Chapter X: The Pyre

"Busy, Gaius?"

"Not today, Morgana, especially if you help me grind this."

The witch glided over to the mortar and pestle. Gaius stepped aside for her with a smile and grabbed a handful of herbs. "I'm flattered that you came to see me so soon, but something tells me that this isn't a purely social visit." He took up a knife and began to chop his bounty.

"It's not," she acknowledged. "You've heard, right, that I'm trying to reach out to the people of the city?"

"And Merlin will focus on the countryside and the other cities."

"Exactly." There was something wrong with her angle, so she altered it slightly. Much better. "For the last few months, you've been living here as a once and future sorcerer." The physician huffed a laugh. "I suspect that you know better than anyone what the mood is regarding our people."

"I rather doubt that."

"Why?"

"I get a skewed sample of the population," Gaius explained. "Those who hate and fear sorcery avoid me unless their desperation overwhelms everything else, so I haven't seen the people you most need to reach."

"That makes sense. Still, you must have seen a lot of fence-sitters."

"Oh, certainly." The physician's smile was bright as noon. "And I like to think that I've opened at least a few hearts."

"Good." Morgana tipped the pestle, pouring the ground herb into a glass vial. "Tell me about it."

They worked for a time, Gaius relating a few of his more memorable experiences. There were parents who'd begged him to use magic on their dying offspring, promising to pay the fine themselves; he'd succeeded in most cases, but had twice arrived too late. There was the shy young man who'd asked if he could learn healing in secret, as his parents didn't want him to associate with a known sorcerer. There was the old fellow who was absolutely convinced that he was cursed and who'd accused Gaius of causing his impotence. There were others, too many others to count, who'd asked tentative soft questions, who'd listened to his stories, who'd made seemingly casual comments about how they'd once known a spellbinder.

But when Morgana pressed, Gaius detailed the other type of encounter, the sort that showed how much work they had yet to do. Glaring in the streets, loud complaints about the evil spellbinders who'd caused so much harm. A knife, buried almost to the hilt in the door of his chambers, and no one able to say who'd put it there. A drunkard spitting at his feet before fleeing into the shadows.

She had the lay of the land, now, so Morgana began bouncing her ideas off the physician. How did he feel about the druids operating a temporary healers' tent? Would he be able to train new apprentices to send them into the country? When could he start, and how many could he teach at a time?

A pair of squires stumbled into his chambers. They pulled up short at the sight of Morgana, who gave them a little wave before emptying the last powdered herb to its vial. "It was good to see you, Gaius."

"You as well, my lady. Tell that nephew of mine that he should visit soon."

"I think he's coming by tonight. Don't be surprised if he's here for supper."

Morgana returned to her room, half-lost in thought. Back in Corbenic, they'd celebrated the end of the Purge with colorful lights moving through the air like living art. Perhaps she could persuade some of her kin to put on a show, demonstrate that magic could be beautiful and harmless. Some people might come just out of curiosity, and curiosity was a good starting point.

She opened the door, turned to close it. Froze.

There was a miniature pyre beside her door, a collection of wooden boards and rough twine assembled in the unmistakeable shape of a witch's execution. Whoever had left the threat—for threat it was—had even tied a crudely carved human figure to the faux kindling, a human figure with no discernable features save its dark long hair, a streak of black paint running halfway down its back.

For a moment, Morgana was paralyzed in shock. Then she whirled around, eyes wild, scanning the room for any sign of an intruder. Nothing, at least not where she could see. Swallowing hard, Morgana summoned a globe of fire to her fist. She stalked over to her privacy screen. Her shoes clicked across the floor, but her heartbeat thundered more loudly still.

Nothing behind the privacy screen. Morgana kept searching. Nothing under her bed, nothing in the closet, no hidden booby traps waiting to shoot her full of poisoned darts. Nothing except the pyre, the threat, the clear statement that she was neither safe nor welcome here.

Whoever had planted the pyre must be nearby. They were probably still on the castle staff, or perhaps they worked in the guard. It would be someone who could go anywhere without arousing suspicion.

She might have passed them on her way back from Gaius's chambers.

Morgana shuddered. Once she started, she couldn't stop for what felt like an eternity but was really just a minute. Then the witch bit her lip, squared her shoulders. She glared at the pyre and considered burning it to a crisp, but she'd need it as evidence.

The pyre was heavy, but Morgana didn't let that slow her down. She stomped through the halls of the castle, too angry to flinch whenever someone made a sudden move. Soon she was at the door to Captain Brun's office. Her eyes flashed gold, and the door flew open.

Brun wasn't there, which made her dramatic entrance feel a bit silly, so Morgana deposited the threat on the captain's desk and spun on her heel. There was a guard passing by, so the witch demanded, "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Brun!"

"I—I don't know, my lady."

Morgana scowled. She was tempted to use thought-speech, but she had no idea how Brun would react to someone else's words ringing silently in his mind. He'd probably panic.

"I… I can help," the guard continued. "Maybe. At least we can see if I can help?" He looked like he was already regretting this decision.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you."

"Just doing my job, my lady." The guard stepped inside. "Er, I'm Maximus, by the way."

"I'm Morgana."

"I knew that," Maximus replied automatically. He glanced at the desk as though tempted to sit in it. When his eyes lit on the pyre, his eyebrows shot straight up. "Oh!"

"I found this in my chambers just a few minutes ago," Morgana explained. "Whoever put it there has to be nearby. I need to know who did this and who they're working with. Camelot needs to know who wants to sabotage our new peace."

"We'll find them, Lady Morgana. You have my word."

Merlin closed his eyes, but for a few moments, letters still swam across his vision. He shook his head to clear it. The imaginary letters disappeared. He closed his dry, complicated legal book without looking at the pages, then levitated it back to the bookshelf. Only when Merlin was certain that he wouldn't see the dratted tome did he open his eyes to gaze out the window. His body said that it was almost suppertime, but the sun's position disagreed. That made sense, though, as he'd eaten a big breakfast and a light lunch.

There was still enough time for one more meeting, so Merlin took out his scrying bowl and searched first for Rience—no luck, as 'Rience' was a damnably common name out east and nobody knew the pharmacist's patronym—then, when that only revealed some random toddler (as usual), for Iseldir. The druid chieftain and his band were camped in a vaguely familiar forest. Iseldir didn't look busy, so Merlin rode the whirlwind to his base.

"Hello, Iseldir, Duria, Mordred, Kara, everyone else."

The druids returned the greeting out loud and with thought-speech. Mordred, Merlin noted, looked oddly guilty, averting his gaze even as he said hello. His friend Kara elbowed him, but Mordred shook his head, mouth set in a stubborn line. Kara huffed, rolled her eyes.

Merlin didn't have time to contemplate their behavior. "What brings you here, Emrys?" Iseldir queried.

"I just wanted to touch base about the national healing program." He vaguely waved a fistful of notes. "I was able to get those last few legal details, so now Geoffrey of Monmouth and his assistants are going to start on the executions data. We obviously can't implement the program until we know what's safe, but I thought we could at least iron out a few more details."

"Of course." Iseldir gestured at his tent.

They spent a productive hour or so on business before concluding that they couldn't accomplish anything further, so they ought to speak of other things. Naturally, the first question Iseldir asked was how Camelot in general was adjusting to the change.

Merlin's smile froze. He tried to inject more light into it, but the druid wasn't fooled. "Not as well as you'd hoped, I take it."

The warlock sighed. "It's not like I thought that legalization would be the end of it," he confessed. "I always knew otherwise. There will probably still be anti-magic sentiments in Camelot long after Arthur and I are dust in the ground. But I'd hoped that… that we could have a bit more breathing room to celebrate the end of the Slaughter before the really vitriolic backlash started."

"But our enemies, too, have made good use of the winter," Iseldir murmured, "and because part of the battleground is public opinion, we are limited in what we can do."

"Exactly," Merlin grumbled. "That and basic human decency."

It would be easy, once he finally found a way around the anti-scrying wards, to kill the anti-magic rebels. It would take him just a few minutes. But that wouldn't sow seeds of hatred and vengeance in the hearts of the rebels' loved ones, it would scatter those seeds far and wide. His goal was to break the red spiral of revenge, not perpetuate it by killing people who might genuinely believe that magic was innately evil. He'd rather fight bigots than terrified men and women trying to protect their country, though he'd fight them too if he must. The trick was separating the deluded from the hate-filled, and Merlin had no spell for that.

"Many of them will come around eventually," Iseldir assured him. "The hatred might always remain, but you can weaken it from a fire to mere embers."

"With time and effort and trial and error, yes," Merlin sighed. "I just wish it were faster and easier."

"We all do."

A few moments passed in glum silence. Merlin broke it with a clumsy change of subject. "Say, is something wrong with Mordred? He seems a bit… off."

"In a way," Iseldir answered. "He has bouts of pensiveness that come and go. Something weighs heavily on him in those moments, but he's told no one save Kara and possibly Arthur Pendragon, when he sojourned with us last year."

"Arthur?" Merlin echoed, surprised. His king had many good qualities, but he wasn't the type to invite emotional confidence. That Mordred had spoken with him over Iseldir was downright bizarre. Perhaps he thought that the older druid was too close to the issue, that he'd needed outside perspective. "Do you mind if I talk to him? I could maybe help."

"You can ask, but I don't know if he will answer."

So Merlin went out to find Mordred, who nearly evaded him but was betrayed at the last moment by Kara. The friends exchanged glares. Merlin wondered if he should just leave well enough alone but, well, he'd never been good at that. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," answered Mordred, not meeting the older warlock's gaze.

Merlin considered. "All right," he said slowly. "If there was something wrong, I'd volunteer to help or listen or whatever you need, but since there isn't, do you want to just catch up instead? It's been a while since I saw you last."

Those pale eyes narrowed with suspicion, but their owner nodded. "You've probably been doing more than I have, Emrys. I've just been wandering around learning more magic and foraging for mushrooms and things like that." Something flitted across his face too quickly for Merlin to make out, but then the druid added, "While you have been fulfilling your destiny."

"Trying to, at least," Merlin admitted. "I'm sure you've heard by now that we're facing a bit more pushback than we anticipated—nothing we can't handle, of course, but not ideal either."

"But your destiny ensures success." Mordred looked away. "It must be nice, having such a good fate to comfort you."

A prophecy seized Merlin by the throat, bubbled up in him like a sacred spring. His voice resonated with power and promise as he declared, "Your own destiny is kinder than you think, Sir Druid. Take heart: You will never betray Arthur Pendragon, not even in the hour of his death."

Mordred gaped at him, jaw slack, eyes bulging. The druid camp had fallen silent, voices and thought-speech petering out in response to Merlin's thunderous proclamation.

Kara punched her friend's arm, a triumphant grin on her face. "I told you so," she gloated.

"I…." Mordred looked at her, at Merlin, at their curious audience. His throat bobbed. "I… th-thank you, Emrys. I needed…." He turned away, overwhelmed but smiling. "That's good to know."

"I suppose you're welcome." Mordred had been… worried about his own destiny? Merlin remembered, now, that Arthur had started asking questions about the nature of fate and prophecy after he'd met with these druids, after he'd spoken with Mordred.

What an interesting coincidence.

But, Merlin supposed, it sounded like Mordred wasn't going to do anything terrible. On the other hand, if he was so frightened of his destiny that he'd sought reassurance from Arthur of all people, he could probably use a bit more encouragement.

Merlin leaned over, spoke in a low murmur. "Prophecies are strange things. They're like—fragments of sentences from lost texts in a different language. You can sort of get the picture, or at least a picture, but you won't know for certain until the prophecy actually comes to pass, and they'll often do that in ways you'd never expect. Sometimes I wonder if the gods give them to us as a lark. Still, this is a good prophecy that I gave you. I don't know what else you've heard about your potential destiny, but… try not to worry too much about it, okay?"

"Okay." Mordred's head jerked in a nod. "Goodbye, Emrys. I need to—eat supper."

"So do I. I'll see you soon."

Arthur didn't hear about the threat against Morgana until supper, when he asked Guinevere where their magical friends had disappeared to and she replied that they were probably still with the guards. That had been an unpleasant surprise, and he'd taken it with much less grace than Tom's reaction to their engagement (though Guinevere was more than half-convinced that her father was still in shock).

"A death threat? Someone left a death threat in Morgana's own chambers?"

"Yes." Guinevere's tone was apologetic. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew." Anticipating his next question, she went on, "The guards haven't found the culprit yet. They've talked with a few suspects, but so far everyone has had an alibi."

Arthur stabbed at his potatoes with unwarranted venom. "So there's definitely at least one person in this castle who's willing and able to threaten my s—foster-sister's life. They're probably a spy for the enemy, too."

"Probably," Leon agreed.

"They might not be in the castle, though," Elyan speculated. "You saw petitioners today, right?"

Gwaine shook his head. "The petitioners would have to smuggle in all the materials. No, it's somebody with full access to the castle."

Percival pushed his plate away, eyes wide with alarm. "They've checked the kitchens, haven't they?"

Arthur's other dining companions eyed their food with varying degrees of trepidation. "They must have," Guinevere concluded. "Unless the entire guard was in on it, someone would have checked there before letting the king and half the court eat. Besides, they're primarily after spellbinders." She grimaced. Arthur wondered if she was remembering the attack on the Isle of the Blessed.

"Plus none of us are foaming at the mouth yet," Gwaine joked.

Guinevere frowned at him. "But we should take extra precautions now that we know for certain an enemy is at large. Ask Gaius to make sure his antidotes are up to date, screen visitors more carefully, things like that."

"We could use a buddy system," Leon suggested. He didn't say that scouts often did so during wartime.

Gwaine scowled. "Nothing like treating your own home like an active war zone, right? I wish that the rules of scrying were different and Merlin could just tell that magic bowl of his to show us the spies, maybe make them glow purple or something so they'd be easier to spot."

"We could try luring them into a trap," Isolde suggested.

"I like the way you think," Gwaine chortled. "Let's talk with Merlin and Morgana after dinner, see if they can come up with some kind of illusion or booby trap."

"Merlin has Sigan's grimoire," Guinevere recalled, "and Sigan's tomb was full of traps. Maybe he can modify something so that it won't affect the serving staff."

They spent the rest of supper concocting increasingly elaborate and ridiculous magical booby traps, few of which were entirely ethical and many of which, they would be told, were either impossible or ridiculously difficult. After dinner, they traipsed to the Court Mage's apartments, where they found a scowling Morgana, a sheepish-looking Merlin, and a guard who would rather be anyplace else.

"Guess who else got a death threat but didn't bother telling anybody about it?" Morgana growled.

"You too, Merlin?" exclaimed Guinevere.

"Why would you not tell anyone?" Arthur demanded.

The warlock muttered some inanity about how it had made sense in his head. Arthur sighed, rolled his eyes. "You're the Court Mage, you twit. An attack on you is an attack on my entire government."

Familiar mischief flitted across Merlin's face. "Did you just call your entire government a twit, sire?"

"That kind of attack doesn't count," the king decreed. "We have a few suggestions about ways to catch whoever threatened you."

Morgana's smile was a vicious thing. "Do tell."

They told.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Morgana Teaches Merlin the Appropriate Reaction to a Threat Against One's Person"

Next update: November 11. Gwen goes on a trip to town. Merlin and Morgana tell stories. Probably more things, but the author needs to do a lot of heavy editing because the original direction I went in was stupid.

I'll be doing a lighter version of NaNo this year. The full 50k leaves me unable to write for most of December and January, so I'll try 30k this time in the hopes of avoiding that nasty burnout. Theoretically, I should be able to finish the first draft of the entire fic by the end of the year. Once that's done, I'll start posting once a week instead of every 3 weeks.