Chapter XII: The Man on the Throne
Leon was not surprised when Arthur asked him to discuss strategies for putting down a potential revolt, but the confirmation nonetheless weighed heavily in his stomach. He approached the small meeting chamber slowly, though of course that wouldn't ward off the upcoming violence.
When he arrived, he found Arthur and Morgana already there. The witch was telling him about her show in the square that afternoon. The king listened with the air of someone who'd heard enough already and was not interested in further details but couldn't think of a polite way to escape. Leon took pity on his liege and cleared his throat. "Who else will be here?"
Gratitude flitted across Arthur's face as he rattled off a list of names. Leon raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure everyone will fit?"
"Yes. I had extra chairs brought in." He scowled at the table as though it had offended him. "Do you think it would be easier to hear everyone if this was shaped like a sunburst?"
"What?" Leon and Morgana asked simultaneously.
"A sunburst," Arthur repeated, drawing the shape in the air. "Only the spikes would be blunted so we could fit someone there, too."
"Why not just do a round table, then?" Leon wondered. His confusion had not alleviated the slightest bit. "Seems a bit less likely to have people backing their chairs into everyone else's chairs that way."
Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "The ancient kings of Camelot did that," he recalled. "They had circular tables to represent the equality of all those seated there."
"Or they didn't like running into corners," Morgana joked.
"Who didn't like running into corners?" asked Elyan as he swanned into the room with his sister and her retinue.
"No one," Morgana answered, just as Arthur replied, "The ancient kings."
People arrived quickly after that: Leon's parents, Geoffrey of Monmouth with Blanchefleur at his heels, Merlin and Gaius, the Captain of the Guard, the rest of Arthur's favored knights. They chatted as they took their places, but when Gwaine settled in and the king called for silence, they quieted immediately. This meeting might be between friends (and Brun) who shared the same goals, but their subject matter was as serious as life and death, and they all knew it.
"We need to discuss the rebellion," Arthur stated. "Merlin, have you had any success in scrying them?"
"None so far, sire," the warlock sighed.
"Right. Keep trying twice or thrice a day. They can't stay in range of the wards forever." Merlin nodded, his lips set. Arthur turned to Brun. "How fares the investigation into the death threats?"
"Not well, sire." The captain launched into more detail. Leon was pleasantly surprised to realize that the guards actually were doing a good job, even if it wasn't successful (yet, he hoped). He was particularly intrigued when Brun mentioned that one of the servants with access to Merlin's chambers had left suddenly, citing a death in his family. "To me, fleeing like that is as good as a declaration of guilt."
"Not necessarily," Merlin interjected. "It means they don't think they'll be able to prove their innocence. That's not quite the same thing."
Brun looked baffled, but Arthur nodded slowly. Warm pride glowed in Leon's chest. "Send a man to confirm the story," the king ordered. "If Dougall really has lost his father, give him my condolences."
"Yes, sire," the still-confused captain confirmed.
The meeting continued in that vein for a good long while. Leon and his fellow knights had inconspicuously surveyed the city from a military perspective, locating a few weak spots in their defenses that could be exploited by an insurgent army. Gaius and Merlin had found records of the citadel's magical defenses, and the warlock already had plans to bolster them. Geoffrey and Blanchefleur had compiled a list of nobles who'd already responded to Arthur's recent letter. Most of them had declared fealty, but three conspicuously did not. (Several other nobles had failed to respond, but Camelot was a big enough kingdom that mail took time to travel.) They gave the relevant names over to Merlin, who by this point had acquired quite an impressive list, to scry.
There were other items on their unofficial agenda, mostly reports on public sentiment regarding magic. However, Morgana forestalled that with a simple question: "What will you do to the perpetrators once we've put down this rebellion?"
Silence fell, not the comfortable sort into which friends often lapsed but the tense, heavy type that always felt like the air before a downpour.
"…I am still considering my options," Arthur said. It was a diplomat's answer, the sort used when the asker wouldn't like the answer.
Morgana frowned, her brow furrowing. "All right," she said, voice still light and airy, "what are some of your ideas?"
Leon intervened. "Are you looking for suggestions, Arthur?"
"Not at the moment."
It really should have been enough, but Morgana was like a dog with a bone sometimes. Leon respected that, but gods knew it could be inconvenient. "Why not?" she asked. "The sooner the better, and it's hardly outside the scope of the meeting to discuss the end goal of this mess."
Arthur attempted another deflection. "I will do what the law indicates, nothing more and nothing less."
"The legal precedent varies widely," his foster-sister pointed out. "Bruta executed the leaders, married his loyalists to the rebels' female kin, and displaced the foot soldiers with their families. Your great-great-grandfather did all that and decimated the foot soldiers, but his son left the peasantry in place and confiscated half the nobles' fortunes. I was always told that his choice led to Vortigern gaining power."
Arthur looked like he'd bitten into a moldy lemon. "If you wish to make suggestions, I will consider them, and then we can turn back to the meeting."
Morgana considered, then accepted the compromise. She folded her hands neatly on the table and stated, "I think you should most closely mirror Bruta's actions. Execute the rebel leaders and dispossess their heirs. Grant their properties and titles to those who have served you loyally. As for the foot soldiers, start developing a plan of relocation to dilute them as much as possible. Also, put them under a sort of legal probation so that they'll face harsher penalties for disobeying the law. Only execute peasant soldiers who have committed particularly egregious crimes."
The king relaxed, as did most of the rest of the room. Morgana's suggestions were on the harsher side of reasonable, but they weren't disproportionate. Arthur would probably go for something a bit more lenient to better fit with his presentation as a merciful king who wanted the best for all his citizens, but this plan could work.
"I'll consider it," Arthur reiterated, considerably warmer than before. "But for now, let's return out attention to the agenda we had planned. Guinevere, what do you and yours have to report?"
"We went out to speak with the people directly…."
"We've been talking," Cyndeyrn said.
Merlin kept his face smooth, unruffled, pretending that there wasn't a frission of tension running up his spine. That opener rarely heralded a good conversation. "About what?"
To his credit, Cyndeyrn met the other warlock's eyes squarely. "About where to go."
"Deorham," Merlin surmised.
"Yes." A deep breath. "I was born in Camelot. I'd like to go back there, and maybe someday I will. But right now, Deorham is the safest place for my family and me. There's… too much going on in Camelot."
Merlin sighed. "It's your decision," he pointed out.
"You don't approve."
"Not really," the younger warlock acknowledged. "I don't trust Alined. It was a dirty trick he pulled, supporting the nastier restrictions put into the new treaty and then refusing to sign it. I'm worried that he'll entangle his kingdom's spellbinders in some dangerous scheme to shore up his own power. But you and your family are free people, with the right to make your own decisions, and… I do understand, you know. In the short term, at least, our people are likely safest in Deorham. Just… be careful, all right?"
"We will be," Cyndeyrn promised. The older man had relaxed appreciably, his voice warming. "When I say 'we,' I'm not just referring to my immediate family." Wariness returned to his frame, though not to the same degree as before. "There's almost ninety of us who will be immigrating to Deorham's capital."
Merlin's eyes widened. "Ninety?" he parroted.
"Ninety."
"That's—" Awful, part of him said. "—good, that's good. There's strength in numbers."
A wry twist of the lips. "You don't actually think that."
"Of course I think there's strength in numbers."
"You don't think it's good," Cyndeyrn clarified.
"It's a matter of perspective," Merlin deflected. "It's good for you and yours, because you'll get that strength in numbers, but from my point of view, which is… less… personal, less individually oriented… it's a blow, because I do worry about how Alined will try to leverage this and you."
"I've always heard that that's part of being a spellbinder. People without magic will always want to use those who have it."
"You're probably right." He was most certainly right. "Just be careful. Use that strength, both numerical and magical, to protect yourselves. And if there's ever anything you need, especially something that you can't ask Alined's Court Mage for, you know where to find me."
"That we do," Cyndeyrn agreed. "I…. Thank you."
"I'm not sure what you're thanking me for, but you're welcome." Merlin forced a smile. He'd been getting a lot of practice with strained grins recently. "When are you leaving?"
"Rhia and I are leaving tomorrow to investigate housing."
"Good luck."
They chatted for a few minutes longer about light, easy things before Merlin politely excused himself. Cyndeyrn wasn't the only person he wanted to speak with on this morning visit to Listeneise, and he was hoping to have lunch with his parents and sister before returning to Camelot.
Still, the older warlock's words hung over him all morning like a sun-dimming cloud. He could almost forget about it by focusing on the moment, conversing wholeheartedly with the others, but the knowledge that ninety spellbinders were moving to Alined's clutches always lurked in the back of his mind. By the time lunch arrived, forcing himself to ignore the bad news had taken its toll, and Merlin found himself disproportionately tired and hungry.
"What's wrong?" Hunith asked as they sat down to eat.
Merlin told her about his conversation with Cyndeyrn. When he elaborated that almost ninety of their kin were going to Deorham, Ganieda blew a raspberry into the air. The tension broke, chased away by a flash of laughter. Balinor wiped his daughter's mouth clean of drool and made a go on gesture with his free hand. Merlin continued in better spirits than before. This was still a blow, but it no longer felt quite so severe or so personal. "It could be better, but it could be a lot worse, too," Merlin concluded. "I've also spoken with one family that's going to return to the countryside of Camelot and another that will live in the citadel proper, and of course there's Tom."
"I don't suppose you could convince Tom to stay?" Balinor half-joked. "He's a good man and a good blacksmith."
"Sorry, but I'd prefer it if Gwen and Elyan continued speaking to me. And I thought he'd made you a surplus?"
"He did," Hunith confirmed.
"There you go."
"My own wife and son, betraying me," the dragonlord chuckled.
Ganieda blew another perfectly timed raspberry. Her family startled, then burst into laughter.
Gwen was a little nervous about her father moving back to their house, but Merlin had promised to lay wards as soon as he brought Tom back from Listeneise. If she was honest with herself, that oath was probably the only reason she hadn't begged her father to stay in Corbenic just a little while longer, until everything died down and she could be certain that he'd be safe.
A curse from Elyan interrupted her musings. She turned to him, one eyebrow raised in question. "There's a rat," he explained.
"Makes sense," noted Leon, the only other knight who'd volunteered to help them make this place habitable again. "You didn't have time to get all your food, right, Gwen?"
"Right. I probably should have done something when I came back for dresses, but I didn't think of it."
"You were on a tight schedule," Elyan reminded her.
"Still."
There was more evidence of rats all around the house, namely their droppings. Gwen grabbed her broom, began to sweep them up. Elyan and Leon stripped the bed, replacing the sheets with a softer specimen from the castle. "Not much to save here," Elyan sighed. "Damn moths."
"Save it anyway. We can always find some use for it."
"If you say so, Gwen."
"I do, and so you shall."
Elyan pretended to chuck the balled-up sheets at his sister, who exaggerated her unnecessary dodge.
The work passed quickly. Gwen sank into a reverie, her worries forgotten. There was something so immensely satisfying about being able to see the progress you were making, she mused as they slowly rendered the little house habitable.
When they were finished, the trio headed outside. Conversation naturally revolved around Tom's imminent return and the family dinner they were planning, with lots of gentle teasing about how they'd be taking most of the food from the castle kitchens rather than preparing it themselves. (Elyan and Gwen would be spending the entire afternoon catching up with their father, so they wouldn't have time to cook. Thankfully, being members of the nobility had its advantages.)
Since it was a lovely day and they'd cleaned more quickly than they expected to, the trio meandered a bit, wandering the streets of Camelot in comfortable anonymity. They'd dressed down in old clothes they wouldn't mind staining, so even Leon could have passed as a random peasant. It was a relief to not be recognized, Gwen mused, to not feel the weight of stares upon her lady's dresses and her maidservant's hands that might or might not have drawn Excalibur.
At least they'd be able to answer that rumor soon. It would only widen the gulf between her and her former peers, but she wouldn't have to deal with all the speculation anymore. Except, she realized, announcing their engagement would only set off a new round of ridiculous theories about how she was secretly an evil sorceress or the princess of the druids or something….
"You okay, Gwen?"
"Hmm? Oh, sorry, Elyan. Just lost in thought. It's nice to just… be among the people, don't you think? And it's different when you're not wearing your real or metaphorical red cloak."
Her brother nodded. "Definitely. What do you think, Leon? What's it like for someone born to the nobility?"
No response. The siblings paused, looked around in confusion and mild alarm. Gwen almost wished that the knight was wearing his red cloak. It would have earned them unwanted attention, but at least its color was more distinctive than the dull brown he currently sported.
"There he is." Elyan pointed, began to walk back down the street.
"What's he looking at?" For Leon was half-hidden in a side street, his face hard and focused.
"No idea."
They didn't have to ask. When they joined the knight, it was obvious what had caught his attention.
Graffiti was uncommon in Camelot, especially in parts where the guards were known to linger. This was not one of those parts, so the artist had felt secure enough to create quite a detailed piece, a whole story written in charcoal and rust.
The first scene: An army, or perhaps a raiding party, led by a man with the head of a lion. They traveled under the ancient Pendragon pennant and Uther's personal sigil. The second scene: The lion-headed man sat upon a throne with supplicants kneeling at his feet. The same two banners hung to his right and left. Finally, the last scene: Heads on spikes, one with massive ears and one with long dark hair and others with triskels on their brows. A lit pyre with a human figure tied to it. Smoke rising above charred bones.
Chills coursed down Gwen's spine. It wasn't just the obvious death threats against her friends, the implication of what would happen to Arthur should this ugly fantasy come to pass. It was the story's protagonist, unknown and yet familiar.
Trembling, Gwen pointed at the usurper king with the head of a beast. "Morgana has seen him in visions."
"What?" Leon exclaimed.
"A man in a lion mask," she elaborated. "Him."
"What happens in her visions?" Elyan demanded.
"He has strings around his limbs," Gwen recalled. "Each one is a different color or combination of colors, and they disappear into a thicket of shadows. Sometimes the strings are thin, sometimes thick. Sometimes he pulls on them, but other times it's the opposite and they control him. He wears badly fitted iron armor and a mask of fool's gold."
"No crowns, though?" Elyan inquired.
"No, thank all the gods."
"The lion was Uther's personal sigil," Leon recalled, gesturing to the picture of the old king's banner. "So… someone taking up Uther's old cause, but he has people trying to control him and might not be well-suited for the task, hence the fit of his armor."
"Seems about right," Elyan muttered, eyeing the graffiti. "At least the version in the visions doesn't have that." He tapped the leonine figure's crown, its throne.
"Still dangerous, though," Gwen reminded them.
"Of course he's dangerous. He's obviously some sort of figurehead for renewing the Purge." Leon took one final look at the tableau, long and hard and focused. "We need to tell Morgana and Arthur about this. Merlin too, once he's back with your father. Come on."
Alternate chapter title: "In Which Proper Table Shape Continues to Haunt Arthur"
Next chapter: December 23. Tom comes home, Morgana visits an orphanage, and Gwen has a chat with Merlin.
NaNo is over. I survived it, barely. My buffer now goes all the way through chapter 20 and the start of chapter 21, though of course it'll need more editing. Thanks for being so patient with me!
