15. Everything That Isn't Said
Every king springs from a race of slaves, and every slave had kings among his ancestors.
- Plato.
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Merlin walked miserably behind the guards through one of the narrow, soldiers' quarters and out into the open square, shoulders drooped and a pain in his heart that he thought might kill him from the inside.
As soon as the absolutely frigid, winter air hit him, he couldn't help letting his gaze slide over to the metal cages where his fate waited with the other –
He stopped in shock.
The slaves were gone! All of them!
He gaped, breath catching in his throat and knees threatening to buckle beneath him. Trying to make sense of what he was seeing, he whipped his head around, scanning all parts of the compound.
No slaves.
They were gone. The pens really were empty.
Almost empty, he amended as a tiny flash of movement caught his attention and he narrowed his eyes, looking closer.
There, sitting dolefully against the bars of the farthest cage, was Twyford – locked inside.
The shock, the sudden tilting of his world sideways again without warning, the millions of questions running through his head – all of it was enough to make him forget about his own place for a moment and he started to run across the square to the pen, wanting to know what had happened to this one soldier who had been kind to him.
"BOY!"
The angry shout smacked into him from the direction of the cook-fires and he slid to a halt, cringing as he looked around to find a furious Gobert advancing on him.
"One night in luxury an' ya think ya ain't got ta do no chores? Who'd ya think ya 'r now, t' bloody prince!"
The raging servant latched painfully onto Merlin's ear and yanked him back toward where the others were already working. He dragged him to a big metal tub full of boiling water that was surrounded by a gargantuan mound of dirty pots and pans and dishes and threw him roughly onto the ground in the midst of them.
"Didn't get time ta finish 'em last night 'fore yer tête-à-tête with His Highness," he sneered, crouching so he was right in Merlin's face. "Well, guess what, slave brat, we saved 'em for ya! Have fun!"
Still shaken from all the unknowns that had confronted him in the last few minutes, Merlin simply got to work and did as he was told. The water was hot enough to scald his hands, but he didn't dare go for any cold, gritting his teeth and enduring instead. As he scrubbed at the crusty, caked on remains of last night's meal, he couldn't help glancing up now and then to the empty slave pens and the imprisoned soldier.
What had happened?
What was going on?
What was going to happen to him?
He was reaching for the first dish in the last stack of bowls with a semi-burnt hand when a formal call of command cut through the stockade.
Forgotten and overlooked in his little corner off to the side, Merlin swished the rag in his hand absently around the dirty bowl as he watched with horrified curiosity while all the soldiers who remained assembled in the square, facing the almost empty cages. From somewhere in their ranks a drum started beating, steady and menacing. Sir Einar stood before them, his face blank and unreadable.
Two soldiers Merlin at least recognized by sight collected Twyford from the pen and led him to a post set firm in the ground, and sickening realization filtered through the boy as he watched them order the red-haired man to remove his coat and tunic.
"It's yer fault ya know," a nasty voice said from behind him, right in his ear. Merlin jumped, dropping the dish and rag into the dirty water with a splash.
Hab stood there, leering smugly at him. "Sir Einar ordered him special ta take last watch an' fetch you when t' oth'r slaves was leavin' afore dawn. He fell asleep, though – on duty! Sir Einar was so mad!"
With dismay, Merlin turned back to the scene happening before them, where Twyford had now been bound to the post with his hands above his head. Another soldier stood behind him, a leather whip in his hands.
Twyford had fallen asleep. Had failed to collect him. The slaves had left for the mines without him.
His head buzzed, full of confusion and emotions and slivers of hope his panic quickly tried to crush because he couldn't go through that again, let hope in just to have it yanked away later.
Twyford had been kind to him – had looked at him with pity and regret – had asked him his name and treated him like an actual person. Had he…was it possible…had he done it on purpose? Had he done this to save him?
The boy flinched as the first lash cracked in the air, landing on the kind soldier's back, and guilt spiked through him like a knife, bringing tears to the edges of his eyes. He fought to keep them in since Hab was still standing there, gloating, but he couldn't help cringing at each additional blow that split the morning air.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
After the fifth stroke, Sir Einar held up a hand and the soldier administering the punishment lowered the whip. Twyford was breathing heavily, but still standing tall and Merlin found himself proud the man had been able to bear the beating without making a sound.
A fist suddenly struck Merlin sharply on the back of the head. He flinched instinctually and turned around to face a seething Gobert.
"Brainless idiot! Finish yer work, 'stead a starin' at yer betters! Less ya want ta feel the taste a the lash yer ownself!"
"He broke a bowl," Hab suddenly spoke up, the picture of innocence. He held up a tray and Merlin noticed his and Arthur's dishes from the night before, his own bowl sitting in two neat halves. While it was technically true – he had broken it in their moment of spontaneous fun last night – Hab didn't know that. He was just relishing the chance to watch Merlin get in trouble once again.
Merlin glared at the tattling younger boy for two seconds before Gobert exploded.
By the time his own beating was finished and the servants had left him to his washing, the soldiers in the square had returned to their normal activities. He scanned the whole compound but there was no sign of Twyford.
With a sigh, he sank back to his knees and numbly resumed his scrubbing, afraid to feel anything because of the horrifying uncertainty that was once again hanging over his small, pathetic life. Still, one thought pushed through and banged around inside his brain, the warlock completely unable to stop it.
What was going to happen to him now?
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The morning sun was high in the sky by the time Sir Einar's party made ready to leave. Merlin gathered the requested horses one by one and led them to the spring that bubbled up in one corner of the fort to drink before settling them in their tack and saddles. He took a few extra minutes with Arthur's mount, scratching the stallion behind the ears and laying his forehead against the soft mane, knowing that whatever happened to him now he'd still most likely never ready this horse for his master again. He prayed that Arthur's fate would be kind – that he'd someday be set free – ashamed that he'd been so terrified by what was to happen to himself that he'd forgotten about the lot of his prince.
Would this kingdom treat him well? Would his captivity be as gentle as possible, or would they torment and hurt him? Merlin begged whatever power might be listening that it would be the first and not the latter.
Stolen moments run out, Merlin led the stallion to the waiting soldiers then returned to bring out his own mare last. He watered her before walking her to the traveling party that was almost ready. Only half of the soldiers would be making the trip to the citadel, so he brought her to the back of the lone wagon and attached her lead.
Then he just stood there, uncertain. For once, he had no other jobs, no one yelling at him or whacking him. He felt lost and adrift and very small – almost forgotten. No one had bothered to tell him what his fate was to be now, what he was to do or where he was to go. So he lingered by the one familiar thing he had, rubbing his mare's hide and leaning into her, seeking comfort.
'You don't know your fate either, do you?' he thought to the horse, holding an imaginary conversation inside his head as he clung to her neck. 'I hope it will be a nice one. Maybe you'll get to carry a knight now, instead of just a servant.'
She nudged his pocket, forever hopeful even though he hadn't had a treat to give her in over a week, and he smiled sadly, wishing with all his heart that he did.
As he stood there, Sir Einar walked by, speaking with another soldier. They stopped near enough Merlin could hear their conversation.
"I could send your disgraced soldier to the northern villages for the cold season, if you wish," the other man spoke, his armor clearly showing him to hold the rank of knight – the only one other than Sir Einar Merlin had seen on this horrible trip.
"That won't be necessary" Sir Einar said calmly. "He's served his punishment – I doubt he'll make such a mistake again."
"And what of the slave?" the knight asked. Both men turned in Merlin's direction and he quickly dropped his gaze, afraid to be caught staring. "You could leave him here. A slave would be useful this winter and we could ship him on to the mines when the guards switch out in two months."
Merlin clenched his hands, burrowing the side of his face into his mare's shoulder, afraid to hear the answer as he listened to the men discuss his future as though they were bartering a rug or a chair.
"No, he will continue with us," Sir Einar said indifferently and Merlin's knees sagged with relief as he eavesdropped. "I will consult with the king, find out his will on the matter. The slave may have…other uses…"
Their conversation continued, military leaders speaking of tactics and needs, but Merlin tuned them out. The slivers of hope were growing inside him again, pushing cracks into his numbing despair and he wasn't sure what to think, what to feel.
Perhaps – miraculously and through the great sacrifice of someone else – he'd been granted a reprieve from the terror of the mines, at least for a while. But, what would his immediate future hold, now?
One thing he was certain of was that no one would ask his preference before they decided.
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Arthur waited a long time after the servant who was decidedly not Merlin had brought him breakfast and collected the soiled dishes and toiletries from the previous night before he heard men once more at his door. He stood, tall and proud, determined to live up to his rank and heritage, even if there was only one gangly serving boy left to acknowledge it.
It was Sir Einar himself who entered. The man studied him, gazing at him in his new clothes, clean and combed and crowned, and nodded.
"Your Majesty," the knight greeted with a small bow.
"Sir Einar," Arthur replied, unmoving. He might have to play this game, but he didn't have to make it easy or comfortable for his foes.
Something the prince could have sworn was respect passed through the older knight's eyes. "Tharennor welcomes you for the winter season," the man said as he took a very fine, warm cloak from one of his men and stepped forward himself to drape it about Arthur's shoulders, fastening it with a jeweled pin.
Arthur didn't answer – just cocked an eyebrow in silent challenge to which Sir Einar simply nodded yet again. Then he drew out Arthur's wrists, fasting on the now familiar restrictive manacles.
"Tharennor's showing of hospitality is obviously second to none," Arthur said snidely, holding up his now bound hands as the knight stepped back.
Sir Einar didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he dismissed the other guards, leaving the two of them alone in the room, before moving closer to Arthur, though still well out of his reach.
"All is not always as we think, Prince Arthur," he said softly, and Arthur frowned, something in the knight's words capturing his attention. "Nor life's pathways always direct. My respect is genuine, believe what you will. Still, I would offer you a word of warning on this day. It would be wise – for both your sake and the boy's – if you were to hold your tongue as we complete this journey, no matter what you see or feel. I know I've given nothing for it to be granted, but I ask that you trust me."
"Trust must be earned, Sir Einar," Arthur said coolly.
The knight's face fell slightly, as if in disappointment, but he simply nodded for a third time and then gestured for Arthur to proceed him out of the room.
"What, no blindfold?" the prince snapped, nerves already fraying from the whole charade.
"Not today, my lord," the old knight answered softly.
When he immerged a few minutes later into the bright, cold sunshine of an open square, the first thing his watering eyes sought out was Merlin. He found the boy tethered to the back of a wagon, apparently expected to walk – with a wounded leg! – next to his very own riderless mount. Anger that was already bubbling so close to the surface surged and he opened his mouth to raise a fuss, but his servant rapidly started shaking his head in warning and his blue eyes were so full of fear that Arthur let his lips snap shut again.
Trust me the knight had asked. There is more here than you know.
He was reminded again of the feeling of parting that had permeated that very morning, and his mind was drawn back to some words his friend had once spoken, words he'd almost forgotten.
But you must learn to listen as well as you fight…
Perhaps, it wasn't just idle advice.
Back straight, he nodded slightly to Merlin in what he hoped was reassurance, and then allowed himself to be directed to his own horse.
He mounted and his hands and legs were lashed down as usual then hidden carefully beneath the velvety folds of the cloak. To anyone watching, it would almost appear he was entering the city under his own volition, and the deception confused him. Surely, the whole purpose of this act was to cheer Tharennor's great victory while at the same time to humiliate him? What point would this ruse serve?
Thoughts and warnings still running through his head, he kept his burning questions to himself for once as the old knight gave the order and their company moved out of the stockade and back onto the road.
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Merlin had to admit one thing as he again trudged down the road attached to a wagon like livestock: Tharennor was a beautiful country. Only a little beyond the stockade they'd circled a foothill and suddenly a valley had stretched out before him, covered in snow and surrounded on all sides by rugged-looking mountains. The road they followed wound down past small hamlets and homesteads where grey smoke curled from the chimneys of thatched roofs and small dots that were people went on about their lives. Near the center, where the valley was at its widest, the road split, and Merlin could see each fork eventually meandered off into little side valleys, snug and hidden within the protective mountain feet. At the far end where the sides of main valley once more narrowed, a medium city sprawled, spilling over from the valley floor to creep up the foothills to where a gleaming citadel perched proudly on a cliff, climbing toward the cold, clear sky.
It was breathtaking, and he wished he could be seeing it through the eyes of a visitor, not the frightened ones of a captured slave. Still, he'd never been one to overlook any small favor, and he supposed he should be grateful he was headed to live out the rest of his however short life in a place of beauty instead of one of ugliness and squalor.
Appearances can also be deceiving, he reminded himself. Just because there was beauty on the outside didn't mean there wasn't something rotten within.
Morning turned to noon and they began passing through the villages. As they arrived, the people would stop their daily tasks and line the road to greet them, their reactions far from what he expected. He cringed in anticipation of the first decaying projectile that would be thrown at his friend – Arthur was in essence a spoil of war and commoners were rarely subtle. But while Merlin himself garnered looks of disgust and confusion, Arthur? Arthur received smiles and cheers.
The servant thought at first that surely they must be mocking the Crown Prince, but the more people they passed the more he came to feel that the joy and excitement was real. The peasants of this country were genuinely happy to see Arthur – and not as a prisoner or tribute. It confused Merlin to no end and he wasn't alone – he could plainly read the same mystification written on his master's face, though Arthur managed to mask it with more skill than the servant.
By the time they reached the main town, Merlin had given up on understanding anything – his world had stopped making sense nine days ago, why should it change now? Sir Einar led them on a steady, direct path through the city streets and up the mountain to the citadel, a growing train of citizens following behind them, though they wrinkled their noses at Merlin and gave him a wide berth.
Only the soldiers, Arthur, and Merlin entered the castle gates, the common people cheering outside for a few more moments before melting back to their normal lives. They crossed a great courtyard, the horses' hooves echoing and sending ominous chills up the boy's spine, and then stopped before two small sets of steps that led off in opposite directions toward the interior of the fortress. At the top of the one on the right stood a lone man.
He was middle-aged and splendidly dressed in clothes of the finest materials. His blond hair was longer than expected and he wore a neatly trimmed beard but his eyes were stormy and cold. He gazed at Arthur with a sort of possessive glee that made Merlin sick, and the boy knew immediately who he was seeing, despite the man's lack of a crown.
The king said nothing, simply waiting while Sir Einar and his company dismounted and the head soldier bowed, then nodding in approval. Merlin could see the questions practically jumping inside of Arthur's head, clawing at each other to be the first to spring from the prince's mouth, but to his complete astonishment, Arthur held them all back and remained stonily silent, biting his tongue.
In dismay, Merlin watched as two soldiers cut the prince lose and helped him dismount, then led him up the second staircase where he disappeared from the boy's sight into the castle, leaving Merlin alone with just the soldiers, Sir Einar, and the frightening king.
A king that was suddenly descending the staircase and marching toward Merlin with anger spread across his face.
"Why have you brought another prisoner? Who is this child, Sir Einar?" the king demanded, stopping a few feet from Merlin who stared resolutely at his own wet boots and tried desperately to quell his shaking.
"He was captured with the prince," Sir Einar answered.
The king took a step back, and Merlin risked a glance up to see a look of revulsion cross his face.
"A slave!You sully my house and my presence by bringing a slave through these gates! He should have been sent to the mines with the other riff-raff! What are you thinking?"
The words hurt, even though they were hardly the worst he'd had thrown at him since this whole nightmare started, and he hung his head further, feeling the small tendrils of hope once more wither and die.
"He was set to go with them, my lord, but there was a mistake and he was left behind," Sir Einar answered.
"Well, send someone to take him there now! They can extract at least a week or two of hard labor from him before he's a corpse!"
The numbing, all-consuming fear was returning at the king's awful words and Merlin had to clutch at the back of the wagon to stay upright as he listened to Sir Einar's response.
"Sire, if I may be permitted to speak freely…" the knight began.
"Just say what you want to, Einar!" the king spat, looking away from Merlin and back to his soldier.
"Sire, the boy was captured with the prince – was his personal servant, and the prince is very fond of the child, to the point of putting the boy's safety before his own on several occasions. I know your feelings, my lord, and I meant no besmirch upon your house or the customs of your rule, but it could be…advantageous to keep the boy close… Have easy access to him, should you need stronger persuasion."
Suddenly, the king was invading Merlin's field of vision, grabbing his hair and yanking his head up, studying him with eyes that – while they still held overt disgust – were also sharp and calculating. The man's grip was harsh and the servant fought the urge to whimper as the king reached out to yank his neckerchief away, revealing the dull metal of the slave collar.
The longest moments of Merlin's life passed as the King of Tharennor examined him, twisting his head this way and that while his eyes roamed up and down the boy's trembling body without care, before he shoved him away with a jerk and wiped his hand on his cloak as if he'd just touched something foul.
"Very well, Einar," the king said, turning back to the knight. "I have trusted your judgement before, I will do so again. Send it to the Steward, tell him to find use for it, whatever he sees fit as long as it stays alive until I say otherwise. And tell the man to give it my mark, and to make sure its status is clearly visible!" As he spat the last words, he threw Merlin's neckerchief onto the ground and deliberately stepped on it, twisting it beneath his boot.
"As you wish, sire," Sir Einar replied with a deep bow.
"Meet me in the council chambers for a full report within the hour," the king threw over his shoulder in parting as he swept back up the stairs and into his castle.
Without warning, Merlin's legs decided they'd had quite enough of all this fear and uncertainty and they buckled, sending him pitching to the ground where he landed on his knees with a painful jolt. Rather that repeat the process, he opted to stay there, breathing heavily and head spinning as the old knight approached him. The man stared at him for a long while before he released him from his tether and then crouched before him.
"Look at me, lad," he requested almost kindly.
It was a few moments before Merlin could obey, raising his head and meeting the man's eyes with obvious difficulty.
"You must pull yourself together."
The servant gulped, still trembling, but with effort he eventually managed to calm his breathing and bring the dizzy world back into focus around him.
"Good. Now, heed my words. The Steward is not kind and the work will be backbreaking and unpleasant, but if you keep your head down, child, and do as you're told, and you might just survive this. Now, rise. Soldier Twyford must report back to his captain of the citadel guard – he will take you to the Steward on the way and you can start your new life."
* Author's note – I hope none of you are too disappointed that Merlin didn't actually get sent to the mines. I had never planned on sending him there, though I must admit that the evil author in me started to actually consider it after seeing the reaction to the threat from many of you.
Also, I was absolutely floored and humbled by the response to the last chapter! Thank you so much! I can't tell you how much it means to me! It is you, my wonderful readers, that make writing this story so worth it!
Now, it's Monday and another school week has started. I wouldn't expect to see an update until at least the weekend. Sorry.