Morgause strolled the isle's halls like a vanquished queen returned to her kingdom. The child who'd submitted to the rules and whims of the priestesses had long ago been buried, replaced by the living embodiment of all they had hoped for.
Morgause ran her hand over the edge of the dilapidated altar. Storm and wind had ravaged the courtyard. She had half expected to discover sun bleached bones surrounding the central stone slab. She wondered if someone had buried those killed in The Blessed Massacre or if their flesh had been ravaged and dragged away by wild beasts. She tugged at the arm of the man placed face down on the altar and looked across the stone at Mordred rubbing at his sleeve again.
"You've done well," she said. "He is secure."
Mordred barely glanced at her with a brief roll of his eyes. How unfortunate the true Emrys had been divested of his power. Granted, his subduing had removed his possible interference, but she dearly wished she could have switched out the Druid boy for the legendary Emrys. Or not quite legendary. One lamia had been enough to bring him low. Morgause smiled. And one restored high priestess would force the rest of Camelot to its knees.
Morgause traversed the courtyard to a simple stone pedestal set along a broken wall. The priestesses hadn't embellished this area of the castle. It had a stark and utilitarian purpose. She'd wondered over the years how much Uther really knew. Had he guessed where their studies had led them or did he simply attack to fulfill his vendetta against magic? The depressed bowl in the stone pedestal had filled with rainwater. Fitting. Tears from a dark sky would cleanse the blade of vengeance.
Morgause drew the dagger at her side and plunged it into the water. The way of death must be purified, the priestesses had said. Morgause doubted the the ritual was entirely necessary but dare not chance the possibility it mattered. She'd seen the ritual only once when one of her teachers had proclaimed her worthy enough to observe its secrets. She'd shivered then, a tremble running down her spine, when the priestesses gathered in a circle chanted around a corpse dripping blood and a wispy phantom arose, a priestess long dead. She was forbidden to speak as the priestesses flattered and cajoled and begged the phantom to do their bidding.
Morgause withdrew the wet dagger blade, holding it up and smiling at her reflection in its clear silver. A dozen priestesses holding hands had been needed to dredge up one phantom. In moments, she would surpass them all. She strode back to the altar. The priestesses had claimed wisdom yet been such children, fearing stories about the Dochraid. The witch was powerful, and yes, even dangerous, but she held the keys to true freedom. If the priestesses had conquered their reluctance, they would have found all the answers they sought. She had conquered fear and the Dochraid had showed her the way.
Mordred kept scratching at his arm through his sleeve. Morgause rounded the altar, grasping his arm and pushing the sleeve up with the flat of her dagger. The skin was red and raw, swollen over the cursed rune. Mordred kicked at her and she broke her hold. He shoved his sleeve back down.
"You can't rid yourself of it."
Mordred glared in response.
"Why does it bother you? Do you not want Arthur Pendragon dead?"
"Of course," the boy snapped.
"Then why do this." Mordred didn't reply. She grabbed his arm again and pressed the point of the knife against his sleeve, over the rune. Mordred gasped and tried to pull away. "Move and I rid you of it forever." The boy went still, staring daggers into her eyes. "What makes you weak?"
"I'm not weak," Mordred argued, but the last word shook.
"Who got to you?"
Mordred swallowed hard when she pressed the knife downwards and a tiny spot of red seeped through his sleeve. "My...mother."
Morgause tilted her head. "Explain."
"She was...good...kind." Unexpected tears appeared in the boy's eyes and his voice became a whisper. "I'd upset her."
Morgause chuckled and dropped his arm. Mordred stepped away from her. "She would be proud. Anyone murdered by the Pendragons would crave justice. Camelot knights gutted her, ripped her apart, and you doubt what must be done? You'll cower away from sliding your knife across Arthur Pendragon's throat?"
"I'll still kill him," Mordred argued, but something in his reply bothered her.
"If you need proof of the will of the dead, watch and see the desires of those felled at Pendragon hands." Morgause whirled back to the criminal stuck to the altar. She laid a hand over his eyes, chanting a spell to counteract the sleeping drug she'd stuffed down his throat when their journey began. The man convulsed, spewing out a fountain of spit and bile. She waited for him to focus. He had to be lucid to make a good sacrifice. Such was the claim of the priestesses.
"Wh-ere...wha..." Morgause set down the knife next to the criminal and slipped a length of cloth out of her belt, balling it and wedging it between his teeth. The man's eyes darted around the courtyard. He struggled, but couldn't budge and eventually stilled, fixing her with a terrified gaze.
"You are in the castle of the high priestesses. You have been judged. You are to die for your crimes." The man pitched around again. Morgause waited once more until he fell limp, though he shook with fear. Good. His victim had done the same.
Morgause looked to Mordred. "I suggest you wait over there," she advised, pointing to a broken arch at the edge of the courtyard. Mordred retreated—for once without a grumble or glare—and huddled against one side of the entrance arch.
Morgause reached into the pouch at her waist, digging out an unassuming small coin. She wasn't certain whence these came. She had already used two in her pursuit to break Uther Pendragon, raising the shades of his closest friend and wife. Somehow, these ancient coins had been imbued with power to rend the veil between the living and the dead. The high priestesses had believed only a singular soul could be called forth at time. They would soon learn otherwise.
Morgause clutched the coin in her left hand. She picked up the dagger with her right and braced it against the soft flesh of the criminal's neck. His Adam's apple bobbed once before a swift and deep slice carved a spurting red line. Hot blood surged in bursts, pooling onto the altar. The criminal might have attempted to scream through the gag. She wasn't sure. He went still in moments.
Morgause dropped the knife to the altar. She thrust the coin into the blood, coating it in the red flow. She drew it back and muttered words the Dochraid had taught her.
"Slitap paet heolstor. Lidap pa drihte eac pa weamette pas hangwites, maersap aet min bebodraee!"
She tossed the coin to land before the altar.
The air went still. All natural sound died away. Morgause's heart pounded. The Dochraid could not have lied to her. The wretched creature wanted Camelot brought low as much as she.
The tile nearest the coin cracked in two. Morgause stepped back, eyes wild. Hands burst forth, then arms followed by a head strewn with stringy locks. The phantom pulled itself aloft and rose from a squat to face her.
"Gersenda," Morgause breathed, beholding the head high priestess at the time of the Blessed Massacre. The figure rushed her to wrap its bony fingers around her throat. She felt the pressure from its grip. The Dochraid hadn't lied. The hands, arms, and face were solid even if the rest of the phantom appeared as a misty shroud, a rippling, barely existent vapor.
"Who dares call us?" Gersenda hissed. Us. Yes. They were rising. More of them, clawing through the ground and broken tile, rising to waft in the breeze.
"I call you," Morgause choked out.
"Who are you?"
"Your revenge."
The hand loosened from her throat. The other phantoms drifted their way, staring with blank eyes, whites without pupils. She recognized each of them, but their forms had been twisted and their visages marred with pustules and scabs. "Revenge," Gersenda echoed. The others passed the word around like a dirge's chant.
Morgause rose to her height, silencing the flutter of fear in her heart. "Uther Pendragon killed you. I killed him. You owe me."
Murmuring passed between the beings like the sound of rustling leaves. There were laws, the Dochraid had told her, laws beyond this world, deep and unassailable and this was one of them. The dead revenged were bound to their avenger.
"Men without magic still reign. They seek the death of magic. They slaughter as you were slaughtered here." Morgause didn't expect the howling moans that ushered forth from every mouth. She forced herself not to tremble.
"Ask what you will of us," Gersenda replied.
"Kill those without magic. Kill until those who rule abandon their kingdom. Kill until the throne is mine."
"My love?"
Morgana kept still, eyes closed, sitting cross-legged. Hands rested on her shoulders and Lancelot's soothing voice caressed her ear.
"What can I do?"
"Nothing." She sensed him shifting around her and lifted her lids to find him kneeling in front of her, nailing her with beautiful, dark, distressed eyes. She resisted the urge to fling herself into his arms and pretend none of this had happened, that they were home on his lands living the glorious life she'd imagined at his side. "How is Arthur?"
"How are you?" Lancelot countered.
"Arthur," she repeated insistently.
Lancelot sighed. "He's frustrated. He sits by Merlin and snaps at anyone who bothers him. He's never been patient with inactivity."
"Did he ask about me?"
Lancelot's eyes rolled away from her. "You don't need to concern yourself with his—"
"He did. He wants to know if I've seen anything." Morgana uncrossed her legs, shifting to sit on her knees, echoing Lancelot's posture. "I haven't! All I see is that witch's vision!"
"Do you think she magically..." Lancelot paused, searching for the right word, "implanted it into your mind?"
"I've thought of it, but it could also be it's true. Taliesin said the more you see a future the more probable it is, and the more probable, the closer it is, but it doesn't make any sense." She angrily slapped a palm on the ground."
"Morgana. Love." His hand reached out to her cheek but she jerked back. He withdrew his hand, hurt darkening his gaze.
"I'm...sorry," she muttered. She closed her eyes again and covered them with her hands, willing something, anything to reveal how to help Merlin and for the love of Camelot, let it be a different sight!
Lancelot moved again. She heard him stand and his boots tap the stone. Rock crunched behind her and his arms encircled her as he pulled her to rest against his chest. She fought back tears at his tenderness, the patience he employed with her when she had none for herself.
"Tell me what you see," he spoke softly.
"It's always the same. A battlefield and myself and the dead...and anything with magic being attacked by Merlin."
"When you see it, have you ever not gone to Merlin?"
She frowned. Of course she went to Merlin. She was trying to help him after all, but how staring at him wreathed in flame helped she had no clue. And he always turned his head to her and spoke in such a deep and awful voice, proclaiming death and doom and the end of all things.
Lancelot must have interpreted her lack of response as an affirmative. "Try not going to him. See what else is in the vision."
Morgana turned, nestling into his embrace. "I'll try." She concentrated on his thumping heartbeat, letting it lull her. She began to feel drowsy and his arms disappeared, replaced by a cold, grey, stark battlefield.
She was here. Again.
She paid little attention to her own figure standing nearby, pierced through by Merlin's spike of power. She began to follow a familiar course, then stopped. No. She wouldn't be drawn to Merlin this time. Look for someone else...or something else.
She wandered past bodies. Past soldiers fighting. Past those frozen in fear gaping at Merlin. She passed creatures that set her blood racing, large scorpions, beaked vultures as tall as men, and little, thin-limbed humanlike figures with sharp teeth. Where had all these terrors come from?
Morgana paused when she passed a black, furry lump. Was that... Freya!The bastet was curled in on herself, eyes closed. A spike from Merlin pierced her, too. Morgana didn't perceive a wound, unless it was internal.
Morgana frowned. A splash of light hovered above Freya's back, a small ball with a...person inside? Morgana spotted another not far away, floating in the air. She moved towards it and perceived another bright figure within the orb. She spied another a few feet away and another farther than that. A disjointed line of the creatures streamed towards the bastet.
Morgana followed the balls of light, seeking their source. She drew up short when she found herself facing...Arthur. His brow was creased and his mouth was open, as if he were shouting. Every inch of him was streaked with dirt and sweat, and he held something in his hand, his right hand. A sword. One she'd never seen before that glowed. Balls of light swarmed around the sword and broke off from it.
Morgana followed Arthur's line of sight to Merlin several yards away. The moment she set eyes on the warlock, he turned his head and spoke to her. "Break me and die."
Morgana jolted out of Lancelot's arms. She clasped hands to her chest, recovering her breath. Lancelot's warm hand rubbed at her back.
"You saw something else?" he asked.
She gasped and forced out her reply. "Yes... But I don't know what it means."
"Ride hard! Faster!"
"I am, my lady!"
Leon's hood had slipped, blown back by the rushing wind. Thin but strong arms encircled his waist, Queen Mithian clinging to him. For two weeks they had journeyed their way towards Nemeth, but the travel had been impeded by Cenred's numerous patrols. Leon thought the wily king must have had mercenaries waiting at Camelot's borders, ready to swarm over Camelot once he took the capital. They should have reached Nemeth days ago. And they would have...if they hadn't met a tribe of bandits. That had joined Cenred's mercenary hires. And been arrested once by the first knight of Camelot. And easily sussed out his identity.
Knowing fighting against such a number was useless, Leon had taken the queen by hand and fled. Ever since they'd played a game of cat and mouse trying to reach the border. Leon clenched his teeth. He'd desperately done something daring—he'd stolen a mercenary's horse. But as Queen Mithian had climbed up behind him, still garbed in her men's clothing, a sharp whistle warned they'd been spotted. He'd wheeled the horse around towards Nemeth and kicked the steed into a gallop.
"They're gaining," the queen cried in his ear.
Leon winced at her yell, but kept on. The border was so near he could make out Nemeth's northern watchtower. So very close now.
Something zipped past and thunked into the ground. Leon barely spared a moment to glimpse a wooden shaft.
"Bolts, my lady!" The queen's hold tightened. "Lower yourself!" He glanced back to assure she'd ducked down. So close. Almost there. They could make it.
Pain exploded in the fleshy part of Leon's shoulder blade, near his neck. Leon gaped, the sudden hurt arresting a vocal cry. He lost the reigns and tumbled towards earth, fumbling to break Mithian's hold. He was too late. She fell with him.
Leon pushed up onto his knees and elbows, craning his neck back to view the flecked shaft emerging from his shoulder. His left side was quickly going cold. Someone tugged at his hand. He beheld Queen Mithian, desperation in her gaze as she assisted him to a stand. He tried to run aside her but only made it a few feet before sinking to the ground.
"Go," he ordered.
"Sir Leon, you have defended me all this way. The least I can do is defend you." Her statement was punctuated by the unsheathing of the sword at her waist. Stubborn woman. He'd already observed her obstinacy during the hunt, and in the last two weeks watched her plow through mud and rock and mercenaries. She'd not complained or whined once, even when she had a right to. After all, she should have been in official mourning and yet, even her grief she'd submitted to duty without hesitation. He admired her mulishness, might have even secretly praised it, but such a trait was blasted inconvenient right now.
Leon struggled to his feet, grasping the queen by the shoulders and turning her towards Nemeth's border. "Camelot is what matters. Get over there and bring back your army."
She hesitated. He shoved her. She turned, a reprimand coloring her expression.
"I'm sorry, your majesty," he apologized, "but you must go!" He looked back. They were coming fast. So many of them, mercenaries swathed in fur skins. Saxons most likely.
"Sir Leon," she spoke quietly, "I am in your debt." She ran.
Leon watched her zig and zag and duck into the woods. By the time he was surrounded, a sprinting figure appeared near the watchtower.
A kick laid him flat on his stomach and a boot crushed into his back. Leon bit back a groan. He'd just healed up from the last beating he'd received. He was certain what was to come would be ten times worse.
The bolt twisted in his shoulder. Leon screamed.
Freya traced the etching in the wall with one finger. She couldn't read the beautiful, flowing script that Balinor called dragon language, though she knew the name she laid a palm across. "Kilgharrah, Merlin needs you. I need you."
Not for the first time, she fought frustration at the dragon for deserting them. "You didn't know what would happen," she argued with the name. "You acted like you knew, but you didn't, and now Merlin's magic is gone and Camelot is taken and nothing you told me is going to happen. All that talk of destiny..." She stopped to breathe and swallow down tears. "You died for nothing." Freya closed her eyes, pained by the memory of Kilgharrah disappearing into the waters of Avalon, a sword hilt protruding from his breast.
"Here you are." Balinor had found her.
Freya swiped at her eyes. "I was just checking on the eggs."
Balinor paced up to the two pedestals and placed a hand on each egg. "And how are they?"
"Warm. Restless."
Balinor closed his eyes. "And ready."
"You said they wouldn't need to hatch for months or years."
"Something's changed. They're...distressed. Perhaps they know..." He swallowed hard. He didn't have to speak on. Freya knew what he meant. Maybe they knew Merlin could never release them. Maybe they knew they would die.
"Isn't there any way to crack them open? Maybe I could..."
"No," Balinor replied swiftly, opening his eyes and rounding on her. "The eggs are impenetrable. Stronger than adamant."
"So it's never been done."
Balinor eyed her.
"It has." Hope fluttered in her heart.
"Death was always the result."
"Oh." Her stomach sank once more. "You did it?"
"No one has cracked an egg in centuries. The act takes magic and much of it. And every dragonlord swears an oath never to attempt it."
Tears threatened Freya again. She passed Balinor to touch the eggs herself, feel the pattering heartbeats. The unhatched dragons squirmed closer to her palms. They sensed her, knew her. They were hers. And they were supposed to be Merlin's. There had to be a way.
"Go back to Merlin. I will watch over them."
She didn't budge. "I want to stay with them. My touch comforts them. If they die while I'm gone..."
Balinor pulled her hands from the eggs and held them tightly. "Go see him. Tell him they live and nothing more."
"Lie to him?" Freya asked incredulously.
Balinor's eyes glazed. "Ease his burden. At least for now."
Arthur paced in agitation. He'd managed to remove both Nimueh and Gwen from his presence. He'd indicated to Gwen he needed a break from the sorceress who sat across from him next to Merlin and did little but stare at Merlin or him or into the distance. Gwen had persuaded Nimueh to take a walk with her outside, at least for a while. Arthur felt a bit of guilt for manipulating Gwen, but he had to. She wouldn't understand what he needed to do.
Arthur scrubbed at his chin. He hadn't shaved in some time and the hair was getting rather thick around his jaw. He probably looked quite different, which was a good thing really. Maybe if he didn't look like himself anymore the people would stop seeing him as their king.
"Ar...Arth..."
Arthur dashed to Merlin's side, snatching up a water skin. The youth's lips had cracked in the last day. Arthur kept pouring water down his throat, though his actions made little difference. Still, he placed the skin to Merlin's lips. Merlin grasped at it, sucking too quickly and coughing up the water he'd gotten.
"Slowly, Merlin. Come on."
Merlin pushed up enough to pull on the skin less vigorously. Then he sank down on his pallet and whispered, "I'm going to die."
A lump in his throat choked Arthur's reply. Merlin couldn't die, not because Arthur willed him not to, but because death wasn't possible. If Nimueh was correct, the bond between them wouldn't let Merlin die as long as Arthur lived. Even so, that fact didn't stop Merlin from getting sicker. Arthur's presence might have slowed Merlin's descent, but it hadn't arrested it. His ward's complexion grew more ashen by the day and his hair was as brittle as a tree's winter twigs. He was becoming a corpse right in front of Arthur's eyes.
"You won't die," Arthur whispered, wiping water from Merlin's chin and neck.
"I...want...to."
Arthur balked. He dropped the cloth and grasped Merlin's chin to confront his gaze. "Don't you ever want that."
Tears welled at the corner of Merlin's eyes. "It...hurts...so...much."
Arthur pulled Merlin's blanket up, tucking it in around the youth. He was so cold these days. Merlin rolled, cradling into his side. Arthur rubbed gently along his back. His nurse had done the same when he was sick as a child. A small comfort, but the action gave him something to do.
"You can't give up, Merlin," he said. "You can't." He couldn't lose Merlin, too. Not after he'd lost his kingdom, not after he gave it up to...
"Sire?" Lord Arnott had appeared just on the edge of the lantern light. "You asked for me?"
Arthur nodded and waved the councilor in. Arnott approached, peering down at Merlin. The youth had closed his eyes again.
"How does he fare?" Arnott asked.
"Not well."
"I'm sorry, sire."
Arthur stood up. Merlin didn't reach out for him as he usually did when awake, so he must have drifted off again. Sleeping was about all Merlin could do. He'd hardly awoken in the last two days and barely ate. I'm the only thing sustaining him.
Arthur gestured Arnott several steps away and spoke lowly. "I have a command to issue that will upset the council. I've asked you here because you're the one most likely to support my decision. You're practical and unafraid of reality. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, but I've valued your insight these last months even when we've disagreed."
Arnott's cheeks tinged a shade above his trimmed beard. "You honor me, my lord." After the Teine Diega, the man had supported Arthur's rule, even vocally approved of the lifting the ban on magic. At times, he was still an obstacle, but he identified negatives when Arthur didn't want to. In truth, Arnott had become one of his most valued council members.
"What I ask of you won't be easy. Some will fight you. They'll even fight me, but I need someone on my side who can carry out what must be done."
"Carry out what, sire?"
Arthur sucked in a long breath. Now that the time had come, he hated to do it. "Do you remember the Druid ritual? My fears?"
Arnott shifted nervously. "Yes, sire. I recall my own part in your fears, but my lord, I was wrong in my objections to you before then. I never would disparage you now. I swear it."
"You should disparage me."
"Sire?"
"Didn't it come to pass? I lost my kingdom. I failed my people as I feared I would."
"That's not what happened, my lord!"
Arthur held up a hand to silence Arnott's argument. "I made mistakes that directly hurt my kingdom. I didn't guard the borders carefully. I was too lenient with old enemies. That's the truth, isn't it?"
"My lord, you know even your father was not always right by any means. Any king can make mistakes."
"That lose him his kingdom? My father didn't."
"King Arthur, what do you mean to ask me?"
Arthur lifted his right arm. It still seized when he exerted pressure and resisted any fine muscle movement. "I can't even defend our people anymore. I want you to speak to the council members here. Inform them I require the drawing up of a document listing the names of good and trustworthy men who meet the requirements for kingship."
Arnott's eyes about bulged. "You can't tell me you're… you can't be… you mean to abdicate the throne?"
"I am not the king they deserve. And Merlin..." Arthur looked to the dwindling youth. "I must stay with him."
"We do not wish another king!"
"Lord Arnott," Arthur reprimanded sharply. "Be honest with me. Am I in any way what my people need right now?"
"A king is more...more than his sword arm," Arnott sputtered. "You-you have wisdom..."
"Which left our borders under protected."
"Your compassion…
"Allowed an enemy into my kingdom."
"My lord. Please..."
"This is my order," Arthur almost shouted, only catching himself when he remembered Merlin a few feet away. "I command you to carry it out with swift obedience. Go."
Arnott's mouth opened and closed once, but he turned away, frowning and muttering as he withdrew.
Arthur slumped down next to Merlin, laying a stiff hand on the youth's back again. "I had to do it, Merlin. There's no other way." Unbidden tears fogged his sight. "I'm sorry it won't turn out like you thought. It would have been nice if it had."
"Nimueh was right. You don't believe in destiny any more." Arthur jerked his head up to behold Hunith.
"You overheard what I said to Lord Arnott?"
Hunith nodded.
"Don't tell anyone."
Hunith walked over and knelt next to him, fixing him with that remonstrative mother stare she often set upon her son. "When I took Merlin away from Camelot and brought him back to Ealdor, I fought his destiny. I always knew he was born for a purpose, but I didn't want him to suffer like his father had. I told myself I could keep him safe, but in the end, destiny forced me to send him back with you, the man who fulfilled his every dream."
"Dreams don't make anything true."
"If Merlin's dreams weren't true, why are you bound to him?"
"I don't know." Arthur passed a hand across his face. "Whatever it was or is doesn't change the fact that neither I nor Merlin are fit to help anyone."
"The prophecy is true. That means somehow, Merlin will be saved."
Arthur stared into Hunith's wetting eyes. She spoke as a mother unable to accept her child's hurt. "And if we can't save him? If he's like this forever?"
Her lips trembled. "He won't be. He can't be."
Arthur studied Merlin. I want to die, his ward had said. Arthur didn't look at Hunith. He had nothing to offer her but painful truth. Because there was a way to take away Merlin's suffering forever. He could break the bond and release Merlin to the peace beyond the veil.
"Tom!" Elyan hissed as he jogged up to the end of an alley.
"Guards are still there," the imposing blacksmith reported in a whisper.
Elyan peeked out. Cenred had set four guards at the southern city gate and four more patrolled the walls up above. The four on the walls were currently absent, making their rounds. "Geoffrey having any luck?"
"He's boring them to tears," Tom said with a chuckle. Elyan smiled. Geoffrey had done what he could, but the man was far more librarian than rebel. Being away from his precious books of knowledge had compelled the man to foist upon them numerous lectures on history, science, astrology, mathematics, and sometimes magic. Geoffrey was a veritable fount of facts, which was probably a good thing when it was needed, but not when you were cooped up for hours in an underground burial vault.
"Have they taken the drink yet?"
"He offered. They're holding the bottles."
Elyan peered out again, willing the guards to subconsciously hear him. Come on. You've been stationed here for hours. You're dying of thirst.
Shuffling sounded in the alley and Elyan looked back. Ruadan crept along, leading a family of four. Cenred had targeted their father, a knight of Camelot. He was young and newly appointed by Arthur in the last few months. Cenred had been affording some of the knights an opportunity to swap loyalties. This man had pretended to do so—then stolen weapons for them. He'd been discovered and barely had time to gather his family and run. Cenred was tearing up every place he could find to suss the man out and Gaius said the king was a hair's breadth away from executing innocents if "criminals to the crown" weren't given up.
Ruadan halted in a shadow, murmured to the family, then moved on alone. The former councilor had turned out to be quite an asset. He'd been close to Uther long ago and trained in the sword. "Any luck?" he asked.
"We're still waiting," Elyan replied. "Is Sir Lucan back there?"
"Yes," Ruadan said, confirming the knight had taken up position on the other end of the alley.
"One took a sip," Tom reported.
Elyan peered out again. Good. But if all four guards didn't lose consciousness simultaneously, they'd have a fight on their hands. He glanced up. The guards on the wall hadn't made it back around to the south gate yet, but they were still cutting it close.
The other three guards lifted their bottles to their lips. Relief washed over Elyan. All they needed to do now was keep the street clear, then they could…
Warning bells pealed and Elyan instinctively flattened against the wall.
"Do they know?" Ruadan asked, mirroring him.
"Should we take them down?" Tom prompted, drawing his sword.
Elyan clenched his jaw. Curse, Cenred! Was this just a trick to flush them out? Or was there a mole in their little band, someone who had revealed the time of their escape? "Attack!" Elyan shouted. "Go!"
He ran into the street with Tom, brandishing his own sword to confront the guards at the gate, but pulled up short. Geoffrey was rushing towards them with an expression of stark fear made all the more eerie in the shining moonlight. At the gate, the guards were yelling and slashing with their weapons, trying to fend off...
Elyan blinked. He'd always mocked ghost stories, even as a child, seeing them for what they were—tales meant to scare children into compliance. And that some men believed them after childhood? Ridiculous. Yet now, in the face of such a horrifying sight, the only word that passed through his mind was ghost.
Ethereal, wispy figures of mist floated at the gate bearing distorted, leering faces. Their mouths opened horrifically wide and they swallowed the guards. Leastways, that's what seemed to happen. One moment a guard fought, the next a ghost picked him up and ate him whole. The guard tumbled through the ghost's translucent figure and collapsed on the ground to lay still.
Geoffrey fled past them. Elyan felt a yank at his elbow.
"Elyan!" Tom shouted. "We've got to get out of here!"
The ghosts had finished with the guards. One of them grinned at Elyan and flew his direction. Elyan bolted, sprinting away like a terrified child.
Gaius was awoken by a rhythmic tapping against his cheek. He groaned against aching bones and huffed as he spoke. "Alice... You can take care of it without me." The tapping persisted and he squinted as he cracked his lids. Two beady eyes gleamed in the lantern light and a beak nipped his nose. "Ouch!" Gaius pushed himself up and the kestrel that had been bouncing on his chest hopped down to his lap.
"Moth-eaten fowl," Gaius grumbled.
Nero continued to hop, albeit with a stumble here and there.
"Calm yourself," Gaius commanded, pulling the bird into his hands. "Gimpy legs don't take well to such enthusiasm." Nero went stock still the moment Gaius gathered him close to his chest and the room swam before Gaius' eyes.
Gaius disliked using the bird for messages. He was glad for the contact between himself and those outside the capital's walls, but the disorientation of seeing through Nero's eyes was strong. Perhaps Merlin's youth made the experience less unpleasant to find oneself aloft in the air and flying like a bird. Gaius always had to pinch his lips and resist waves of nausea.
This time, Nero circled above a waterfall. Gaius hadn't been here before, but he had seen this waterfall twice through Nero's sight. Merlin and Arthur and quite a number of refugees had settled there for the time being, keeping well hidden from Cenred. The vision changed. A face stared into Nero's eyes, Balinor reporting as usual.
"Gaius, I withheld something from you. Merlin is very sick. It's because of the lamia's bite. Nimueh says Merlin's connection to magic has been broken. His bond with the king is keeping him alive but that hardly matters when he's wasting away. I'm losing my son. I don't know what to do. No one can heal him. Maybe you can't do anything either, but please, if you can find out how to restore him, we need your skill now more than ever."
Gaius jumped up from his cot, ignoring his protesting joints. He made for a book open on a table, one of Alice's. He skimmed its contents, then moved to his shelf to retrieve multiple volumes. He dropped them onto the table with a clatter and began to flip through them.
"Gaius?" He didn't look up at Alice's address, though he heard her measured steps descend from the room that used to be Merlin's before it was Daegal's. She stopped beside the table. "The bells woke you? Do you know what they're for?"
"Bells?" Gaius stopped reading to listen. Oh yes. The warning bells were going off again, but they'd been doing that quite often under Cenred. He seemed a bit paranoid and panicky about rebellion. Served him right to fear the very thing happening to him that he'd accomplished. "I don't know why they ring," he said, beginning to skim again.
"What are you doing? Has someone been hurt?"
"Sickness."
"Who?"
"I can't say."
"Did someone come to you in confidence?"
"Yes."
A stool scraped across the floor and Alice sat next to him. "Explain the malady. I can at least aid your search."
Gaius paused to take in the woman who had always been leagues more talented than he. "What do you know of dark magic?"
Alice's eyebrows met. "Dark magic? Nothing."
Gaius sighed. "Ah, Alice. You may have grown older, but I can still read your expressions. You know something."
Alice picked up a book, scanning a page. "And if I do?"
"Did Morgause make you learn?"
"No."
"Then why? You used to avoid it."
"Sometimes you do what you must to survive."
"What have you done?"
"Don't ask me. All I can do is disappoint you."
Gaius gently covered her wrinkled hand holding one edge of the book. "We've both made mistakes. It doesn't do us any good to pretend we're better than we are."
Alice looked to him. "I learned more than perhaps you would like, but I had good reasons. At least trust me in this."
Gaius nodded once. "Have you ever studied the lamia?"
Alice tilted her head. "Lamia? Some."
"Their bites wound sorcerers?"
"They can inhibit magic and sometimes exert their own will over a sorcerer. What makes you ask about the lamia?"
"Could you cure the bite?"
"I don't know. I've never tried. They are extinct. Aren't they?" She stared at him with suspicion.
Gaius curled his fingers around her hand. "Alice, there is someone who needs your aid, but I cannot reveal who he is or where he is. You ask me to trust you, can you trust me?"
Alice stared at him for a long time. "I've been told not to trust anyone who followed Uther."
Gaius squeezed her hand. "You've watched me these two weeks. Haven't I changed?"
"No." Gaius bowed his head in defeat, but then her hand was on his chin, lifting it. "You're still my Gaius as flawed as you ever were, but you've also remained a good man with a good heart. Take me to your patient. I will help as I can."
Gaius stood, still holding her hand. "We'll need to pack."
Alice pulled her hand out of his grasp. "Pack? You didn't say anything about..."
The door slammed open and hit the wall. Several soldiers paraded in carrying comrades over their shoulders.
"What happened?" Alice asked, rushing to them.
None replied as they laid their burdens in various cots and spots on the floor.
"Are they...dead?" one finally asked. His eyes were wide, frightened and haunted. Alice laid a hand to a patient's neck as Gaius tested another. The victim was cold and stiff as ice.
"When did you find him?" Gaius asked.
"We didn't," another soldier replied, seeming more coherent than the others, though still wide eyed.
"He's been dead for hours."
"Minutes," the soldier reported. "Only minutes."
"G-hosts," another stuttered out. "In the towns. In the streets. On the walls."
Gaius shared a glance with Alice who shook her head in answer to his unspoken question. She had no idea what this was. Boots pounded outside in the hall, then a messenger careened through the door.
"Healer! King Cenred asks for you. We're under attack! The Judgment is upon us!"
Lancelot paced above their waterfall, taking his turn on guard duty in the early dawn of morning. He hadn't slept a wink the night before, called to a secret meeting and informed everything that could fall apart had. Arthur was the cause. Cursed man! Why did nothing come easy for his friend? Why couldn't his reign have been like some of the kings of old whose records contained only notes about tax codes and guild conflicts? He hadn't confronted Arthur yet, affording himself time to think. He'd have to speak to the man, but it wouldn't go well. There'd be a lot of yelling and arguing and in the end, maybe he'd do more harm than good.
Something moved in the trees below. Lancelot raised his crossbow, peering at the edge of the waterfall's basin. A robed man emerged—tall, dark of skin, hood flung back.
"Aglain!" Lancelot called, lowering his crossbow and hiking quickly to descend the hill next to the falls. Aglain greeted him with a troubled expression, and Lancelot noted several cuts decorating his face and a bruise on his temple.
"Lancelot, I must speak with the king and Emrys and Nimueh."
"What has Cenred done now?" Lancelot asked with a sigh.
Aglain took a hold of both his arms, a strange gesture for the normally docile Druid elder. "Cenred, no. It's worse than he ever could be."
"What then?"
"Hell has arisen and it will destroy all!"