Chapter IX: All Sorts of Healing
Gaius wished that he was surprised when Wyrmbasu and Kilgharrah returned from Listeneise bearing his unconscious nephew, but he wasn't. He knew Merlin too well, knew that the boy (no, a man; young, but still a man) would keep pushing and pushing until he had nothing else to give. He was stubborn that way.
The physician almost didn't ask whether or not Merlin had succeeded in his task. It didn't seem immediately relevant. Then he remembered their theory that the Dark Tower was draining Merlin's strength and keeping that blasted stab wound open, and it became very important indeed.
"Yes," Kilgharrah proclaimed solemnly. "The Dark Tower has fallen, as was prophesied."
Gaius pulled up Merlin's shirt, grimacing at the ruined bandages. He'd bled a great deal, poor thing, but none of the blood was fresh. "Did you heal him?"
"Yes, twice."
"Twice?" Gaius repeated, alarmed.
"Yes," was the dragon's distinctly annoyed response. Gaius thought that the emotion was directed at his former ward, though, so he raised an eyebrow and waited. Kilgharrah continued, "He began to bleed during the spell, so I patched him up to prevent his bleeding out. Once he was finished, I breathed upon him again." There was a faint hint of smugness in his voice. "The injury will not be bothering him again."
The tension drained from Gaius's shoulders. He smiled, happier than he'd been in days. Merlin's inexplicable wound had worried him even before he'd known why it wasn't healing. "Excellent. Then this is probably just magical exhaustion, and he'll be right as rain within a few days."
Since Merlin wasn't in immediate danger, Gaius decided to focus on getting those bandages off him. Taking his scissors, he snipped through the fabric near the edge of the bloodstain, leaving perhaps a half-inch of off-white on either side of the red-brown discoloration. After setting most of those strips of fabric aside, he filled a bowl with fresh water, then took it and… three strips ought to be enough… back to the prone warlock.
By now, Balinor and Hunith had heard of their son's return and come to check in on him; the former must have returned from Listeneise just to make certain that Merlin was all right. The dragon must have filled them in, for they looked more exasperated and affectionate than worried at Merlin's continued unconsciousness. "How long do you think he'll be out?" the dragonlord asked.
"With Merlin, it's hard to say," Gaius admitted. "Even before he took on this land-bond, he regenerated magical power more quickly than anyone else I've ever met. Now, he can draw on Listeneise, but in the same way, Listeneise can draw on him. I honestly don't know."
"I don't think it will be too long," Hunith said. "Granted, he'll probably go right back to sleep, but he'll wake up soon enough."
"That's as likely as anything else."
"More likely," Hunith corrected him with a sniff. "I know everything there is to know about his sleeping habits. I'm his mother." But here she froze, fresh grief welling up in her eyes.
Balinor took his wife's hand, raised it gently to his lips. She shuddered, her breathing harsh, her eyes squeezed shut. An entire silent conversation passed between them—not thought-speech, but something much more intimate, something that they must have discussed many times in hushed voices while the rest of the world slept. "We should ask," the dragonlord told her gently.
Hunith nodded, face hardening in determination. Her free hand curled around her belly. "It's about Ganieda," she said all in a rush, before her nerves could silence her. "I know that you have no way of knowing for certain, I know that it's never been done before, but… how do you think her birth will affect her?"
He'd been wondering when they would ask. He'd also been hoping that it would be later rather than sooner, since he had no idea whatsoever and had been hoping to find something in the libraries of Listeneise (though now that Merlin was better, another plan was beginning to take shape). While it was highly unlikely that any books, particularly books about the Sidhe that might hold answers, had survived the centuries since the Fisher King's injury, many magical books were enchanted to resist wear, tear, and decay. That hadn't saved them from Uther's fires (a pang as he remembered once again that the old king was dead), but it was vaguely, faintly possible that someone had so bespelled a tome with answers, or at least information that he could use to make educated guesses. A thin hope, yes, but better than nothing.
"The Sidhe are known for their healing abilities, so I don't doubt that she will be perfectly healthy when she returns to you," the physician answered. "As for everything else…. Your firstborn child was Emrys, and that was almost certainly at least partly due to the crossing of your unique bloodlines. Ganieda will not be so strongly magical; there is a power in being the first. However, she will likely manifest magic at a young age. I suspect that, since she was born in Avalon, she'll take more after the Sidhe than Merlin does."
"That's what we thought," Balinor admitted. "But…."
"Children are hurt, sometimes, when their births are traumatic," Hunith cut in. She couldn't quite manage to look at him. "Something breaks inside of them. Some end up sickly, some never learn to walk or talk or do anything but lie there day in and day out, trapped within their own skulls." She shuddered.
"As I said, the Sidhe are great healers," Gaius assured her gently. "Even if Ganieda's birth had caused that kind of damage—which, judging from what you've told me, I very much doubt—they would heal her."
Hunith sagged against her husband. Balinor wasn't much better, his shoulders loosening dramatically as a sigh escaped his mouth. "Thank all the gods."
"Indeed. Your daughter will be healthy and, gods willing, happy. As for what form her magic takes, however… you'll have to do as all parents do. You'll just have to wait and see."
Arthur Pendragon was weak.
King Uther had been many things: mad, obsessive, broken, strong. He had done what he wanted without asking for permission or explaining himself to the peasantry, of all things, as was proper for a reigning monarch. His son, though, had spent all of yesterday morning and a good chunk of the afternoon convincing the smallfolk to see things his way. He'd even allowed people to walk away when they still openly carried a dissenting opinion.
They said that madness ran in the Pendragon line. Perhaps Arthur was just as deranged as his sire, though his was a quieter, softer insanity. Or perhaps he really was just weak.
At least Arthur had acted somewhat properly in the afternoon, holding court among the nobility as he sat on his throne. There were a great many in the city—Cenred wasn't certain why, but they'd been there even before Uther's death and just kept pouring in—and Arthur wanted to hear from each one about his (or, in a few cases, her) holdings.
He allowed open dissent in his nobility, too, the idiot. Quite a few of the lords hinted at or even outright stated their doubts about returning magic. Arthur listened to them with a grave expression before placating them, not reminding them who exactly was the king here.
Honestly, Cenred would be doing Camelot a favor when he took it over.
Arthur had spent this morning mostly holed up with certain knights and higher-ranking members of the guard. Rumor had it that quite a few of his men would be fired or even prosecuted for actions they'd taken in the last days of Uther's reign. Cenred could sort of understand that; you had to keep people in their places without pushing them too far, and if Arthur hadn't spent half of yesterday placating his peasantry, he'd have approved of the younger king's use of scapegoats to quell unrest. Except he had spent yesterday soothing the smallfolk, and Cenred had a sneaking suspicion that Arthur's actions today had more to do with pursuing justice, equality, and other saccharine impracticalities than consolidating his power. Truly unfathomable.
(There had been one moment when a man and a woman in male clothing had gone into the council chamber, according to the servant he'd bribed to keep an eye on proceedings, but they'd left in mere minutes. If Cenred had gotten word earlier, he might have sent a member of his retinue after the strange couple, but his impromptu spy was still inexperienced and hadn't thought it was important. Perhaps Cenred could coax an explanation out of his cousin at dinner that night.)
The two kings were scheduled to have lunch that day. Cenred idly wondered how Arthur would react if he just failed to arrive. There probably wouldn't be any consequences whatsoever. Hell, the King of Camelot might even apologize for whatever had offended Cenred so much that he stayed away.
But he wanted Arthur to think him an ally, and besides, he had the best food in Camelot. Cenred sat down for a meal that could be considered private if one didn't count the servants (which Cenred did not).
"My apologies for neglecting you lately, cousin," Arthur sighed. "It was nothing you did, only my need to get Camelot under control as quickly as possible. We've suffered enough this summer; the last thing we need is more rioting."
"Understandable," Cenred acquiesced, "but most kings would simply dispatch the guard and be done with it."
Arthur didn't rise to the bait. Self-control, weakness, or simply not recognizing the subtle insult? He merely hummed his agreement and began making the required small talk. Are you enjoying your stay? Your chambers are comfortable and don't need anything? We'll be having a hunt soon, not a long one, but still an opportunity to spend a good few hours in the saddle. I do hope you ride with us.
Once the niceties were dispersed with, Arthur took a long draught of wine. After placing it down (a servant topped it off), he stated, "There's something I wish to discuss with you and, indeed, with every other monarch on this island." He met Cenred's gaze. His eyes were surprisingly hard, full of determination. "At my coronation, I vowed to bring justice and prosperity to all the people of Camelot, including those who are capable of using magic."
The other king nodded slowly. "Yes, I'd gathered."
"One of the biggest obstacles I face in legalizing magic is a certain clause that my father put into all of Camelot's treaties. It states that Camelot and the allied nation must declare war on any kingdom that refuses to implement its own Purge."
"You want to erase that clause in our treaty," Cenred surmised.
"Exactly. I have reason to believe that returning magic will benefit both our kingdoms. We'll get more healers, more protections against famine, more little charms to ease the strain of everyday life. We'll be able to dedicate more resources to clearing out bandits rather than hunting druids. Both of our peoples will be better off."
Cenred sipped his wine, considering, as Arthur kept going on. He wouldn't need to worry about the treaty once Camelot and Essetir were one kingdom, but he needed to look like a friend of magic, plant the seeds of their loyalty.
"I agree."
Arthur pulled up short, struck dumb with surprise. He must have expected more of an argument.
"I never agreed with the Purge," lied Cenred, who had actually never really thought about it until having an opinion could benefit him politically, "but my first duty is to Essetir. I couldn't risk allied nations crushing my kingdom in a war we couldn't win." Hopefully, Arthur would tell Merlin possibly-Emrys about this conversation.
"Yes," said the younger king. "Yes, exactly."
"How quickly can we alter the treaty?"
"I see no reason we couldn't do it today. Shall we adjourn to my study after lunch? I can send for Sir Geoffrey."
"An excellent idea."
Arthur tried to hide a boyish grin behind his goblet. "I look forward to it."
They were just finishing their meal when a nervous squire padded into the room. "Sire, I have news."
"What is it, Marrok?"
The boy came closer, murmured something in his king's ear. That king's grin faded, his expression warping from sunshine to storm in the blink of an eye. "My apologies, King Cenred, but I need to delay the signing for a while."
"What happened?" What could possibly supersede Arthur's pet project?
The other king's smile was grim. "The border guard has captured a very important prisoner."
"Have you been able to find any other entrances?"
"No," said Alator (with rather more patience than Morgana could have shown in that situation). "Once again, we have only found a single point of entry." He didn't look fed up at all, which was frankly amazing. The man ought to give lessons to courtiers. "The good news is that we still haven't found any other settlements nearby, either." His lips curved ever so slightly. "Also, we have confirmed that the guards really do switch every week."
"Then let's go forward with striking towards the beginning of their work week," Morgause decreed. Morgana nodded.
Sarrum's pit was isolated, too far to reasonably traverse twice in one day. Even Sarrum, when he went to visit, would spend at least one night there. To compensate for the distance, he'd had a set of barracks built there in the middle of the woods. A contingent of guardsmen would arrive there every Sunday, live in the barracks for a week, and go back to their preferred position in Sarrum's castle once they were relieved by the next batch. If the raid struck on a Monday or Tuesday, they would have several days to heal the pit's victims before moving them to Listeneise. Monday would be better, Morgana thought. The sooner struck, the happier she would be.
The priestess continued, "Last time I tried scrying the land nearby, I found a little glen a bit upstream of the barracks. That would be a good site for a camp."
Alator wasn't completely convinced. "I think I know the one. It's barely half a mile away. Is that too close?"
"Not if we post guards and druidic wards of concealment," Morgana assured them. "All we need is a few hours for the weaker spellbinders to recover from teleportation. We can keep hidden for that long, especially if something were to distract the guards."
"Like what?" asked Morgause. "I have a few suggestions."
"Or we could make it rain," Alator butted in just a bit too quickly. Morgana didn't blame him. Her sister had a tendency towards overly complicated schemes requiring undead armies and powerful magical artifacts. Merlin had once listened to her explain three consecutive ideas for stealing Uther's messages with increasing bemusement only to point out that the sleep spells were working quite well, thank you, and anyways, where would they even keep all those serkets? Thankfully for everyone, he, Morgana, and Hunith had been able to talk her down.
"I like that idea," the witch seconded. "We might not even need to do anything." Rain was hardly uncommon on an island, and she had a feeling that the weather would turn soon. "Except bring shelter, of course." They'd have to squeeze in tightly to fit, but everyone had been squeezing together since they'd arrived at Gedref. "And, remember, as far as we know, they've never been attacked by an outside force before. They won't be looking for anything."
"There might be a hunting party," Alator pointed out reasonably.
The ladies shook their heads. "Not on royal land, they won't. It's illegal."
"Ah," murmured Alator, in the tone of someone whose island stronghold didn't have such laws. "I had forgotten about that. Very well. If we needn't worry about hunters and there's no signs that their patrols wander too far from their base, we're very unlikely to be discovered. Have you started a list of herbs yet?"
They had. Morgause procured it without a word. The Catha looked it over, nodded his approval. "Very good. Now, since Lord Embries will need time to recover, I suggest that we formulate a training routine for our volunteers. They'll need practice with long-distance sleep spells."
Morgana smiled at him. "Excellent idea."
The more they planned this, the more they practiced, the better their chances of success. And with two dozen lives at stake, failure was not an option.
(Not again.)
It was a mark of how chaotic these last few weeks had been that Arthur hadn't even known about Caerleon's raids on their shared border. Somehow, the information had just… not come to him. Though perhaps part of that had to do with the identity of the man who'd organized a response to the attacks.
Arthur had met Sir Traherne and his men during the short-lived war with Magance. They had tried to escort him back to the capital when Merlin had shown up with bad news about the guard being allowed to kill each other for no reason. Arthur had gone with the warlock, leaving his honor guard behind. Traherne had wisely decided not to return to Uther after 'losing' his son to a warlock and had instead found another place to make himself useful. If his self-proclaimed posting endured indefinitely, well, that just meant that he didn't have to bother the king with more information about his son's antics.
He and his men must have been so relieved when they heard that Uther was dead. Not that any of Traherne's underlings were here with him—he'd left them at the border, probably fearing that one of them would crack under the strain of being in Camelot, and only learned about the assassination on the road.
(And now Traherne could come back for good, and his men as well, and all the other poor folk who'd been driven out of their homes by his father's rabid hate. Gods, Uther had so much to answer for.)
But although it was a relief to know that his former escort was all right, Arthur was far more interested in the man he'd taken captive: Caerleon, the unfortunately (and confusingly) named king of Caerleon.
Yes, Arthur was well aware that "Camelot" could refer to the kingdom or to the city, but that was completely different. The name had come from the town, with the surrounding lands referred to as "Camelot's territory" until people got tired of calling it that and just lumped the whole thing under one heading. It made sense. Caerleon's parents, though, had known full well that they were naming their firstborn after the kingdom he'd one day inherit.
But now was not the time to mentally grouse over bizarre and terrible parenting choices. Not when the king himself stood in Arthur's throne room, tall and proud despite his chains.
"Your Majesty," Arthur said, his voice deliberately even.
"Your Majesty," Caerleon replied. "My condolences and congratulations, King Arthur."
(The title still felt as wrong as it did right.)
"Thank you." Cenred was here too, his eyes boring into them both. Arthur knew that the other king thought him weak; he needed to be strong lest Essetir start nibbling at their borders. Better not to dither, then. "You tried to capture the village of Stonedown."
Caerleon shrugged. The motion was languid, even careless, but his eyes were dagger-sharp. "Half its population had already fled across the border. I thought that I might as well finish the job."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "If half the village took that option, then the other half chose not to."
"Or they were too poor, sickly, or frightened to make the trek," Caerleon retorted. "Your royal father was not known for his mercy, Your Majesty."
A hush fell over the onlookers. Every eye bored into Arthur, waiting to see how he would react. Waiting to judge him.
"He was not," Arthur agreed in a voice of ice. "And yet, when you chose to move on Stonedown, he was still alive and nominally in charge of the kingdom. What exactly did you think would happen, Your Majesty? That my father would simply let you walk off with one of our most productive fishing villages? That you could raid these lands without retribution?"
"I'm not a sorcerer, so no, I wasn't particularly concerned."
And now the crowd was muttering among themselves. If Arthur was lucky, they were remembering the statistics about bandits that had so recently been made public. If he wasn't, they were questioning the worth of the entire Pendragon dynasty and contemplating the benefits of joining Caerleon. The king's hands clenched on the arms of his throne.
"You will find, King Caerleon, that I care less about a man's sorcerous capabilities and more about the choices he makes. You have chosen to encroach on my kingdom, to shed the blood of my people, to spit on the treaty you signed with my father."
The murmuring died away.
Cenred was watching, as silent and deadly as any serpent. Other kings would hear about this soon: Sarrum, who was almost certainly plotting war; Bayard, who had only made peace a year ago; Alined, the consummate scoundrel; Odin, who must still grieve his son. The lords of the kingdom would hear of this, too, them and the common people and the children of magic.
His crown weighed so much. No wonder Uther had crumbled beneath its weight without Ygraine to help him bear it.
He didn't have any idea what the hell he was supposed to do. He'd thought that he would know, once he was actually king. He'd thought that the uncertainty would go away, but it was worse than ever.
Arthur breathed in, breathed out. "For now, you will remain here as my guest," he decreed. "You'll be guarded, obviously, and though I will allow you to write to your court, my people will look through any letters before they're sent. If I determine you can be trusted to not break another sworn, signed oath, then we can discuss another treaty to replace the one you've so flagrantly violated. If not, I will have to keep you here and negotiate with your heir." He turned to Leon, deliberately ignoring the other king. "Draw up a schedule so that he's supervised by at least two knights at all times."
"Of course, sire. Where should we put him?"
Arthur considered. "The eastern wing, I think." It had been relatively abandoned even before Sigan's attack, so reconstruction efforts had focused elsewhere. It would be uncomfortable and isolated without the additional indignity of actually throwing Caerleon into the dungeons.
At the very least, he'd bought himself some time. Now all Arthur had to do was figure out everything else.
Alternate chapter title: "In Which a New Sassmaster Arrives"
Next chapter: January 8. Ambassador Gwen arrives in Nemeth and meets the royal family.
(I don't particularly like the Gaius and Morgana parts of this chapter, but they're conversations that sort of need to happen. Next chapter is better, I promise. It has Mithian!)