he'd assumed that her coronation meant Arthur's death. And for a time he'd been so deathly afraid that Arthur's death would come at his own hand – or claw, as the curse would have it. The realization of the last vision brought an odd sort of relief. As well as more questions.
Morgana. He suspected that Arthur was still resisting the logical if disagreeable conclusion of his uncle's involvement. And might refuse altogether to consider the question of his half-sister. To what extent was she aware of her sister's plots? Was she deceived, enchanted? Or was she complicit also, just as guilty of seeking the throne through violence, her care for her family turned to a selfish greed for power?
"If you boys will excuse me for an hour or two – well, better make it until noon," he said, giving Gwaine and Tristan a grin as he prepared to head off at right angles to their stealthy patrol, forty yards or so from the city walls.
They exchanged a glance, then Gwaine looked over the smuggler's shoulder toward the white towers, before retreating a step toward him. "Are you going back in?" he asked quietly. "Does Arthur know?"
"Yes, and – not yet," Merlin responded. "There's something I have to do – I'll be as quick as I can, but if I don't meet you at the horses by the time Leon wants to ride back to the cave, don't wait for me."
Gwaine studied him with eyes dark with suspicion. "Don't suppose I can persuade you to let me come along?" he said, and Merlin shook his head, grateful anyway for the offer. "Be careful, then, mate." He heard Tristan pose some question, and Gwaine begin to answer, as he moved through the last strip of forest, locating the small grate guarding the tunnel into the dungeons.
Crouching down before it, he looked into the small arms closet – where the guards stored weapons, as it was handier than the larger armory all the knights used – fifteen yards down the tunnel, where the entrance was hidden by the second shield from the left, hung on the back wall. The tunnel was empty, the shield in place, the requisite two guards supplemented by a mercenary, he guessed, and snapped back to the more limited vision unenhanced by his magic, with only the slightest disorientation.
"Tospringe," he breathed, reaching to pull the smoking grate open even as his magic forced the lock.
At the door of the arms closet he paused again, inching it open to see the two guards engaged in a desultory game of dice, the mercenary leaning on the wall by the stair cleaning his nails with the point of his knife. Concentrating his attention and the sight of his inner eye once again, he used magic to nudge a painted vase from a shelf in the nearest vault, and heard it smash on the stone floor.
The two guards jumped up alertly to investigate; the mercenary yawned.
Merlin smiled. Perfect.
Moments later, he closed the closet door on the body of the sleeping mercenary and took the stairs two at a time, dressed in the man's dark trousers and thick leather vest armored with iron rings, the hood of the sleeveless tunic beneath drawn up to disguise him further, the bracers on his bare arms adequately hiding his druidic tattoos.
From the dungeon, it was only slightly out of his way to pass Gaius' chambers, and he entered without knocking, feeling great relief as the old physician startled and snapped, "I say, don't they pay you enough for manners, you –"
Merlin leaned back on the inside of the door and flipped the hood of the tunic off. He grinned at the expression on his mentor's face. "Can't stay long. Just checking that you were all right after last night. And if you've made any progress with Uther's condition?"
He watched Gaius decide not to question or scold. "No, I'm afraid I have not," he said. "Use of the mandrake root in this kind of spell is highly risky because of its subjective nature, each victim affected and reacting differently. And because it is largely considered forbidden magic, there is little documentation available to research." The physician sighed. "The absence of the root means no further damage is being done to the king's mind, but does not guarantee a reversal of the effects. There are treatments I can undertake, to promote general healing, to improve brain function, to reduce pain, but they will take time – we can only wait and see."
Merlin nodded. "Arthur's gone to Dinas Emrys for a dragon-breathed sword," he said, and didn't wait for Gaius' response. "I hope that'll be effective against the Medhiri. I think it's safe to say we'll be back to confront Morgause – if possible before she can discover that her enchantment has been removed, and seek you out. In any case, it's safest for you to remain here." He pleaded silently with the old man; he didn't want to have to worry about protecting Gaius as well.
"I suppose I might as well prepared supplies for the infirmary, then," Gaius said.
Merlin winced at the implication of injuries. He couldn't even contemplate casualties. At all. He pushed away from the door, snatching two or three items from about the chamber, himself.
"What is that for?" Gaius asked him sternly, perhaps catching a hint of the magic he intended to perform.
He quickened his pace – if the old man guessed, he would receive the lecture of a lifetime – if not a more substantial penalty. "Protection," he answered obliquely, giving Gaius an apologetic grin and shrug. He yanked the hood of his disguise up to shade his face again, and reached to open the door.
"Protection? For whom? And from what? Mer-" Gaius at least had the sense not to bellow the name of a wanted fugitive down the tower stair after him.
Merlin didn't hurry, exactly, not wanting to excite suspicion, but reached the short stair that led to the princess' bedchamber sooner than he was ready for, and found himself loitering. Remembering walking her to the stair after Tristan de Bois' wraith ruined her birthday banquet.
Standing at the doorway, asking after her wellbeing after their return from Aglain's camp in Ascetir, apologizing for his inadequacy as an instructor, giving her his already-memorized book of magic. The handful of times he'd been inside the chamber – his first week, bringing her sleeping draught as she decided upon which gown to wear to the banquet. About two months later, as she lay deathly still and pale, and Edwin Muirden said, if you could have everyone leave the room… Standing at her window, the bitter stench of charred curtain in the air, shards of window glass underfoot not as sharp as the gazes of the royal family wanting answers. It was not an attack…
It can be beautiful, used to do good things…
He ducked back behind the archway as voices sounded. He recognized Agravaine's oily tones, and heard Morgana answer, evenly and dispassionately, "We must send emissaries to Lot's kingdom…" before their footsteps faded.
Merlin entered the room, empty and spare. Cold, and lifeless. And it had nothing to do with the objects that were there, or not there. He shivered, and brought out the handful of broom straw, fashioning it swiftly into a crude doll.
For our protection, and for yours, he thought. A shield between us.
It troubled him to do this, as it had troubled him to use the transportation spell upon an unwilling Arthur. But Arthur needed to give her the benefit of the doubt, and that meant making sure she would not use magic to attack them, or to flee. He needed her to give him the opportunity to convince her of Arthur's life.
He spoke the spell, "Ontende eallne thaes drycraeftes hire sawle," and the head of the doll flamed, suddenly and briefly, before extinguishing with the tiniest wisp of smoke. Kneeling by the bed, he shook his head unhappily at the irony, and reached to hook the poppet in place underneath. Perhaps she wouldn't sleep in the bed before he and Arthur returned more openly, but as long as she set foot inside the door, the effect would be the same – his magic a barrier between her and hers. And this was one place she would be unlikely to notice the little straw figure.
Merlin thought, suddenly, of his frantic search of Arthur's chamber, the day the prince had proclaimed his intent to woo the lady Vivian, finding the tied wisp of her hair as part of the enchantment Trickler had done. He clenched his teeth and told himself, it's not the same thing. It's not.
He did hurry then, descending from the floor housing the royal chambers; he had to get back to the dungeon passage before someone saw past the disguise. He turned a corner, heading down the corridor past the guest quarters just below Arthur's chamber. Three steps down the hall, a man dressed in black rounded the far corner, followed by a Knight. He flinched and nearly missed his step, his heart thundering in his ears, his magic screaming within him in protest at the evil distortion of the dark knight.
Turn and run! his instincts shrieked. Could the Medhiri sense his magic the same way he could sense them? Bluff it out, a cooler reason urged. If he ducked his head, could he pass the pair without alerting them, or would that action be so suspicious as to draw their –
The Knight, half a head taller than Agravaine, caped and masked, drew his blade, an age-darkened hack-edged weapon, and lengthened his stride toward Merlin.
"What on earth are you –" Agravaine grumbled irritably, rhetorically, then stopped, his eyes widening in recognition.
Merlin halted; took one step back and then another as the creature advanced. Ah, hells. He could not be caught, but he never wanted to be seen, either. The risk to Gaius if Agravaine reported seeing Merlin inside the citadel was too great. He raised his palms defensively, retreating from the knight – twice as fearsome in a stone-encased hallway as under the open canopy of trees and forest. The knight raised his sword; Merlin grasped at his rioting magic, bracing himself to unleash it in self-defense.
Agravaine said, "Wait."
The knight froze. Merlin was close enough to realize the thing wasn't breathing; the hair rose on the back of his neck. He wanted again to escape with all possible speed – but he couldn't leave Agravaine to report to Morgause. He also couldn't kill Arthur's uncle. If he could somehow separate the lord from the Knight - if he let the knight take one more step – the position was nearly perfect…
So he waited also, though a warning sprang almost unintentionally to his mouth. "Be careful," he said quietly.
"What are you talking about?" Agravaine drawled with a cruel smile, misunderstanding Merlin's open-handed stance, maybe. Mistaking reluctance to attack for inability, maybe. Then the older man glanced down the corridor behind Merlin and said, "Where's Arthur?"
Merlin sighed to himself and shook his head, feeling an echo of Arthur's pain at the confirmation of the betrayal. There could be no doubt, now. If Agravaine admitted knowing his nephew was alive, then he admitted a deliberate role in the conspiracy and deception.
"Tell me, now," the lord demanded, "or I'll have to kill you." He jerked his head, and the Medhiri's sword raised another two threatening inches, the black knight shifting balance ever-so-slightly to the left.
"I don't think so," Merlin said evenly. "You mean to kill me anyway, don't you?" He gestured swiftly, ducking the ancient weapon as his magic flung the undying monster through the flimsy tapestry on the wall beside him, sending him clattering down the narrow circular servants' stair, out of sight.
Someone shouted faintly, "Wot th'ell?"
Merlin whirled back to Agravaine with another spell, "Swefe nu!"
The stocky nobleman dropped like a slumbering stone. Merlin grabbed his boots and tugged him desperately to the door of the guest chamber. He'd have to be quick before the knight could recover enough to launch another attempt to capture or kill him; he'd have to hope the Medhiri were incapable of communication, perhaps akin to a hunting hound – following a quarry relentlessly, instinctively, obedient to a handler's commands but without intelligent reasoning.
He dragged Agravaine inside, and dropped him unceremoniously, using magic to lock the door behind him again. That spell should hold until well after dinner-time, he thought. He'd have to hope that no one worried too much about Agravaine's absence, to send someone to check on him.
And then find some way of breaking the inescapable truth about his uncle's betrayal to Arthur.
A/N: Some dialogue/spells from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone." Spell from ep.1.8 "The Beginning of the End."