Chapter XIX: A Gulf Between

Sir Lancelot (Sir! Sir Lancelot! A knight's title, because he was a knight, because Arthur had knighted him and thereby made him a knight) rode towards Gawant in a daze. Part of him wondered if he was dreaming, but he knew that couldn't be the case. His dreams had never been so vivid, so wonderful.

Admittedly, his knighting was of slightly dubious legality, the King of Camelot's desire to see him dead would no doubt increase when he heard of it, and he could probably consider himself exiled from the kingdom until someone snapped and finally killed Uther. But a knighthood was a knighthood was a dream come true, and he couldn't quite recall the last time he'd been so happy.

Gods, but he wished his family were here to see it, them and Guinevere (still his friend, despite their romance having been strangled by distance) and Merlin.

Something tickled at his mind then, something about Merlin and knighthood. It took him a few moments to remember, but then his smile turned rueful. That was right. Merlin had predicted this back on the day he'd left the druids' camp. He'd called Lancelot the Knight of Joyous Garde….

Lancelot pulled up short, eyes going wide.

Merlin hadn't just called him a knight. He'd told his friend to seek out… a lily, that was right, and arcs. He'd looked for them for several months (though not very well, as he had no idea what they were meant to represent) and had nothing. Then he'd heard about Cornelius Sigan, returned to Camelot, and been occupied by other thoughts.

Should he tell the others? None of them were particularly prejudiced against magic and its wielders, so he doubted they would disdain the recipient of a prophecy. Percival had been taken in by druids for a small portion of his childhood. Gwaine sneered at rules that he felt were stupid and was quietly but fiercely opposed to laws and customs which wounded the smallfolk. Elyan had been saved once by Merlin's word and deed campaign. As for Leon, he'd known Merlin for the better part of a year, and Lancelot was almost completely certain that the man's squire was a warlock under the knight's knowing protection. (He had been dropping subtle hints to the poor nervous boy that he too would protect his secrets, but Marrok had yet to actually confess to anything. Lancelot didn't blame him. He had, after all, grown up in the kingdom of Camelot.)

So Lancelot told the others about Merlin's prophecy. He no longer remembered the exact words, but he recalled the gist of it well enough: seek the lily which should grow where the lavender had grown, seek the arcs, and we will meet again.

"Arcs are parts of a circle, right?" Gwaine asked.

"I suppose," Lancelot replied dubiously. Not for the first time, he wondered about just where Gwaine had gotten his education, because that certainly wasn't something one picked up on a farm. "That doesn't really help much, though."

"No," Leon agreed slowly, "but this might." He met Lancelot's eyes. "Princess Elena is sometimes called the Lily Maid of Astolat."

Merlin brought him to a patch of forest not far from the city gates. The warlock staggered as they touched down, an enormous yawn wrenching its way out of his throat. He shook himself, slapped his cheek a little. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Still recovering."

"I noticed." Indeed, Arthur didn't know if he'd ever seen such impressive (and worrying) bags under someone's eyes except during their last meeting. They'd been worse then, he reminded himself. Merlin was obviously recovering. "You know, I thought you were just going to warn us about bandits or something."

His former servant blinked at him, utterly befuddled. "Why would I do that?"

The prince blinked back, just as baffled. "To minimize the risk of everyone dying?"

"Well," Merlin allowed dubiously, "I suppose I might have told you about the bandits after I'd taken care of them so that you could arrest the sorry sods."

Arthur almost asked but thought better of it at the last moment. It was far too easy, he reflected, to forget that Merlin was actually competent. Of course, it could be that the warlock was overestimating himself, but….

Sometimes, it was safest to just change the subject.

"Is there anything else I need to know about—"

Merlin yawned again. He was swaying slightly, and maybe it was just Arthur's imagination, but he was quite certain that the eye-bags had grown over the past few seconds.

"Never mind," the prince decided. "I'll have to ask Morgana and Guinevere. You just go back home and sleep."

It was a mark of Merlin's exhaustion that he didn't protest. "Okay, I'll do that. Say hi to them for me."

Arthur managed not to roll his eyes. "All right, I will. Now go away."

Merlin grinned at him, muttered something in the Old Tongue, and vanished in a gust of wind.

Now that his warlock was gone, the implications of his return were beginning to sink in. He groaned, allowed himself a moment's respite before squaring his shoulders and striding towards the road.

The gate guards (and there were more of them than usual, he noted sourly) recognized him immediately. They straightened to attention, eyes wide and disbelieving and maybe a little bit guilty. Marvelous. That was just a bloody marvelous sign.

"Prince Arthur," one guard began, "we didn't realize you were coming."

"It's a long story," Arthur sighed. "Now let me through. I need to speak with my father."

The guards let him through.

Camelot was quieter than he remembered. The streets were emptier. Other pedestrians walked along quickly, their heads down in an effort to avoid meeting anybody's gaze. No children played underfoot; the few children he saw clasped their parents' hands tightly, allowing themselves to be half-dragged along. Merchants in their stalls stood rigidly, speaking with their infrequent customers in low, quick words. Fear thickened the air, almost strong enough to smell.

But then the people would see Arthur. Some just looked at his red cloak and flinched, picking up their pace. Others noticed his face and recognized their prince. They tended to freeze, something like hope in their faces. Or maybe it was desperation.

This was getting better by the second.

Leodegrance's manor loomed in the distance, closer and closer with each step. Yet he'd barely blinked before he was on its threshold.

"Prince Arthur?" asked the guard on the right. "Why—"

Arthur cut him off by lifting his hand. "Not important. Where is my father?"

"I'm not certain," the left guard replied. He hesitated. "Highness, the king has… not been well."

"I've heard. The gist of it, at least, though not the details."

The guards exchanged nervous glances.

"Just let me go through," the prince sighed. He remembered where Leodegrance and Uther had met while discussing things—policies, reconstruction, everything else—before his departure. They would either still be there or his father would be down in the impromptu barracks, telling the guards that they were now allowed, even encouraged, to kill each other.

It was hard, going forward, to not slow. Something like dread crept up his spine.

Why was this making him so uncomfortable? Not scared, of course, never scared, but definitely unhappy. It couldn't just be that they'd been fighting and that Arthur was supposed to be in Gawant. They'd quarreled before, though not so severely or for so long, and he'd just stopped a damn war. Surely that would exonerate him for not heading to Godwyn after escaping the bandits.

Was it the knowledge that this fight would be ugly, that it would even more conclusively prove that his heart had changed? The worry that his mandrake exposure (exposure which Arthur had done absolutely nothing to prevent, had even encouraged) had permanently broken something in his mind? The discomfort of Merlin's thrice-damned prophecy hanging over his head? Morgana's paternity? Probably all of it, he reflected glumly.

He rounded the corner and nearly collided with his father.

Prince and king jumped back, identical expressions of surprise on their faces. Then, quick as thought, Uther's shock morphed into feral rage.

"Leodegrance!" he roared. "I've been enchanted again!"

"Father—"

"Don't speak to me, you disgusting magical hallucination."

"Your Majesty—"

"You! Servant! Fetch Rience at once!"

The terrified laundress dropped her load and fled.

"It's me," Arthur tried to explain.

Uther turned aside, visage stony, and tried to stride away. Arthur reached out, grabbed his arm. "Father, I'm really here!"

The king jerked away from his son's touch as though it burned. He gaped for a moment at his arm, then reached out and poked at Arthur's face. Uther glanced sideways at Leodegrance, who nodded. "I see him too, sire."

It took Uther a moment to reorient himself after that. "Did they call for you while I was bewitched?" he demanded.

"No, Father. My escort was slain by bandits. Could we speak more privately?"

"I suppose." His eyes darted about. "Lord Leodegrance, we're going back to your study. When Rience arrives, tell him what happened and send him back to Maddox."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

Their meeting had been almost comedic, certainly unexpected enough to take Arthur's mind off his unease. Now, though, the dread returned full force. His palms began to sweat, and he found himself wishing that Uther had been in the study.

When the door closed behind them, it almost sounded like a death knell.

"I hope you sent a messenger explaining your absence to King Godwyn," Uther finally said.

"I did, Father," Arthur assured him, "but I'm not here for the reason you seem to think. On the way to Gawant, my party was attacked by bandits. I was the only survivor. After escaping, I made my way to the front, where I fought King Odin in single combat. The war is over. I reinstated our treaty with Magance and was returning here when Merlin appeared."

The king jerked, lips pulling back in a silent snarl. A muscle beneath his eye spasmed.

"Merlin conjured a shield between us and my men, who were unable to breach it." A blatant lie, but Uther had once thrown Leon and Arthur into the dungeons for not immediately trying to murder Emrys. There was absolutely no need to risk the soldiers' lives by revealing that they'd obeyed his orders to stand down and let him talk with the known spellbinder.

"And what did the bastard want? To complain that I'd escaped his curse?"

"He wanted to give a report about the state of affairs in Camelot. I understand that Morgana rescinded the guards' new executioner duties while you were incapacitated, but then you reinstated them as soon as you were well?" He'd almost told the truth, that Merlin wanted to save the guards from themselves, but though better of that at the last minute. Uther was clearly not stable. In his current state, he might take that concern as 'proof' that the entire guard was against him and try to have them all executed. If there was a faster way to make the guard rise up and kill him, Arthur didn't know it.

"I gave them the power to do what's necessary," Uther spat.

"Father," Arthur said, trying to keep his voice calm, "the witch trials existed for a reason. Not only did they keep the innocent alive, they assured the people that they were safe from false accusations."

The king shrugged. "So a few peasants die along with the scum. A kingdom free from the scourge of sorcery is worth the sacrifice."

"There has already been at least one riot," Arthur pointed out.

"Yes, when your sorcerous friends incited those peasants you care so much about against me."

"The people are terrified!" the prince snapped. "They don't need to be incited when the guards who are supposed to protect them can kill anyone without more proof than a stranger's word!"

"I'm protecting them!" Uther roared back. He loomed as tall as he could, but Arthur stood strong and unbent against him.

"And I'm protecting you," Arthur hissed. "How long will it be before they decide that the only way they'll be safe is if you're dead?"

"The knights—"

"—can also be killed without trial, and may have friends and trusted retainers from among the smallfolk. And they can get a lot closer to you than a random man on the streets."

"Any knight who tries will be killed the moment he draws his sword," Uther spat.

Clearly this was not working. Arthur fell back mentally, scrabbling for another approach. His mouth discovered a way before his brain, though, and he found himself blurting, "This wouldn't have stopped Merlin, you know."

The king went rigid.

The prince kept talking. With the words already out, it was easier to realize what he wanted to say. "No one suspected Merlin of sorcery, Father. Edwin Muirden might have accused him on his way to the pyre, but you recognized then that men use accusations of magic to attack their enemies. Other than that, nobody thought he could be Emrys, not in their wildest dreams. Even if you'd had these laws in place when he saved my life, he'd still have become my manservant and my friend. Any witch or warlock who's survived this long in Camelot won't be found out so easily."

"Perhaps you're right." Uther's words were so unexpected that Arthur barely kept his jaw from going slack. "Perhaps they can't be found out… but they can be driven out. Let them see the bloodshed around them and run." A smile, all white teeth and red rage. "They won't get far."

"Father." His voice didn't quite break, but it came close. "I don't want you to die."

Uther sucked a breath in through his teeth. "What did your sorcerer tell you?"

Arthur slumped. "He told me about his prophecy."

"He was lying," Uther spat, too quickly to convince. "He lied to you. Again."

"Then why were you so quick to betroth your children to Cenred and Orgeluse?" At the king's jerk of horror, he added bitterly, "Yes, I figured it out. So did Merlin. We'll have to discuss that too once this has been settled."

"He lied," Uther repeated. His denial wouldn't have fooled a child.

"I wish I could believe that," Arthur confessed. "Hell, I wish that I could believe he was wrong. But if you keep pushing, something will break. Someone will break… and then you will be broken."

For a moment, he almost thought that this might have gotten through to his father. The king certainly looked stricken, frightened, even.

But Uther Pendragon was nothing if not stubborn, and he had too much invested in being right about this scheme to easily pull out. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, and Arthur knew he had lost.

At least for now.

"Begone, before I throw you in the dungeons."

Arthur weighed his options, the nodded jerkily. He didn't quite bow. "By your leave, Father."

"You have it."

The prince turned and left.

How many people, he wondered, could he save?

His own children had been turned against him. Sorcerers had turned Arthur and Morgana against him. One sorcerer in particular, he did not doubt.

Uther wanted nothing more than to ride out to the Isle of the so-called Blessed and raze it to the ground. He wanted to run the false Emrys through and throw the bastard's corpse into a midden pit. Surely, surely that would release his hold on Uther's offspring.

But sorcerers were a vicious, cunning, cowardly breed. Merlin would flee if Uther left to kill him personally; he had to put the sorcerer down through a proxy, as the bastard was undoubtedly spying on him. Arthur's return (more proof that the sorcerer had wrapped his mind in layer upon layer of hateful enchantment) had only served to confirm Uther's long-held suspicion.

So instead of contacting Rience and Maddox directly, once the ensorcelled prince stalked away, Uther wrote notes containing their new instructions, then started on the longer letters. The date he gave was perhaps a bit sudden, but he didn't want the sorcerer to remain alive for a heartbeat longer than necessary. They all had to die as soon as possible. Then Arthur and Morgana would be free and safe, and Uther would not have to worry about this damned prophecy, and perhaps, if he was lucky, Ygraine's memory could finally rest in peace.

He couldn't trust anybody in his own kingdom, no one save Rience and Maddox, but there were other lands. The sorcerers had focused on Camelot this last year, doubtless because they hated Camelot and its king most of all. Uther was the one who had finally seen them for what they really were, who had begun the Purge, who had acted most zealously to kill them all. Of course they would focus all their attention on him and his kingdom, which meant that they were neglecting other nations, which meant that they could help him. It galled Uther to accept this help, of course, but it would be infinitely worse to let a single sorcerer escape.

The Sarrum might have difficulty arriving on time, but he was famously enthusiastic for cleansing the world of magic. He would find a way to make his forces go more quickly. Cenred would not have that difficulty; his men could bring the boats.

Sorcerers were tricky, one contingency layered inside another inside another inside another, and at least one had definitely been spying on Uther. They might know. They might have done something that would neutralize Rience's poisons, that would let them laugh at Uther's attempt to see them all dead. But if they knew all about the poison, they would be watching for that and that alone. They wouldn't be looking for Uther's new contingency. He was not a sorcerer, but he could be tricky too. He would be the one to laugh; they wouldn't be able to laugh at him (horrible laughter, screeching, grating, hurting his ears no matter how he tried to cover them because they were already in his head) because they would all be dead, their plans ruined, their enchanted dupes free at Uther's side.

In two weeks, the Isle of the Blessed would fall.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Uther Decides that his Former Murder Plan Didn't have Enough Murder, so he Adds Some More Murder to Make his Murder Plan Extra Murdery"

Next chapter: December 27. Arthur and Morgana make a scene, then everything is on fire and Gwen joins the criminal underworld. (No, seriously. It makes sense in context.)