Merlin faded in and out of sleep, his thoughts tumbling like leaves in an autumn wind. He saw, in his mind's eye, a skinny boy in loose clothes, which rather made him resemble a scarecrow, travelling down a beaten dirt road. Before him was a dense wood, and in the distance, rising above the trees, were the white spires and turrets of a great castle, like something conjured out of the land of Faery.

Somehow Merlin knew that the boy was filled with wonder and excitement, but his own stomach was a knot of dread. Under the castle slept something ancient and terrible, something which called out to the boy in a voice as low as the grinding of the earth's bones, as hot as fire, as vast as the wind-scoured sky.

Someone spoke to Merlin. The words were low as distant thunder, shaking him to his core. He tried not to listen. Perhaps, if he ignored them for long enough, whoever was speaking would go away.

But the words grew louder and more insistent, pressing down on Merlin, surrounding him, shaking him out of his doze.

He started, waking to find himself perched on his stool. For a moment he stared at the guttering fire, blinking in incomprehension, his brain still addled by the last dregs of sleep.

"Signore," a voice behind Merlin said. Slowly, Merlin turned himself around.

The Southron lad was looking at Merlin. He had propped himself up in his bed, and was blinking groggily. "Signore," the Southron repeated.

Merlin was mute for a moment, his eyes going wide as he took this in.

"Signore," the Southron said yet again. "Agua, per favore."

Merlin jumped to his feet. "What?" he said stupidly.

The Southron seemed to consider this. He disentangled a trembling arm from beneath the covers, and raised a hand to his lips, miming drinking. "Wæter," he said, using a Saxon dialect word.

"Right. I'm sorry," said Merlin, hurrying to fetch a cup. He dipped it into the cleanest-looking water barrel, then returned to the patient's side and extended it to him. Observing the unsteady motion of the Southron's fingers, Merlin brought the cup to the Southron's lips, and allowed him to drink deeply until he was satisfied.

"Grazie," said the Southron, settling back. Suddenly, a fearful look came over his face, and he craned his neck backwards, staring apprehensively at the ceiling.

"Al-Shaytan," he croaked. "Iblis."

"I don't understand," said Merlin.

The Southron raised a trembling finger towards the sky. "Esprit de fuego. Draco."

"I understand, 'dragon,'" said Merlin, his heart sinking.

"Satanus. El Diavolo. Inferno."

Merlin knew what inferno meant, and he knew what the Southron was referring to, but he was too uncomfortable to reply.

At that moment, the door opened, and Gaius entered.

"Good news, Merlin," the physician said, "Gwen and I convinced the king to give us a reprieve. He wants to see the Southron as soon as we are able-"

Gaius stopped. "But this is wonderful! He's revived!" Merlin stepped out of the way as Gaius rushed to the Southron's side and began prodding and staring. The Southron looked somewhat alarmed by these attentions, but he soon realised that Gaius meant no harm.

"Are you well?" Gaius said to the Southron, slowly and clearly. "How do you feel?"

"He doesn't speak much Cambric," Merlin said. "He was speaking something else. It sounded like a mix of different languages. Frankish. Italic."

"Of course," Gaius said. "He must not have been in Albion for very long. There must have been someone in the Southron camp who could translate for him. This is most wonderful! Think of what we can learn from him."

"We have a problem, Gaius," said Merlin. "How is Arthur going to get the answers he wants when he can't understand the Southron?"

Gaius looked grave. "That is a problem," he said. "We will just have to translate for him. We could turn this to our advantage. It means Arthur cannot interrogate the Southron without us being there."

"How are we going to translate for him?" Merlin asked. "I don't even know what he's speaking."

"One of the trade languages, probably," said Gaius. "The Southrons trade with the Italic port cities and the Frankish Crusaders. Their dialect is a mix of all those tongues."

"Can you translate it?'

Gaius looked offended. "Of course! As could you, had you paid more attention to your studies."

Gaius turned back to the Southron and said something to him. The patient frowned, as though he were considering this, but couldn't quite puzzle it out. Gaius tried saying a different phrase, which sounded more Frankish in tone to Merlin. The Southron seemed to understand this better. He nodded, pointed at himself and said, "Shamas."

"What did he say?" asked Merlin. "Is his name… Seamus?"

"Don't be absurd," said Gaius. "It is Shamas. Which, unless I am mistaken, means, 'the Sun,' in the tongue of the Saracens. Perhaps there is some connection to the name of Helios, the Southron leader. Yes, I recall now. Al-Jirazi, who is one of the foremost commentators on the Neo-Platonists, has much to say on the medical applications of astronomy, and he pays particular attention to the Sun, which he regards as the King of the heavenly bodies. I believe he wrote a treatise, Liber Solis in our tongue, which is called Kitab al-Shamas in the language of the infidels. I should have a copy around here somewhere…"

"Never mind that now, Gaius," said Merlin, before the old man could begin rifling through his parchments. "As long as you can communicate with him."

The Southron waved a hand to attract Gaius' attention. He became suddenly animated, rattling off a series of intricate phrases. Merlin recognised the word draco again, and esprit de fuego. Eventually, the Southron grew tired and lay back on the sheets, watching Merlin and Gaius with an intelligent, though weary, eye.

"He must be hungry," said Merlin. "We should feed him."

The Southron cleared his throat. "Dónde estamos?" he said tiredly, in barely more than a whisper, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

Gaius said to him, "Camelot. You are in Camelot, in custodia de Arturus Pendragon, Rex Britannorum."

A series of emotions flashed across the Southron's face: alarm, wariness, resignation. Although he didn't move, he seemed to be withdrawing from Merlin and Gaius.

Gaius and Merlin exchanged a look.

"He knows he's a prisoner now," said Merlin. "And we're his captors."

"In time, he will come to see that we have his interests at heart. Come, Merlin." Gaius guided Merlin away, leading him to the table where their meals were prepared. "Help me get some stew together for him." As Gaius began taking out pots and pans, and Merlin started fishing roots and bulbs out of sacks, the aged physician paused. He said to Merlin in a hushed tone, "Have you heard the voice of the Great Dragon recently? Or of the Druids?"

"Yes," said Merlin uneasily. "Why?"

"The Southron said something curious. He mentioned Draco, and then Iblis, which is the Saracen name for Lucifer. And then he said susurratio, which means 'whispering'. I gather he has been hearing whispers for some time, and he believes it to be the voice of an Evil Angel, which whispers in men's hearts and leads them astray. I wonder…"

"But how could he hear Kilgharrah's voice? Wasn't my father the last Dragonlord?"

"He was certainly the last in Albion… but Shamas is not from Albion. Then again, it might have been the voices of the Druids that he'd heard."

"But that would make him a sorcerer! I didn't see any of the Southrons doing magic."

"Perhaps he concealed it from his compatriots. Or perhaps he doesn't have magic, and is merely sensitive to magical forces. Or perhaps he is suffering from hallucinations. But I suspect he is hearing something real. The Saracens are skilled in the mystical arts. Much of our alchemical knowledge comes from the Magi of Aegypt, the Chaldeans, and Babylon of old. I would not be surprised if he perceives more than most… I suggest we conceal this from Arthur until we know more."

And Merlin, imagining Arthur's reaction, agreed.

"Is this the kind of fast I have chosen,
only a day for people to humble themselves?
Is it only for bowing one's head like a reed
and for lying in sackcloth and ashes?

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?

"Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe them,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?"

- Isaiah, 58.

The king's bedroom was gloomy, lit only by candles placed upon a makeshift altar. The wax had melted over halfway down, and the guttering flames cast a sepulchral light upon the king's face. He knelt, his fingers tracing the pages of a finely made tome. One phrase seemed to catch his eye, and he ran his index finger over it again and again.

"Not to turn away from your own flesh and blood," Arthur muttered. "Loose the chains of injustice. Set the oppressed free. Not turn away from your own flesh and blood…"

He shut the book, squeezing the cover as if it were a close friend's hand, and then brought it to his chest.

"Morgana," he said in a hoarse whisper, and there were many shades of emotion compressed in those three syllables.

The door opened softly behind him and closed again. He knew the rustle of those skirts well. The girl had once bounded through the castle's corridors with endless energy, regardless of how much washing or crockery was piled in her arms. But the years, and the loss of her father, and the pressures that came with rank, had slowed her to a more stately pace. Her movements had more gravity, and her smile came less easily now. One thing hadn't changed about her - a fragrance of wildflowers, and herbs, and freshly pressed clothing.

"My lord," said Guinevere. "Pardon my intrusion. You barely ate any supper. The people have noticed that you are fasting. Perhaps if you could put their minds at ease, before speculation gets out of hand..."

"They will find out soon enough," said Arthur.

"I have never known you to be so pious before."

"That was a fault. I was brought up to despise the Old Religion without understanding my own. My father - God rest his soul - was consumed by hatred in his final years. He was too busy destroying the faith of others to attend to his own."

"Moderation is a virtue," said Guinevere quietly. "In all things. Even piety."

"But not in giving unwanted counsel, apparently. You and Gaius - again - succeeded in persuading me to ignore my better judgement and to be lenient with the Southron." Arthur's voice rose, vibrating with passion. "He is an enemy to my kingdom!"

"My lord," said Guinevere, "since you are in a pious mood, I must ask you something. Is it justice, or wise policy, that makes you punish the Southron? Or is your pride wounded at your kingdom falling to an invading force? Are you fearful at being seen as weak, at losing influence with the other nobles, if you are not harsh with your enemies? Is it your anger at being betrayed by your sister - whom you still cannot capture - that inflames your passion?"

Arthur growled, "My sister. You name her as my kin. But then, you have never wanted for courage, have you? Prudence, maybe."

"Your father acknowledged her before he died. My lord, it is not my place to set the official position of your kingdom. But I think you wouldn't be so hurt and wounded by her betrayal, if you did not feel some kinship for her. And knowing that your father lied to you all these years, lied to his whole kingdom, lied to his people-"

"Guinevere," said Arthur warningly.

But Guinevere went on, her voice beginning to tremble. "When you banished me from this kingdom without trial, drove me away from friends and family, and everything I had ever known, you told me that was mercy. Mercy! Because in your father's time he had many men and women killed for adultery - many perhaps innocent, because we know his standard of justice-"

"Guinevere!"

"While he committed adultery, and gave his illegitimate daughter the life of a princess! And I've heard he resorted to sorcery to conceive you - while my own father was killed as a warlock, and I tell you he was no more a warlock than he was a horse. And the whole kingdom knows that your father was slain by sorcery, though it does not know that you employed that sorcerer to heal your father."

Guinevere stopped, and composed herself. "Every one of your subjects, Arthur - yes, even Merlin and I - have been wronged by the laws of this kingdom. And the difference is that unlike the nobility, we have no right to avenge the wrongs against us with violence. And for that reason, I suppose, you think the forgiveness of a serving girl or an errand boy is worthless. But we are human beings like you. We have hearts like you, we grieve the deaths of our fathers like you, our souls feel pain like yours.

"King Uther killed my father and had me twice imprisoned for sorcery. And I nursed your father and comforted him in his final days, and there was no malice in my heart. And Gaius and Merlin did more for the late king and for you than you will ever know, even as this kingdom has tortured and killed their friends. I know our acts of compassion are beneath your notice, but if people as lowly as us can show mercy, is it wrong to ask it of a king?

"And I tell you now, Arthur, if you succeed in capturing your sister, I will plead for her life also. Many in this kingdom long to see her given a traitor's death. But although she hates me personally and has tried to destroy me, for the love I bear for the woman she once was, I would ask mercy for her, and remind you of your duty to your own flesh and blood. As I remind you of your duty, now, to the stranger in your midst. My lord."

There was a long silence. Then Arthur said. "Thank you, Guinevere. I think I needed to hear that. You have certainly given me a lot to think about. You never cease to surprise me."