Chapter XV: The Prince and his People
Arthur woke slowly, reluctantly, already knowing that the day would end in a massive headache. He lay in bed for a few minutes to delay the inevitable as long as he could, then heaved a heavy sigh and pushed back his covers.
He supposed he should be grateful that his father hadn't ordered the execution of every servant in the royal household. In a distant sort of way, he was grateful. But it was hard to summon gratitude in response to Uther's broken silence. Arthur had never seen his father like that before, and he would gladly have died without ever laying eyes on that stunned shell of a man.
(Your death approaches, Uther Pendragon. Was this what would kill him? Not assassins, not spellbinders, not even a populace pushed too far, but the pure heart-shattering shock of discovering his own daughter was a witch?)
"How is he?" Arthur asked his manservant when the boy finally tiptoed in.
"Sleeping still," the youth answered. "At least, as far as I know."
Arthur wished that Gaius was here. He knew all sorts of draughts and tonics for shock, and he'd always been a quiet steady presence for his king to rely on. But Gaius had chosen magic and his own conscience, and their old friendship had shattered beyond repair. Uther wouldn't accept his help even if it were offered.
What was the name of that other fellow, the one who had found the mandrake? He'd been competent, at the very least. "Have that pharmacist found," Arthur ordered, startling his manservant.
"Rience, sire?"
"Yes, Rience. Have him found. If he isn't in Camelot, I'll settle for someone else with medical experience, but Rience the pharmacist has at least proven himself competent."
"Yes, sire."
Arthur suppressed a sigh. After Merlin, this all-too-proper manservant was exceedingly boring. At least this one was significantly less likely to turn his world upside down.
(He almost wished he'd taken Merlin up on his offer last night, when the warlock had paused time and said that he'd take Arthur with him, too, if he wanted. But a 'kidnapped' crown prince would have been a disaster, and besides, his place was here.)
If the King of Camelot was still abed, possibly just from exhaustion but probably from grief and shock, then it fell to the Crown Prince to placate the King of Essetir, who was understandably displeased with recent events. By the time the literal fires had been extinguished and order (mostly) restored last night, Cenred had retreated to his chambers. It would have been rude, not to mention highly counterproductive, to wake the man just to apologize again to him for his bride displaying unexpected illegal powers, knocking him flat on his ass, and singeing his hair with a stray exploding fireball. It probably wouldn't matter that Morgana's actions had been an accidental loss of control brought on by an obscene miscarriage of justice. She'd still caused quite the international incident.
(Because their father had tried to have Guinevere murdered right in front of them, just because Morgana wouldn't obey. The very thought made anger flare hot and bright in the pit of his belly. Some things were unforgiveable even for a man half-mad.)
So when he was dressed, Arthur went to Cenred to once again apologize for last night's chaos. He spoke the requisite words of shock and regret, hinting that Uther fully intended to find a way to compensate him. Cenred listened without comment until the very end.
"There was once an understanding between you and Princess Elena of Gawant, was there not?"
"Our fathers never agreed to anything," Arthur answered, "but there was a hope between them that we would be able to wed one day. Then my royal father decided that Princess Orgeluse would be a better match for me." Not that he would ever marry her. Even if he hadn't already given his heart to Guinevere, he'd heard the rumors about the Haughty Maiden. That wasn't the sort of woman he wanted as his queen. "I currently have a delegation of knights at the court of Gawant to explain the situation and ensure the alliance between our kingdoms."
"With Lady Morgana so spectacularly unsuitable, I find myself in need of a bride. Elena, perhaps, or Mithian of Nemeth." A slight smirk. "Princess Vivian, even, if her father weren't so intent on keeping her under his thumb."
Arthur nodded, fighting back his relieved grin. His cousin could have demanded much more than help finding a wife. "It has been some time since I saw any of them in person, but our families keep up a regular correspondence. I would be more than happy to assist your courtship, and I don't doubt that Father will agree."
"Yes, I would greatly appreciate any contribution Camelot could make to my wedding."
Which meant that he wanted some undoubtedly exorbitant bribe masquerading as a wedding present, probably territory or revenue or special trade agreements or maybe all three. Probably all three, knowing what he did about the ambitious king.
"I personally would be greatly honored to celebrate your wedding with you," the prince replied. No need to commit himself just yet.
They continued in that vein for a while, circling like fencers, searching for the other's weaknesses but never actually striking a blow. Arthur finally excused himself when a nervous servant arrived with news of another riot.
Arthur bit his lip to keep from cursing. "You must excuse me," he said to Cenred, already half out the door. Turning back to the servant, he demanded, "Where is the king?"
"His chambers, sire. His Majesty seems to have taken ill."
Of bloody course he had. Arthur wasn't surprised—he'd seen the grief on Uther's face—but he couldn't help the flash of annoyance. Honestly, would it kill him to stop a riot rather than make it worse?
According to Captain Brun, who was overseeing the mobilization of the guard, the riot had begun mere minutes ago in the lower town. The messenger had galloped back, his horse's mouth flecked with foam, to deliver the news as quickly as possible. Hopefully they could reach it before it spiraled out of control.
"Captain, you are to stay here with a small force to protect the king," Arthur ordered. "I'll lead a score of calm, reliable men to speak with the rioters."
"To… speak with them?" Brun parroted.
"Yes."
The brownnoser couldn't quite bring himself to protest, but another soldier spoke for him. "Are you certain that's wise, sire?"
Absolutely not. "Of course," he sniffed, all imperious confidence.
"…Very well, Your Highness."
If there was one silver lining to the chaos that had recently engulfed Camelot, it was that the guard as a whole was becoming much more efficient at mounting up and going forth. Arthur's commandeered unit was at the outskirts of the riot (thankfully contained, at least for now) within just a few minutes. The mob couldn't have been rampaging for more than half an hour (not that they were actually rampaging, but they could have been).
On the other hand, Arthur reflected as they drew near, perhaps the guard was getting a little too efficient. It had just occurred to him that he wasn't wearing armor.
The civilians had acquired a range of bows and longbows and crossbows that they were using to great effect, firing at any enforcer who dared draw too close. However, they'd still been pinned in, a circle of guards cutting off any hope of escape. Once they were out of arrows, the guard could charge in like a trap springing shut and slaughter them all—and the townsfolk knew it, too, if the grim desperation with which they carried themselves was any indication. They'd be killed, and their deaths would incite another round of violence, which would demand reprisal, which would provoke more violence, which would inspire more reprisal, which would fester into yet more violence. A red spiral arcing ever outward until there was nothing left but rubble and ash.
The rioters' best and only hope was to charge the guard en masse, forcing a break in their lines through which they could escape. There were too few guards (at least for now) to form much of a barricade; if they were a living noose, it was one of thread rather than rope, a circle easy to break. But reinforcements could arrive at any minute, so it would behoove the rebels to attack sooner rather than later. They seemed to be trying to determine the best place to run for when they noticed Arthur's contingent. A moan rose up from the crowd.
"Spread out," Arthur ordered his regiment. "Tell the other that you are not to attack. You're to wait for me to negotiate."
"But—" began one of the men, only to be silenced by his prince's glare.
"Yes, sire," said another.
Arthur dismounted, strode through the thin barrier of flesh and steel that encaged the little mob. One fellow moved as if to stop him, an automatic move that was quickly aborted when he recognized his prince's features.
"PARLEY!" he bellowed, hands cupped around his mouth. He wished he'd brought a flag of truce. "ON MY HONOR, A PARLEY!"
A murmur rippled through captives and captors alike. The men and women who appeared to be the mob's ringleaders lowered their heads together, conversing in low voices. The lower-ranking rioters gripped their bows, though none of them had arrows nocked. A good sign, Arthur thought as he slowed to a halt, praying that he wasn't doing something exceptionally stupid.
Then, incredibly, one of the leaders emerged from the little knot at the center. He'd hastily adorned a hooded cloak in a valiant if futile attempt at obscuring his features, but Arthur could see that he was middle-aged and plain-faced, with a bristling brown beard and deep-set blue eyes. He could have been anyone.
They stopped about ten paces apart, each man eyeing the other, sizing him up. Arthur spoke first, wanting to keep the conversation under control as much as possible. "What happened?"
A long moment of silence. Then, "What happened to Lady Morgana?"
It was sort of sweet, in a bizarre, upside-down way, that worry for her was enough to spark a riot. "She's still alive, if that's what you're worried about," Arthur assured him gently. The fellow's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Merlin Emrys whisked her and Guinevere, her maidservant and friend, away before anybody could hurt them."
"You give your word? About both of them. Mistress Gwen's helped us too."
"I give you my word that when I last saw and heard of them, Lady Morgana and Mistress Guinevere were unharmed. They were shaken and distressed, of course, but unharmed, and I know Merlin well enough to assure you that he will not hurt them."
This didn't have quite the effect Arthur was hoping for. The man's eyes narrowed. "What about their minds?" he asked suspiciously. "Sorcerers can get into your heads, make you do things that you'd never even considered, or they can make you mad like they did with the king." His gaze was hard. "And he was your servant, that sorcerer. How can anybody know that you're still you?"
A damnably good question. The prince had to stop and think. Finally, he slowly asked, "Do I act like I'm under the control of someone evil enough to enthrall another's will?"
"…No," the man was forced to admit. "But you can't trust anyone these days, not when a few words can bring them down on you like a hammer on a bug." His gaze flitted towards the guards.
"They're not going to kill you," Arthur vowed, pitching his voice so that he knew the guards would hear him. "No one is going to kill any of you. I will not allow it. But at the same time, I cannot allow mobs to go tearing through the city, destroying property, terrorizing everyone in your wake, and attacking agents of the crown. I want as much peace as possible."
"Tell that to them," the man spat, pointing his finger at the guards. "They're supposed to keep us safe, but we needed Lady Morgana to protect us from them because they can kill whoever the hell they want, whenever they want, and there's sorcerers everywhere worming into peoples' minds and setting gargoyles on us, and—how are we supposed to survive like this?!"
There was no physical way for his words to echo, but they echoed nonetheless, loud and clear, furious and desperate, the question of every human being in earshot, in the citadel, in the whole bloody kingdom. They pierced Arthur like arrows at point-blank range, sharp and unforgiving and inescapable, pinning him into place.
Gods, what could he say to that?
Silence engulfed them as the words died down, a silence as awful as the quiet last night when Arthur and Morgana had refused the king's toast. The prince could scarcely breathe, scarcely think, let alone answer the question.
He forced in a breath. Swallowed. Breathed out in a desperate attempt to restore the rhythm of his lungs.
"I suppose," he finally said, "that we must all survive by protecting each other, rather than allowing fear and hate to turn us against everyone else. Morgana did, and Guinevere, and even Merlin—don't look at me like that, why do you think he fought Cornelius Sigan? But now that they are gone, I will do… everything in my power to keep you as safe as I can. That's all I can promise." It was easier to breathe, now, if only a little bit. One breath, one step at a time. "Now go home, all of you. The guard will not persecute or punish anyone for this; anyone who tries will be dismissed from his post and sent dragon hunting. Disperse."
At Arthur's glare, the guards stepped back, opening passages for their former captives. One by one, the stymied rioters crept past, eyes wary and watchful. Then they were gone, and the situation had been averted.
At least for now.
It was strange to be safe.
Ever since she'd realized that her dreams were magical, Morgana had lived with the fear of discovery weighing her shoulders down. A single slip could get her killed. She'd tried comforting herself with the knowledge that she was Uther's ward, that he wouldn't harm her, but the attempt had never quite succeeded. She could not trust that her foster-father loved her more than he hated magic.
So she had been afraid. It wasn't always at the forefront of her mind, but it was always there, as much a part of her as her fingers, and sometimes it flared up so that she could hardly breathe. A single misstep, a mistake in front of the wrong person, even just someone putting the pieces together—her life could end at a moment's notice.
Having help, having Gwen and Merlin and Arthur, had helped her. They were likely the only reason she remained sane. But sometimes the knowledge that her secrets could drag them down, too, had threatened to suffocate her.
But now, she didn't have to be afraid.
The Isle of the Blessed was a marked contrast to Camelot: the people relieved and cheery, druids walking openly, the occasional glimpse of a golden eye, with not a single red cloak in sight. There were children playing in the streets. She could barely remember the last time she'd seen children playing. Back in Camelot, their parents kept them inside, as far from the constant undercurrent of violence as possible.
If Morgana wanted, she could have a magic lesson out here in the open, and the passersby wouldn't bat an eyelash. She could reveal the part of herself she'd struggled so hard to keep hidden, the part that endangered her, and nothing would happen.
It was so strange, but… in a good way.
"It's a bit of an adjustment, don't you think?" Hunith asked.
Morgana nodded, gestured wordlessly at the charm on a random door. "I… don't think I ever realized how much…." But here she trailed off, unable to find the words.
Hunith understood. "Most people feel that way, especially at first. Even those of us who don't have magic—or visible magic, I suppose—are affected. We don't have to guard our tongues any longer, you see."
"Silence is its own burden."
"That it is," the older woman confirmed.
"I want this for Tintagel," Morgana told her. "And not just for Tintagel, for all of Camelot, all of Albion. No one should have to live like they do in the citadel."
"They shouldn't," Hunith agreed, a spark in her dark eyes.
They walked on in near-silence for a time, interrupted only when someone recognized their lady and came over to speak with her. Hunith listened to each of them, no matter how inane their commentary or complaint.
That was something else Morgana wanted for her home, that easy trust between ruler and ruled. She wondered if the people were so comfortable because Hunith had been born and raised among the smallfolk or if they could be that way with the highborn as well. Either way, she suspected that Gwen would spend a lot of time doing this sort of thing. Come to think of it, there was a lot that the People's Queen could learn from the Lady of the Isle.
Finally, they returned to the large, central building that served as a castle, where Morgana and Gwen had both been given rooms, and made their way to Gaius's chambers. He was speaking avidly with Gwen and Merlin.
The sight made something warm uncurl in Morgana's chest. She smiled, widely and sincerely, and went to join the conversation.
Hunith cut in before Morgana managed more than the obligatory greetings. "We should throw a little celebration tonight," she declared. "Nothing much, just a few people who are particularly happy that you two are here." She grinned wickedly at her son, who flushed to the tips of his ears. "What do you say?"
Morgana smiled again; strange, to have smiled so much today. "I think that sounds wonderful."
The island was crawling with sorcerers, each one parading their craft without a hint of shame, even with pride. It was enough to make Rience sick, and more than enough to fortify his already-considerable respect for Maddox. The man had spent weeks here, somehow restraining himself from killing a single one of these criminals because he needed to return to their king with as much information as he could manage.
At least no one was suspicious, not even of the heavy packs they carried. Quite a few of these monsters knew their herb-lore. They were all too likely to realize what Maddox and Rience were carting along, should the contents of their bags be exposed.
Their target was the great cistern at the heart of the Isle, the one used to catch rainwater for drinking. It still seemed a bit strange that these sorcerers, who dwelt on an island in a freshwater lake, relied on anything but the aforementioned freshwater lake for their drinking water, but that was sorcerers for you. They were too good for the normal sort of water that ordinary folk shared, they needed pure rain supplemented by 'magically cleansed' liquid drawn up by a complex system of enchanted pipes. Apparently they thought it would prevent certain diseases.
Still, Rience shouldn't complain about their arrogance. It was so much easier to poison a cistern than an entire lake, and they wouldn't get any warnings in the form of dead fish.
He'd needed all his skill to distill these poisons to their purest forms. With this new iteration of King Uther's marvelous plan, it was no longer quite so important to smuggle enough poison to kill every single abomination on this cursed isle, but he'd still concentrated them as much as possible. That way, he and Maddox could carry more.
Rience had concocted five brews for this mission, five different sets of overlapping symptoms to delay diagnosis and, hopefully, confuse the inevitable healing spells. Many would die from the tainted water, and the survivors would be left weak, vulnerable to the oncoming nocturnal assault. They would die too.
When the sun rose again, this haven of sorcery would be no more.
Alternate chapter title: "In Which Arthur Discovers That Riots can be a Sign of Affection"
Next chapter: April 17. Hunith's little get-together is interrupted by an attack.
It would probably be more historically accurate to have the Isle dwellers drink from the lake and use it as, well, waste disposal. Hygiene was... not very good. But maybe one of the old High Priestesses received a divine revelation like "Don't drink water that's been contaminated by fish pee and worse, that's disgusting and can literally kill you." Something like that.
