The bells had already rung nones when Merlin returned to Gaius' quarters. He found the physician at the side of the Southron youth. Merlin could see from Gaius' attitude that his charge had not improved.
Merlin cleared his throat. "The king's asked you to advise him on managing the displaced. He's had complaints about their living conditions. There's been an outbreak of rheum, and he doesn't want the townsfolk catching diseases from the strangers, and venting their anger against them."
"It is almost time," Gaius said, lost in his own thoughts. "A few chimes of the bell before he is given over to be tortured. He did evil, I know. But which of us has not?"
Merlin went to Gaius' side, and put a hand on the older man's shoulder. "I know this is hard for you," he said. "But you can't save everyone. Think of all the lives you have saved."
"I wonder," Gaius went on, "how much choice he had in becoming a soldier. I wonder how many winters he spent as a slave."
"What?" said Merlin. "What makes you say he was a slave?"
"I was cleansing him." Gaius pulled back an upper corner of the blanket, exposing the Southron's naked right shoulder. There was a mark seared into the skin, a black brand in the shape of a three petalled flower, and underneath was printed the legend: SERVUS.
Merlin struggled to take this in. Eventually, he said, "Can you tell who his master was? I know that symbol."
"Of course you do," said Gaius. "It is the fleur-de-lys, used by the Franks, and by the families of Norman descent in our own kingdom."
"The Franks?" Merlin burst out. "But he was a Southron from the land of the Moors, wasn't he? Does this mean he was owned by the Franks?"
"It means," said Gaius heavily, "that he was probably captured in the Holy Wars. The fleur-de-lys is only branded on those who have gravely offended the Frankish crown, and become enslaved or outcast for life. There is no mutilation on the face or body, which would have lowered his value. The Church discourages making new thralls, but on the borders where our knights battle the infidels, she permits the capture of humans as spoils of war. I do not know where this young man came from originally. It is likely he has travelled many lands. Perhaps the Saracens purchased him from the Trinacrians, or the Southrons offered to free him if he fought for them."
"This is awful," said Merlin. "When Arthur learns this-"
"He has already learnt it, and he does not care. He said that I was merely conjecturing about the Southron's provenance, that he could just as easily be an outlaw who committed some terrible crime. And he also said, with some justification, that the Southrons would not allow an untrained slave to fight for them, and so this man must have been part of their company for some time, and he must bear responsibility for the attacks he committed alongside them."
"This can't be right," said Merlin. "We have to do something. I can get him out of Camelot-" Even as he said it, he knew it was stupid. Everyone was aware that the prisoner was in the charge of Gaius. Should he disappear, the king and the nobles would know exactly where to direct their wrath.
"I am afraid, Merlin," said Gaius wearily, "that either the boy must stay, and suffer the king's displeasure, or… or he must disappear, and I suffer in his place."
There was a heavy silence. Merlin said, "Please tell me you're not thinking of doing anything rash."
"I don't know what to do." The physician turned tired eyes on his ward. "What should I do, Merlin?"
"Don't ask me to make this choice. How dare you suffer an attack of conscience now! How many of your friends died in King Uther's reign, while you saved your own hide? Why do you care so much about a stranger who invaded our kingdom?"
"You are right, of course. I have always been a hypocrite. But in those days I was young. I thought by keeping myself alive I could still do some good, soften the king's actions, turn his kingdom to a different path. Now my life limps to a close, and I see how little I have mattered. Perhaps I always knew, and I was deceiving myself to salve my conscience. As each day passes, my life has less value…"
"You still have value to me," Merlin said.
Gaius gave him a sad look. "I know. You have always seen something worth saving in others, Merlin, even those the world called useless, evil, or broken. I believe that is why your magic was given to you. You would not enjoy being a tyrant. You have too much of your mother's compassion in you. That is why you spared Uther, and Mordred, and Morgana, and countless others. I only fear that your enemies will always have this weakness to use against you."
"Stay here," said Merlin. "Don't do anything stupid. I need to attend the king at court. We'll think of something when I get back. And Gaius? I'm going to tell you what you told me many times when I first arrived here. This kingdom isn't fair, and if it comes down to it, your life is worth more than this stranger's."
Merlin hurried to his room and exchanged his sweat-stained, rough-spun tunic for one of the finer garments in Pendragon colours Arthur had provided. He ran a wooden comb through his hair and raced for the door, pausing in the threshold to turn back.
"I mean what I said, Gaius," he intoned sternly. "You don't have my permission to act while I'm gone."
"Merlin," Gaius said, looking at the young man who was the closest thing he had to a child. "There is one thing in my life that I'm proud of. Though it came very late, when I thought my best years were behind me."
Merlin kept his face impassive, though he was touched. "The best years are still to come," he said, smiling with a hope he did not feel. "You'll see."
Wir shivered, and drew her mantle closer about her, as they approached the fortress of the Pendraig. She had known this day would come since last moondark, but her fear had only grown stronger with each day's passing.
She knew little of the people of Camelot, except that they worshipped the Gwyn Crist, and hated the Goddess and her children. Their priests despised the Old Powers, and they burned people for studying the lore of the Druids.
She did not understand why they must visit such an evil place. It was the will of the Goddess, she knew, and this was inscrutable even to the wise. Yet still she puzzled over it and tried to unravel its meaning, for that was her habit.
It had begun when Ulched, who had the True Sight, had spoken to them of a boy appearing in his dreams. Many winters ago, there had been a massacre by the Pendraig and his warriors, in a place now forgotten. A shrine had been set up for the fallen, but so many of the Druids had died since then, none had returned to observe the rites for the departed, nor to honour the dead.
"The boy will not let me rest," Ulched had said. "He has no kin living. I am to take a company to make libations for the dead. He would have us light the Beltane fires there."
Iseldir, their leader, had been one of those asked to join the expedition. Wir, a slip of a girl barely skilled in herblore, had also been chosen by Ulched, alongside her teacher Maderun. At the time she had felt honoured beyond the power of words to express. Now, however, she wondered what darker purpose lay in store for her.
They had gathered together rich gifts and offerings, and departed their secret place in the woods, travelling slowly into the heart of the Pendraig's lands. Ulched had set a slow place, for he was a sickly youth, and he had instructed them to journey by foot. It was said that the Goddess had deprived Ulched of physical strength, but opened the eyes of his heart in return. With him as their guide, and so many wise Druids in the company, Wir knew that they should not be discovered by the Camelot patrols. The city folk were tree-blind, and whether they wore leather or steel, they crashed through the forest roads so loudly that they warned every bird and beast before them. Still, she shivered when she heard the pounding of horses' hooves, and the thudding of mailed feet. There was a wound in the land here, where the Goddess' groves had been torn up, and her temples despoiled. Druids could hear the whisper of each others' voices on the wind, and the distant heartbeats of the rivers and trees. But as they journeyed into Camelot, the unnatural silence lay heavy on Wir, pressing her down, reminding her that her people were gone from this country.
They reached the shrine shortly before Beltane. They performed the rites for the dead, and then Callwen, who had been watching the arc of Sol climb towards the Northstar each day, had announced that the year's light half was upon them. They lit the Beltane fire, keeping it small so as not to draw attention. It was a subdued observation of what should have been a great and joyous festival.
They had no dairy cows or ovens, but Garth, their beastwalker, found some wild cattle, and came back with a potful of milk he had coaxed from them. Wir's teacher, Maderun, went foraging and returned with herbs and enough wild barley for some rough bread. A grinding stone was passed through the blessed fire, and then the barley was ground into flour and mixed into dough. The bread was baked in the embers. Portions of the new milk and bread were first offered to the ancestors, the souls of the dead, and the Fair Folk, and then all the living broke their fast, eating the first bounty of the bright seasons.
"The Goddess will send us three signs," Ulched had said, after nibbling on his bread. "One for past, one for present, one to show us the way forward."
They did not have long to wait. That night, they were seated around the Beltane fire, feeding it kindling to keep it alive. Wir was weaving garlands of bright yellow primroses, of the kind people made back home to hang up as charms. All of a sudden Callwen cried out in alarm, leaping up and pointing to the western sky. "Look! Look!"
Wir was so frightened, she almost dropped her flowers. At first she thought Callwen, the stargazer, had seen some evil omen in the heavens. But as they all turned in the direction she pointed, they saw that this was no sign of the heavens, but one rising from the earth. A dull red glow filled the western horizon, like a second sunset, a smouldering mass of cloud and flame. It was as though their Beltane fire, symbol of life and prosperity, had bled into the forest, reminding them that the Goddess had the power to destroy as well as create.
"What is it?" Wir asked.
Ulched replied quietly, "Camelot has fallen. Her towers are burning."
"What?" said Iseldir. "How can this be? The bards say Arthur is the king foretold. We must aid him."
"No," said Ulched. "Not yet. The voices in the shrine told me this must be. The old Camelot must die with the dark half of the year, so the new can rise from the Beltane ashes, into the light. We will go to Arthur, but only when the Goddess gives us power to act. She will send us a second sign."
Wir had not liked the sound of that. They had all heard the news that the old king had died, and it had been a great cause for rejoicing at the time. However, nothing had changed for her people now that the king's son sat the throne. Going to Arthur seemed as dangerous a course as going to Uther, who had the blood of all Druidkind on his hands.
They did not have long to wait for the Goddess' next sign.
Three nights later, Wir was practising how to brew ashwort and thistles, when she heard a sound on the wind, one she had never heard before. It was her teacher Maderun's turn to drop her weaving.
"Iseldir!" Maderun said. "Is it… it can't be dragonsong?" The dragons had died before Wir had been born, all but one, which the king of Camelot had been pleased to keep as a pet. But word had come to them that even that dragon, which the Druids called the Great Dragon for his age and wisdom, had been slain two years ago, by the king's own son.
They huddled together, craning their necks as they watched the sky.
"Look," said Ulched, pointing. A shape, blood red against the night, glowed like a shooting star as it traversed the heavens, flying towards the Northstar, following in the wake of the summer sun, disappearing over the White Mountain. Though Wir did not understand what she was seeing, a shiver of wonder rippled down her spine. It reminded her of the story of the Aegyptian bird, the great phoenix, which built a nest of spices as its own funeral pyre, and died in the flames, only to take wing again from the ashes.
"The dragons yet live," breathed Iseldir. "The Red Dragon of the High King."
"The second sign," said Ulched. "The Pendragon has not lost his crown. The Goddess has spared him. Mal, the boy in the well, slain by the king's men, had the Sight like me. He says the Young Dragon's heart has been softened towards our kind. Mal would have us go to Camelot, and risk everything, to reconcile the Druids and the throne. One more sign we shall see."
Wir shivered again to hear that, this time from fear. That night she did not sleep. She had seen firsthand what the people of Camelot did to sorcerers. She wondered what great god their king and their priests served - their priests must have some power and wisdom about them, or else they could not have given the king the knowledge to destroy the Druids and the dragons.
When Wir had been a few winters younger, she had spent time on the teaching mountain, learning the basics of the Lore. She had been close to another student named Kara, who was the same age as Wir, and had not known her parents either. But Kara had been bold, and spirited, and braver than Wir. There had also been a hard edge in Kara's heart, for she had not come to the Druids as an infant, like Wir. Kara had been older, old enough to remember her birth parents, who had died in a raid by Camelot knights. She had seen much violence and death in her short life, and she had not come to the Druids young enough to be healed by their gentle touch. She had not learnt the lessons of peace so easily, and she nursed a bitter grudge against knights and warriors, especially those of Camelot.
Kara had defied her teachers once and gone on a scouting expedition with renegade Druids to map the routes of the Camelot patrols. She had discovered one of the Gwyn Crist's priests holding a sacrifice.
"It was horrible, Wir," Kara had said with relish. "The priest was speaking in the Imperial tongue, and I could only understand pieces of it. But he was invoking some kind of human sacrifice. And he had bread and wine, but he called it flesh and blood, and made everyone eat and drink it."
And perhaps that was why the Gwyn Crist was so powerful. There was power in life, in its making and its unmaking. The Druids had known that, and it was said that in the old times they had even offered human lives to the gods. But to devour the flesh of men, and suck the blood from the victim? That was a strange depravity. And to think that these people called the Druids unnatural sorcerers, when they practiced such odd rites themselves!
And then the third sign had come. A raven had flown over the shrine, and perched on the lip of the well. Ravens were omens of death, of war, of kingship and sovereignty, and they had as many faces as the Goddess.
"The king in Camelot has sent for aid," said Ulched. "He has need of allies. Mal says the king's ear will be open to us. We must go to Camelot and make peace with him. Thus far I have seen, and no further. Iseldir, you must lead us now."
So they had gathered up their things, including the rich gifts Ulched had commanded them to bring - they knew the purpose now - and begun the trek into the heart of the kingdom that loathed them.
And now they were outside the gates.
"Halt!" one of the guards commanded. All of the guards looked alarmed. The Druids had come on slowly, bearing nothing but caskets, and yet it was clear from their garb that they were associated with the Old Religion. "Who goes there?"
Iseldir answered. "We are Druids, and we have business with your king."
The guard barked, "He has no business with the likes of you! Turn back, and be glad we don't send arrows after you!"
Iseldir lifted his eyes to the walkway above the gates, where a knight in a scarlet cloak stood transfixed, staring at the Druids with fearful recognition.
"Sir Elyan!" Iseldir called. "We come to you in the name of Mal, a boy whose body was dumped in a well in the forest. I swear to you that our purpose is peaceful, that we are unarmed, and that we meditate no evil. I throw myself on your mercy as a knight of Camelot. The Code of Chivalry binds you to shelter the poor, the weak and the oppressed. By the laws and customs of your people, I charge you to grant us safe passage, and conduct us to your king!"