Chapter XXIII: Tomorrow's Problems
Lancelot had, by pure random luck, ended up drawing the first evening shift although he'd objected to the necessity of said shift. It had seemed entirely ridiculous to be in the room while Elena's nurse helped her to bed. He'd nearly refused the task and only given in because he wasn't quite certain that Gwaine, who had come up with the suggestion, would resist the urge to peek. Some of his tavern tales were… rather risqué.
Now, though, he was glad that someone was here to hear this, the first private conversation that 'Elena' and her nurse could conduct.
Elena's voice was different somehow, more in the way she spoke than the sound itself. "If my host is not to wed the Once and Future King, is there any point in my remaining?"
"From what I've heard of the prince, he'd sooner chop off his sword arm than wed the Sarrum's daughter." Grunhilda sounded different too, raspier, with the faintest hint of an unfamiliar accent. "You still have a chance. Remain with the princess for now."
A soft, borderline inhuman hiss. "Wait, wait, wait, while my dear host continues to fight. No, she hasn't become aware of my presence—you've done well at keeping her from questioning her 'blackouts'—but her unconscious mind still struggles against me. I need to crush her sooner rather than later."
Lancelot went rigid.
"And we will crush her," Grunhilda assured the person who most certainly was not Princess Elena. "You just need to be patient."
A scoff. Lancelot imagined the princess's face twisted into something disdainful and haughty. "So you say. Just give me the Sidhe dust already, pixie."
Grunhilda's voice returned to its normal register, though her tone was glacial. "As you command, Your Highness."
Strange sounds echoed from the room beyond, but Lancelot didn't dare crack open the wardrobe. He didn't know how observant pixies were, nor did he wish to find out.
A groan. "Oh, bother." Elena sounded herself again. "I hate these blackouts, Grunhilda. Are you absolutely certain—"
"Of course," the pixie crooned. "Just sleep, my dear. You know that will make you feel better."
"All right," the princess mumbled. "Goodnight, Grunhilda. Sleep well."
"And you."
Footsteps padded across the room. A door hinge creaked, creaked again.
Lancelot waited until his straining ears could no longer make out the noise of a shifting body. Then, slowly, he crept out of the wardrobe, across the room, over to the door with the creaking hinge. He pressed his ear against it but couldn't hear anybody passing by. He'd have to risk it. He cracked the door open just barely enough to squeeze through, then headed straight for the guest chambers where the others were staying.
His fellow knights (and Marrok) were sleeping when Lancelot arrived. He didn't care. Something was planning to crush Princess Elena, and it was getting impatient.
The others weren't happy to be dragged out of bed, but they begrudgingly congregated in Lancelot's room. "I take it you found something thanks to my brilliant idea?"
The knight nodded, a swift jerk of his head. "Gwaine, I owe you an apology for speaking against it. You may have saved the princess's life."
It wasn't easy to see in the candlelight, but he could hear the rogue's sharply indrawn breath. "What happened?"
Lancelot told them. He recounted the exact words whenever he could, paraphrasing only when he had to, which he didn't very often. The things they'd said were graven on his mind.
"A pixie, you said?" Leon inquired. At Lancelot's confirmation, he declared, "Then I think I know what we're dealing with. Pixies are servants of the Sidhe."
"Like the Tir-mors?" Lancelot asked automatically.
Leon blinked. "The jewel thieves who kidnapped Arthur?"
That was right, he hadn't heard that story yet. "They were actually Sidhe bound in mortal form for some sort of crime. It's a long story."
"…They were changelings too?"
"If they were, Merlin didn't mention it. What are changelings?"
The older knight's brow furrowed. "If I remember correctly, changelings are humans who had Sidhe… put into them when they were babies. Once their hosts are grown to maturity, the Sidhe destroy the human's mind and take over completely."
"So these Sidhe things want one of their own as Arthur's queen," Elyan muttered. (Lancelot supposed that Sophia and Aulfric hadn't known about this particular plot or they'd have chosen another prince for their sacrifice.) "What exactly are the Sidhe?"
"Merlin described them as little blue people with dragonfly wings and surprisingly resonant voices. They've got powerful magic, but a different sort than human spellbinders."
Leon was nodding. "Yes, that squares with what I remember of Gaius's lessons. They're excellent healers, superb with illusions, inhumanly intuitive, and they've an affinity for something called time magic."
"Did Gaius say anything about how to fix changelings?" Lancelot asked.
Leon's frown deepened, his brow furrowing in thought. After a few moments, he was forced to admit that he had no idea… but he knew someone who did.
The door opened.
Morgana didn't look up from her book. "I told you already, I'm ill. A stint in the dungeons will do that."
"We both know that you're not ill," snapped Uther Pendragon. "You're just being difficult because you don't want to marry Cenred." He glowered. "I've given you far too much leeway, Morgana. You're wild."
"I'm ill," the lady repeated. "My deepest apologies for needing time to recover from being thrown into the dungeons for almost a fortnight." She turned a page.
The king tore the book from her hands. "You will look at me when I speak to you, my lady. I am your king."
She looked at him coolly, her mouth level. "What do you have to say?"
"You will attend your fiancé. You will behave for him."
Morgana faked a cough. "I'm sick," she protested.
"Then be sick at his side, or I will have her flogged." He pointed at Gwen, who had been silently minding her own business in the corner. The maid faltered in her mending, fingers bunching in the fabric. "Now get dressed. It's too late for you to breakfast together, but you'll not leave his side for the rest of the day."
"That will make visits to the privy very awkward," she deadpanned.
"Except then," he growled, an eye twitching.
"That's good," she said. Would anyone question it if she claimed to be in the midst of her bleed? Probably. She was already straining Uther's credulity with her 'illness.'
With Gwen's safety on the line, Morgana didn't dare delay too much, which meant that she only 'changed her mind' about what dress to wear twice and had just a little difficulty in locating her dear, darling betrothed.
She could do this, the witch told herself as she opened the door to the courtyard. She just had to stay calm and not lose control of her magic again, and everything would be fine.
Except staying calm was easier said than done. Cenred was unreasonably, insufferably smug about his imminent ownership of her entire life, as if he was entitled to complete control of—no, no, breathe. Stay calm. Don't blow up his head.
Even if that would be immensely satisfying.
Morgana kept her answers to his questions as short as she could without veering into outright rudeness. She asked Cenred no questions, offered no unprompted commentary on his anecdotes or observations. But her coolness seemed only to amuse the bastard. "You'll warm up on our wedding night," he chuckled, as though he were the greatest wit in the world.
She would not blow up his head. She would not blow up his head. She would not blow up his head.
Although if there was another 'sorcerous attack' from 'Merlin,' even one less violent than cranial explosions, she could probably go back to her room and avoid him for the rest of the day. She'd never have to see him again. Well, all right, she probably would have to see him again, but only when he came on diplomatic missions to Camelot (she would certainly not go to Essetir's capital while he was in power). So what could she blow up?
But then Morgana remembered how Merlin had paled when he learned about the goblet, his fears for Ealdor. She thought back to the brave villagers with whom she'd faced bandits. Ealdor had defeated Kanen, but Cenred had more power, more resources. She shouldn't risk an entire village, especially not Merlin's hometown, for a few moments of satisfaction.
So instead of, say, setting the king's hair on fire, Morgana excused herself for a trip to the privy, hinting at maidenly modesty. Her betrothed got even more smug at that, which she hadn't thought was physically possible, but the witch didn't let herself regret the decision.
The reprieve calmed her, let her think about more than violence. She needed some sort of coping mechanism, something to focus on in lieu of her bloodier fantasies.
When Morgana returned to accompany Cenred to lunch (oh, gods, she had to put up with this all afternoon and then half the evening), she imagined that Merlin was there, making snarky commentary on everything the king said. It worked. Sometimes, she even managed to smile at some of her fiance's comments.
(Gwen kept giving her suspicious looks, like she thought that Morgana was picturing the many ways that Cenred could horrifically die. The witch eventually told her what was happening through thought-speech, which only slightly lessened the frequency of her scrutiny.)
The afternoon dragged on intolerably. Even with the imaginary Merlin's commentary, Morgana felt like every minute stretched out into ten.
Fortunately, wonderful Gwen came to the rescue about an hour before they were due for supper with the king and his (somewhat reduced) court. She suggested that her lady might want to freshen up before dinner. Morgana seized on the excuse with more enthusiasm than she'd mustered all day. The women were gone before Cenred could get a word in edgewise.
"Thank you so much," Morgana proclaimed as soon as her bedroom door closed behind them. "My imaginary Merlin was getting a bit bloodthirsty."
"That's a terrifying thought, you know, a bloodthirsty Merlin. But you're welcome." She sighed. "Although I do suppose you'll have to freshen up for real now."
"I want to. It feels like I've been swimming in slime all day."
"I'm just glad that you didn't blow up his head. How late do you think you can be for dinner?"
"Not very," she answered, Uther's threats ringing in her head. "I think I'll wear my knight's dress." The king wouldn't be able to complain, for most of the dress was in Camelot red, but the embroidery suggested chainmail. Morgana couldn't wear her armor to a formal dinner, so she'd settle for the next best thing. It was a subtle gesture of defiance, but she and Gwen both understood what it meant.
Her friend nodded.
And so, armored in red and gray, Morgana went forth into battle.
Arthur felt a little bad about using his father's preoccupation with Morgana to sneak around his back and speak with the Captain of the Guard. His sister had described Brun as a mousy bootlicker, more interested in placating the king than any of his actual duties. The prince was honestly a little surprised that the captain was still alive. One would think that such an obsequious brownnose in such an important and influential position would attract accusations like moths to flames. Perhaps, he mused, nobody wanted to take charge of the guard for fear that they'd immediately become a target. It made as much sense as anything else.
The captain and several high-ranking officers agreed to meeting with him, of course. They had no real choice in the matter. Neither did the unhappy, confused record keepers whom Arthur had conscripted on the way to the office.
"I understand," Arthur began, "that recent circumstances have made bookkeeping unusually difficult. However, that does not make it any less important, especially since I fully intend to have several of the more suspicious summary executions audited once I am king or if my father becomes ill again."
Three of the officers blanched. Their faces were unfamiliar to him; he did not know their names. Arthur didn't visibly single them out, but he committed their features to memory. He wanted no opportunistic murderers 'protecting' his people.
The silence stretched on until Brun, the highest-ranking commoner present, felt obligated to break it. "Has there been any indication that the king's health is at risk?"
Your death approaches, Uther Pendragon. "You recall the annual meeting of the Five Kingdoms?" Cautious nods all around. "My father has decided that Camelot will not be attending this year. He says that it is due to the weddings, but with his recent bout of illness, I cannot help but fear that he has some ulterior motive." Though honestly, that ulterior motive more likely had to do with the complete eradication of sorcery than any fear of a relapse. His father was predictable like that.
(But even so, he would still have gone if he were completely himself. He'd leave ridiculously thorough instructions and return as soon as he could manage, but he wouldn't completely neglect foreign relations with the kingdom's ancient allies. Instead, Arthur had had to send Agravaine and hope that nobody was too offended by the irregularity of Camelot's delegation. Thinking about it made his heart twist.)
The prince gestured at the record keepers. "These two gentlemen will train at least thirty guardsmen to read, write, and keep records of every spellbinder and sympathizer you kill, as well as the names of their accusers and the proof they offer." He smiled benignly. "You'll also record the backlog as well as you can remember. Hopefully, we won't have to investigate and punish too many improper deaths. Do you understand?"
They understood.
"Excellent. Captain Brun, I expect you to have selected your new secretaries by sundown. Lessons will begin tomorrow morning. Now, go spread the word about these new stipulations. I'd like not just every guardsman but every citizen of Camelot to know, as civilians are welcome to add their own recollections to the archives."
One of the officers was sweating profusely. Arthur shouldn't have found that so profoundly satisfying, but he'd never claimed to be perfect.
They spent a few more minutes ironing out the details. The sweating officer once tried to suggest that perhaps such thorough records were unnecessary, but Arthur calmly shot down his objections one by one. If he backed down in this, they'd expect him to back down on his investigations, and that, he could not allow. He had to protect as many people as he could, however he could, without getting thrown into the dungeons again.
Finally, the unhappy guardsmen and overwhelmed scribes were sent away to carry out their tasks. Arthur allowed himself a few moments of reprieve before going to see what his father was up to. Thankfully, Uther was still occupied with the wedding preparations, so the prince was free to commit further sabotage.
Sir Geoffrey had taken over two small rooms that had formerly been used as storage. They were still used as storage, but for records and notes and books that had been rescued from the rubble of the castle's library. The librarian had become something of a recluse these last few weeks, repairing and preventing as much damage as possible. Rumor had it that he hadn't slept in his bed for a fortnight, instead collapsing over his work.
The man's appearance only supported the rumors. Geoffrey was pale, his face thin and haggard, his robes too loose on his frame. Arthur took one look at him and mentally amended his plans. He'd have to find some assistants for him, not just for this task, but in general. Perhaps he could look into the younger sons, even the daughters, of the nobility, several of whom really needed some productive way to occupy themselves. It was too bad that so few people were literate. (Maybe he should do something about that once he was king…. But that was a thought for another day.)
Geoffrey startled when Arthur cleared his throat. "Your Highness! I did not realize you were there. Please, be…." He looked around as though to offer his prince a seat, but all the available chairs were covered in books. The archivist moved to rise, but Arthur shook his head, gestured at him to sit back down.
"We've been neglecting you, it seems."
"You and your father have more important concerns to occupy your time."
Arthur ignored the politic comment. "I'll need to find you some assistants. Help me remember to speak with the treasurer about the library budget." Perhaps he could even manage to siphon those funds from the anti-sorcery campaign.
Cautious hope dawned in Geoffrey's eyes. "That would be wonderful, Prince Arthur."
"Don't thank me yet, Sir Geoffrey. I've thought of a task for you. It's nothing urgent," he added, cutting off the librarian's despair, "but I would like it accomplished eventually. I need you, if it's at all possible, to compile and analyze all reports of banditry in the last thirty years. I want to see how the statistics have changed so as to better fight this sort of crime." Specifically, he wanted to test a theory of his about crime rates skyrocketing after the Purge, when killing spellbinders had taken priority over everything from fraud to outright murder.
The archivist stared at him sideways.
"Would it be possible?" Arthur asked. "I don't know how well those records have been preserved."
"Well enough, I think, sire," came the wary reply. "I simply did not expect this request from you. I'll begin as soon as possible, though I fear that might be some time."
"And I'll find you some bored lordlings to help," Arthur assured him. They exchanged pleasantries, then he left.
With these two tasks accomplished, the prince shifted his focus to the neglected rebuilding effort. Progress had stalled most appallingly since the new Purge had been announced, despite Morgana's valiant efforts at fixing everyone's priorities while she had been in charge.
He wanted to make life better for Merlin and Morgana's kin, to undo the Purge that was his inheritance (the thought still caused him to wince when he dwelt on it too long), and so he would. But. He wasn't just the prince of Camelot's underground magical community, he was Crown Prince of the entire kingdom, and he owed non-magical folk his allegiance and aid as well. That meant restarting the reconstruction. (And if, in the process of doing so, he happened to meet with certain members of the Royal Council, that was just a bonus.)
It was an afternoon well spent.
Alternate chapter title: "In Which Leon's Lessons from Gaius Finally Come in Handy"
Next chapter: March 6. A good thing that happens is immediately counterbalanced by another thing going disastrously wrong.
