The marketplace is always the busiest place in Camelot, but come spring, it is even more so, as that is when traveling merchants and traders, freed from the constraints of winter, arrive to display their wares. "Don't you have duties to attend with Arthur today?" Mother asks as she walks between the stalls, peering around; in one hand, she carries a list of ingredients and supplies for herself and Gaius.
Merlin follows a pace behind her, looking around with some interest of his own. "He's attending court with the King today, so I have the afternoon." Besides the fact that Arthur would never begrudge Merlin spending time with his mother, a surprising soft spot which he isn't inclined to ever take advantage of. "I always enjoy market days, you know that."
"Not when you're carrying everything, surely?" Mother chuckles.
"I'm used to that," he replies, smiling. Arthur always makes him carry everything, so a single basket with only a few things in it isn't much hassle, especially not for his mother. He enjoys learning about Mother and Gaius's medicines, anyways, and some of the traders are selling things that cannot be found in Camelot at all. He wonders if there's a bookseller anywhere about. Something brushes past his waist, and he snatches the back of a grimy-faced young boy's tunic, yanking him to a rough stop. "Give it back," Merlin orders; wide-eyed, the boy hastily puts the coin purse in the basket. He releases the boy, shaking his head.
Mother walks past a stall displaying lengths of fabric, pausing to run her fingers wistfully over a bolt of golden-brown cloth before moving on, and he makes note to return and buy a measure of it later. She'd enjoy having a new gown for Beltane. Morgana will surely lend him the use of her seamstress if he asked; Guinevere would happily assist as well.
"Merlin," she says in a low voice, drawing his attention. "Have you heard the news? The King has sent for the Witchfinder."
"Who?"
She glances around the market and plucks at his sleeve, urging him to step closer to her, lowering her voice slightly. Obviously whoever this Witchfinder is, she doesn't want news of them to become public knowledge. "After the incident with the…ahem, Lady Catrina," she murmurs, "the King feels that the issue of magic in Camelot has gone unchecked for too long, and stronger methods are needed to eradicate it."
Ah, yes, the Lady Catrina. If he lives to be a century old, he is never going to let Arthur forget that he came within a hairsbreadth of having a troll for a stepmother. It's only by luck that Merlin and Morgana's combined magic had been powerful enough to force "Lady Catrina" out of her human guise before she actually wed the King. Or do anything worse. He doesn't even want to imagine what might have happened if Camelot had a troll for a queen. Despite the amusement the memory brings, he frowns. "Stronger methods? How much stronger could he possibly get?" He believes the idea of being burnt alive at the stake, strung up from a gallows, or having one's head lopped off to be quite a convincing argument. Perhaps it's just him.
Mother sighs quietly, shaking her head. "The Witchfinder is in a league of his own, little bird. I've never seen him work, but apparently, he came to Camelot once in the first years of the Purge. Gaius told that I was lucky to have missed him, and a good thing that Arthur was young enough to forget him as well."
Oh. That's…not good. He's not certain he wants to know what 'stronger methods' are. There are not a great many things which are capable of truly shaking Gaius, and Merlin has gained a certain appreciation for his great-uncle's sense of danger. If this Witchfinder is truly fearful enough to unsettle Gaius, then this surely is bad tidings. "When should he arrive?" he asks softly.
"I cannot say. The Witchfinder travels to a great many places in many lands; he might be a day or a fortnight away from Camelot." Their conversation pauses as she purchases a bundle of curious dried herbs from one of the merchants. Merlin has no idea what it is, but it smells strangely. They continue on through the market. "I want you to be careful, understand? If what Gaius tells me is true, then he is a law unto himself. He serves nobody, not even the King, and he has leave to question anyone. No matter who they might be," she adds with a pointed look at him.
"Yes, Mother. I understand," he murmurs. The protection of being half-brother to the First Knight of Camelot and the prince's manservant will do him no good. If Arthur has no use for him after court, he'll return home and renew the protective magic in the library, the glamours he's cast around his magic books to hide them from prying eyes. There are a few things he'll have to hide in the cellar.
"I hope you do," she says quietly, though she doesn't sound wholly reassured.
Merlin shifts the basket and wraps an arm around her, hugging her close to him. "I'll be careful, Mother. I promise."
This time, her smile does reach her eyes, and she reaches up to pat his cheek. "Good lad. Well, this is the last of it. Come along, back to the citadel."
Even after the council is dismissed, Merlin doesn't see Arthur and imagines he must be in a private session with the King, perhaps discussing the matter of this Witchfinder, and he takes the opportunity to seek out and warn Morgana as well.
"What do you suppose he'll do?" she asks as she absently plucks apart a piece of bread left from her lunch.
Merlin shrugs. "Couldn't say. Question all of us, I imagine. I don't think he'd be permitted to torture answers from us without evidence, so as long as he can't find any, we ought to be safe. What have you done with your dream book?"
"Hidden it. My thanks to you, Cornelius," she says wryly, tilting her goblet in a toast to the twice-deceased sorcerer, and Merlin snorts.
One of the scrolls amongst Sigan's belongings had held not any kind of magic, but the early sketches of the plans for the castle itself. Paranoia must have already begun sinking its claws into him even then, for the castle holds a great many secret passages and apertures, constructed and concealed by magic. It makes sneaking about a great deal easier for Merlin, as one of those passages opens directly into the antechamber of Morgana's rooms.
Lying upon a broad cushion on the floor at the foot of Morgana's bed, Celeste raises her head and gives a soft wuff. Someone knocks on the door.
"Who is it?" Morgana calls.
"Arthur."
They both relax. "Enter."
The prince bears an exasperated sort of frown when he sees Merlin sitting at the table with her, long-ingrained manners putting up feeble protest, but he's long since learned the futility of arguing about the impropriety of the two of them being alone together in her chambers. Neither of them care, as neither hold any desire for one another, and have no intention of ever listening to him anyways. "Well, at least I can tell the both of you together," he remarks, stepping in and closing the door behind him. "The King has informed me that he's sent for someone to help him hunt magic, the—"
"The Witchfinder," Merlin and Morgana say in unison.
Arthur closes his mouth. "Ah. Right." He shifts his weight awkwardly. "How did you…?"
"Mother told me," Merlin answers, "and I've just told Morgana." He sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. "And if you think to give me a lecture about safety, sire, I've already received one in triplicate from my mother, uncle, and brother. I must say, I am deeply moved by your faith in me. Or lack thereof, I should say."
Arthur snorts. "Well, you do struggle with the concept of subtlety, Merlin, so you can hardly blame us," he drawls in reply, then looks to Morgana. "Have you…seen anything?" For all his former reluctance with magic, he has found a surprising and abiding faith in her visions after the incident with Lady Catrina. She'd seen a banquet table set with rotting food, a wild pig wearing a crown rooting through bones, and most disturbingly, an image of Uther weeping over a deathly still and pale Arthur. It'd been enough to convince him of Catrina's true identity.
"Nothing to suggest we're all about to be escorted to the pyre, if that is what you mean," Morgana replies with a weak smile, rubbing her temples with two fingers. Her visions are most often a jumble of dream images and true glimpses of the future, many of which only tend to make sense afterwards. Necthana had warned her it might be as such, and she has discovered a deeply sympathetic respect for the seers of the Old Religion who had to puzzle through this sort of nonsense regularly. And nonsense is all she's dreamt recently. Frogs climbing out of the wells, chains made of interlinked bracelets, a skull with flowers blooming from its eye sockets…. Celeste lopes over to rest her shaggy head on Morgana's thigh, and she strokes the hound's wiry fur, scratching around her collar.
"Well, that's good to know, at least." Arthur ventures over to the windows, and his expression falls. "And I do believe he's arrived."
They both stand and move to the window. In the square below, a man, all in black, stands beside a wheeled, horse-drawn cage. A very large cage, with chains and shackles dangling within it. Merlin doesn't have to stand near to it to know that it's wrought of cold iron, all of it. A chill crawls up his spine and spreads across his scalp, making his hair stand on end.
"I have to go. Father expects me to meet with him," Arthur says in a low murmur, still gazing down into the square. "You two…be careful." With that, he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
"So begins the trial of Camelot," Morgana murmurs.
"So, this…Witchfinder. Where has he been all this time?" Arthur asks as he follows a pace behind his father into the empty council chamber.
"In foreign lands. Wherever the pursuit of sorcery takes him," Father replies smoothly.
"And he does this in your name?"
"No. He is law unto himself. He serves no one kingdom."
Worse and worse by the second. Arthur opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again just as quickly as a deep voice cuts through the air, smooth and cool as a well-honed blade. "Do you smell it?" The Witchfinder steps out from behind a pillar, clothed all in black from his boots to his gloves to his cloak. How long has he been lurking there, waiting for them? "Do you smell it, Uther?" he repeats.
"Aredian," Father says cordially.
"It's all around us, the foul stench of sorcery. It's infected your great city like a contagion," the man continues as if Father hadn't spoken.
Still, Father steps forward and extends one arm to him, which Aredian clasps with the familiarity of comrades. "I welcome you to Camelot, Aredian. Thank you for making such haste to be here."
"Well, let's hope I'm not too late, hmm? For every hour counts in the war against sorcery. Unchecked, it spreads like a disease." He steps past Father, moving with careful measure. A wolf, Arthur realises. That is what Aredian reminds him of, with his sharp green eyes and stalking gait. Some grizzled grey beast, aged perhaps, but made more dangerous for his years. "It seeks out the young and the old, the weak and the able, the fair—" His gaze rakes up and down Arthur. "—and the foul of heart alike. You've grown lazy, Uther. You've grown idle. Your once-noble Camelot is rotten to the core. You stand on the brink of dark oblivion."
A touch dramatic, perhaps, but the stone in Arthur's stomach grows heavier as he watches Father's expression, sees him nod agreement, listening intently to every word out of Aredian's mouth. "I am at your disposal, Aredian," he hears himself say. "The knights will aid you any way they can." And a good thing he's sent Lancelot on long patrol. Leon is an able hand at dissembling, but Lancelot isn't, noble and true as ever. He wouldn't be able to stand the company of this man without giving something away, even without meaning to.
Aredian turns towards him, those cool green eyes taking the measure of him once more. "You must be Arthur."
"I must be."
"You're a great warrior. The finest this kingdom has ever known," he says, thin mouth curling into a passable imitation of a smile; Arthur dips his chin in acknowledgment of the compliment. "So you shan't be offended when I say that I shall have no need of you or your knights. The subtle craft of sorcery can only be fought by yet subtler means, methods honed over decades of study. Methods known only to myself," he adds with a supercilious tilt of his head.
Despite the tightening knot in his chest, Arthur has to bite the inside of his mouth in order to choke back a wildly inappropriate laugh at hearing anyone, even unknowingly, describe Merlin as subtle. Merlin, who once conjured a snowstorm in the midst of summer and transformed a lady into a troll before the entire court.
"We're grateful for your help," Father tells the Witchfinder, and the quick flutter of humour gutters out like a candle in a high wind.
"And I am most pleased to provide it, however gratitude alone cannot keep a man alive. You must put food in his belly."
"Of course. I will pay your price, Aredian. Whatever it may be."
Arthur doesn't even want to imagine it. How does one weigh the value of a life? Had he one set price, or did he charge per head, as with cattle? It's a nauseating prospect. "When do you begin?" he asks.
Aredian gives him a small, sharp flash of teeth; it can't be called a smile by any stretch. "I've already begun."
Despite being only twenty winters, Merlin would say he's faced more than his fair share of dangerous beings. Nimueh. The gryphon. The Questing Beast. The Sidhe. The King. None have ever unnerved him quite so much as Aredian.
He sits in a stiff chair planted directly before the man's desk in the guest chambers given to him by the King.
"You are aware, then, that sorcery has been practiced in the vicinity of Camelot?" Aredian asks, dipping a quill in an inkwell that's set in a skull.
"Yes. Apparently." There's something sharp digging into his back, like a splinter coming off the wood, forcing him to sit ramrod straight.
"No, it cannot be denied. Were you not witness to the spectacle of a foul creature imitating…" Aredian shifts the pages on his desk. "…the Lady Catrina of House Tregor?"
Foul is certainly the word. "I was," Merlin agrees. So was the King, Arthur, Morgana, Guinevere, and near the entire court. Somehow he can't imagine any of them being sat in this stiff, splintery chair and made to answer questions.
"Then you know that there is magic in Camelot. Can you explain it?"
"No, of course not. How could I?"
Aredian spreads his hands in front of him. "I am quite at a loss to explain it myself." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his desk, eyes narrowing. "Unless, of course, it was you who performed the magic that caused her to transform."
A prickle of sweat breaks out between his shoulder blades. "It wasn't."
Those cold, sharp eyes don't waver. "Can you prove it wasn't?"
"No. I am loyal to Camelot and my King," Merlin replies, perhaps a little sharper than is wise.
Aredian stares at him unblinking for several more moments, searching for a lie, but there isn't one. Merlin is loyal to Camelot, to all it could become, and his King. He'd never said that King was Uther, however. Finally, he sits back and takes up his quill again, writing in a large, thick book. "Your mother is Hunith, yes? Gaius's assistant."
Merlin forces himself to keep a calm face despite the spike of fear in his chest, the idea of his mother being subjected to even a moment of this man's company. "Yes."
"And your brother is one…Sir Leon de Galis?"
"Half-brother, yes."
"Prince Arthur's First Knight. And you are the prince's manservant."
"I am." He's not certain what any of this has to do with sorcery, but at least they're off the subject of magic.
Aredian writes in the book again, and Merlin wishes he could see the pages well enough to read whatever it is he's put down. "Very well. You may go, that will be all," he announces, setting aside the quill. "For now."
Pushing to his feet, Merlin sketches a half-bow and hastens out of the room.
Arthur doesn't like this Witchfinder in the slightest, but nobody can ever say that Aredian doesn't work quickly. He sits in his smaller seat beside Father's throne, the court gathered to hear the testimony of the three women Aredian has found as witnesses to sorcery. It's an effort not to watch Merlin for his reaction, his manservant standing stiff and unsmiling beside Hunith and Gaius.
"Speak," Aredian coaxes, urging the first of the three forwards. "Do not be afraid."
"I…I was drawing water from the well, sire, when I saw them: faces in the water," the woman says in a small voice, her face drawn and white, twisting her hands before her. "Terrible faces, like people who were drowned, screaming. Screaming."
Aredian touches the shoulder of another. "Tell them what you saw."
"A goblin dancing on the coals of a hearth-fire. It was dancing in the flames, and it spoke, sire. My heart near stopped for fear of it."
"This incident of magic was only the beginning, you see?"
"There was a sorcerer, sire, in the square. There were…creatures jumping right out of his mouth," the third woman announces, sounding near faint.
"And what manner of creature?"
"Toads, Sire. Great green, slimy things as big as your fist."
Toads. The well. Arthur doesn't dare turn his head to look at Morgana, but in the edges of his vision, he sees her draw up a little straighter in her seat at Father's left. Her vision is coming true, though he can't fathom what it serves to warn them of.
"You see? You see? The sorcerer laughs in your face. Even now magic flourishes on the streets of Camelot," Aredian declares, a fervent glitter in his eyes as he steps past his witnesses, coming closer to the throne. Arthur stares at the wretched Witchfinder, wishing he could strangle the man. He'd do it bare-handed if he had to.
"I can scarcely believe it," Father replies in a quiet voice, that same light in his gaze, one that Arthur's learnt to fear over the years. Mirrors reflecting mirrors, the two of them, paranoia and conspiracy rebounding between them.
Aredian holds out his arms beside him. "Yet it is the truth, my lord. Fortunately, I've utilised every facet of my craft to bring this matter to a swift resolution."
"The sorcerer? You have a suspect?"
"Oh, I do, my lord. They stand here among us now, within this very hall." His voice rises, amplified by the acoustics of the hall. "My methods are infallible, my findings incontestable! The facts point to one person and one person alone." He whirls around, pointing an accusing finger. "The boy, Merlin!"
Arthur goes cold all over, all at once, his heart stuttering out of rhythm for a second before taking up a rabbit pace in his chest. He wrestles the fear attempting to choke him and shoves it down hard. "Merlin?" he drawls out, forcing a mocking scorn into his voice. "You surely jest, Aredian."
"This is outrageous! You have no evidence!" Hunith protests, gripping Merlin's arm tightly, edging her body slightly to the side, between her son and the Witchfinder.
"The tools of magic cannot be hidden from me," Aredian replies in a deadly tone, striding over. Despite being far shorter than him, Hunith glares right back, refusing to give ground. "I am certain that a thorough search of the boy's home will deliver us all we need."
"I have nothing to hide from him," Merlin declares, putting a hand on his mother's shoulder.
Father nods. "Very well. Guards, restrain the boy. Let the search begin."
A fool Merlin might be at times, but a suicidal fool he's not. Arthur knows that Merlin would have hidden evidence of magic as soon as he heard of the Witchfinder's approach. Though his pulse is still in his mouth, quick and nervous, he doesn't believe Aredian will find so much as a scrap of proof in the townhouse.
Little Elfgifa is the one to answer the door, but her small face goes wide-eyed with fear when she looks past Leon and Arthur to see Aredian and three more knights behind him. "M-my lord?" she stutters out, backing away rapidly.
"Get Beryl and Sam, and tell Clory to wait out in the garden, all of you," Leon orders the girl as they enter; she bolts from the room, swift as a rabbit.
"Comb every inch. Sorcerers are masters of concealment," Aredian barks.
As the knights split up, going in separate directions, Arthur turns to the Witchfinder with a scowl. "There is nothing here. What fool would hide magic in the house of Camelot's First Knight?"
Aredian's cold green-glass gaze doesn't waver. "What fool would practice magic in Camelot at all?" Turning away, he strides down the hall and flings open the doors which lead to the library; scowling, Arthur follows. Merlin's desk is entirely clear save for a bundle of letters bearing the seal of Silverpine, a pen and inkwell, and a stack of blank parchment. Rising from the floor in front of the desk, Allegra lets out a low, rumbling growl, teeth bared in warning, but if anything, Aredian seems almost pleased to see her. "The sorcerer's familiar."
He reaches for his dagger, but Arthur clamps a hand over his arm. "A gift from his lord father," he corrects sharply, refusing to drop his hand until Aredian releases the dagger hilt. "Allegra, come." Still rumbling dangerously, the great hound stalks over to Arthur's side, and he curls his fingers around her collar, feeling the tension humming through her.
Aredian yanks the drawers from the desk, upending them without a thought; once gutted, he turns from the desk and begins surveying the many books on the shelves, yanking them down and rifling through them carelessly, tossing them aside as he goes.
He can only imagine the pained look on Merlin's face, to see his books treated so. Arthur tightens his grip on the wolfhound's collar. "Enough of this, this isn't necessary."
"It is necessary if I say it is." As if to punctuate his words, he casts another book to the ground with a thump; a few pages come loose from the aged binding.
"Here!" a voice calls from elsewhere in the house; Arthur's heart seizes.
Geraint comes down the stairs as they emerge from the library, his face set in grim lines. He holds out a bright band of metal—a bracelet, set with a glittering yellow stone and etched all over with curling symbols. "An amulet of enchantment," Aredian declares, taking it from Geraint with utmost care, as though it is a live serpent. His eyes, however, have a hooded, pleased look to them, and there is an unmistakable thread of satisfaction in his tone when he addresses Arthur. "Here is my proof, my lord. Now we must inform the King."
"Aredian!"
Everyone's head turns at the voice, and Arthur whispers a hoarse curse under his breath. Hunith steps forward, looking small in front of the towering bulk of the knights and the black-clad Witchfinder. She must have followed them from the citadel. "I know for certain that amulet does not belong to Merlin," she declares, lifting her chin. "It is mine. I gave it to him for safekeeping. I am the sorceress you seek."
Aredian bares his teeth in a smile.
"You're free to go."
Merlin rises to his feet and approaches Arthur cautiously, stepping out of the cell as if expecting one of the guards to shove him back in. "What do you mean, I'm free to go? Surely Aredian didn't give up the chase that easily." His familiar gaze searches Arthur's face, able to read him far better than anyone should. "What is it? What's happened? Something's wrong, Arthur, I know it is."
"Merlin…"
All at once, the young man's face goes white, his eyes widening. "Mother?" he whispers, staring past Arthur.
Two guards escort her down the stairs into the dungeons, though neither of them look particularly pleased to do so, eyes downcast. "Say nothing, Merlin," Hunith orders. "Do nothing. Promise me."
"Mother, what's going on? Mother?"
Arthur grabs hold of Merlin before the fool can charge the guards bare-handed; it isn't easy to do, given the fervent strength with which Merlin struggles against him, lean and wiry and slippery as a fish in a stream. Still, he manages to haul the other man up the stairs and out into the corridor. "Merlin! Merlin, enough! Stop it!"
"Let me go! Let go!"
"Merlin!"
Merlin goes still at the shout, echoing in the corridor, and his hands fist around the front of Arthur's tunic so tight the laces creak in protest. "Stop this, Arthur. You have to stop this. If that man hurts my mother, if the King…" He chokes off with a strangled whimper, unable to bring himself to even say it, though Arthur knows precisely what it is he fears. "I'll kill him, Arthur. I swear I will. By stone and sea and sky and all they encompass, and in the name of Maiden, Mother, and Crone. If my mother comes to harm, I will kill him."
The words, ringing with power, tug at a memory. The night after Ealdor, when Merlin had given Arthur his vow to never use his magic against Camelot. He means it, then. Every word of it. Arthur knows down to his bones that Merlin will do it, even if it means his own execution.
"I know," he murmurs in a low voice, mindful of the guards that might be listening. "I know. I won't let this happen. I give you my word, understand? Now, I want you to go find your brother and stay with him—no," he says sharply when Merlin opens his mouth to protest. "You will go and you will stay with him or with Guinevere and Morgana. I will handle this."
Merlin stares at him for a long moment, then nods jerkily. "So be it. And Arthur? Handle it quickly."
Of all the times Arthur has dined with his father and hosted a guest of Camelot, this meal is easily the worst of them. The food tastes of nothing but ash in his mouth, and the wine might as well be water for all he cares. He's grateful Morgana isn't present, as well, for he has no doubt she would throttle Aredian with one of her necklaces. He hopes Merlin is with her, that Guinevere and Leon have sense enough to keep them both calm.
"I can scarce believe it," Father says idly, sounding not the least bit concerned. More like he's discussing the outcome of a wager or matters of trade in one of the border provinces. "Hunith has served me with unfailing dedication. Without her knowledge, I would not be sitting here today, and nor would Arthur, for that matter. She's cared for him since childhood."
"That is the trick of it, my lord. Sorcery comes in the guise of innocence and kindness, in order to better infest these peaceful halls. What better place to begin than with the very flower of Camelot's youth?" the Witchfinder says, gesturing towards Arthur.
He wishes the man would choke on a fish bone.
Father shakes his head with quiet disbelief. "Gaius vouched for her himself."
"Gaius." Aredian swills the wine in his goblet thoughtfully. "You show great faith in him, sire. Great faith, indeed, considering he was known to practice sorcery."
"I'm well aware of his past, but I have every reason to believe he's turned his back on sorcery."
"Sorcery, perhaps, but not his family. The woman Hunith is his niece, is she not? One will go to great lengths to protect their family. It is why I accused the boy in the first place. She would have hidden herself away indefinitely, but any mother, even a sorcerer, loves her child."
"We must give her the benefit of the doubt, surely?" Arthur grits out.
Aredian gives him that frosted glass glare again. "Why? Anyway, there's a sure way to establish her guilt."
Father's goblet halts halfway to his mouth, and for the first time since the Witchfinder's arrival, a flicker of reluctance crosses his face. "I know your methods are effective, Aredian, but Hunith is a woman, and hardly a robust one at that. Surely she could not withstand such treatment," he says slowly.
Arthur feels himself growing cold again. "What treatment?" he asks, forcing the words past the tightness in his chest. "What methods?"
Neither of them answers him. He might as well not even be attending the same dinner as them anymore. Unfazed by Father's hesitance, Aredian replies calmly, "It's the only way to rid your mind of doubt."
Cornelius Sigan supposedly used his magic to build the castle itself. Arthur wonders if Merlin is capable of bringing it down on them. He doesn't think it entirely impossible.
The rest of the meal passes in a strange sort of haze, and by the time Arthur is allowed to leave, he's already trying to come up with a plan to have Hunith smuggled out of Camelot. He's sunk so deep in thought he doesn't hear Guinevere calling him until she grabs hold of his arm, shaking him back to the present. "What? What is it?" he asks dumbly.
"Arthur, please…I know you're trying, but please, you must find a way to stop the Witchfinder," she implores. He opens his mouth, but she continues on over him, worry overriding her manners. "He's just stopped Morgana and asked to question her again in the morning, and I don't believe she'll be able to withstand much more of this, sire, she's near to breaking already, between Merlin and Hunith—"
"I know," he says firmly. "That is what he does, Guinevere. He is paid to catch sorcerers. It doesn't matter if a person is guilty or not, he wears them down and brings them to bay however he can in order to get a confession and his gold. That amulet he found, he planted it. I know he did." Glancing around, he takes her elbow and guides her out of the main corridor into one of the alcoves, lowering his voice to a murmur that won't carry quite so much. "Listen to me. Between my father's paranoia and Aredian's zealotry, I can't call either of them to stop. Therefore, I need you to do something for me."
Guinevere nods rapidly, jaw set. "Anything."
"Find proof. Take Leon and Merlin with you, even Morgana if you must, and find proof, something credible. I will try to delay them as long as I can, and if all else fails, I will take Hunith from those dungeons myself," he declares. Father can punish him, disinherit him, wall him up in his chambers if he pleases, but Arthur will not let Hunith be executed. Not as long as he has the power to do otherwise. "Aredian's planned the execution for the day after tomorrow, as I'm sure he means to try and entrap Merlin and Morgana as well. Find me something I can bring to my father before then."
Nodding quickly, she gathers up her skirts and all but sprints down the corridor, taking the stairs two at a time. Arthur watches her go, then leans back against the cool stone behind him, tilting his head back. "Maiden, have mercy on us," he murmurs softly.
If she's listening, she doesn't answer.
"How's your mother faring?" Arthur asks. After the stress of the past week, he is grateful to finally be able to enjoy a meal without feeling nauseous, and he believes he might actually be able to sleep through the night.
"Fine. She's staying in the townhouse with us tonight," Merlin says in a low voice.
"Good."
"Thank you. For what you did."
He shrugs his right shoulder, rubbing at the ache which has taken up in the left, right in the muscles beneath his Questing Beast bite. It only ever pains him in the depths of winter or, apparently, whenever he is made sufficiently anxious. "You know, for once, I truly believe Father is glad of that wretched dog you gave Morgana," Arthur chuckles as he stretches out in his chair, his legs towards the hearth and his arms above his head.
Merlin doesn't respond save for a quiet grunt, collecting the dishes from the table.
"I don't know whatever gave Aredian the idea that he could hold Morgana hostage long enough to escape Camelot. Did you see her face when he grabbed her? I think she would've bitten him if Celeste hadn't beaten her to it." As unpleasant as it might be, he's never been happier to see someone be mauled by a ferociously protective wolfhound. Or fall out of a window. "And speaking of, conjuring that frog from his throat was an excellent touch, but it might've been just a touch too many, you know. Though the look on Aredian's face was something to behold," he snickers.
When he receives only stony quiet in response, Arthur heaves an exaggerated sigh, leaning back in his chair. "All right, what's the matter with you now? I thought you'd be in a more pleasant mood, all things considered."
Scowling, Merlin slams down the tray on the table, crockery jumping and rattling. "I am sick unto death of being treated by a damn child!" he barks angrily.
Arthur blinks at him, surprised.
"Leon, Gaius, Mother, even you. All the time, at every turn, this week more than ever. It's exhausting. I've had my fill of it. Despite what you call me, Arthur, I am not an idiot. I know very well the risks I run, as everyone has seen it fit to remind me of them constantly, as though I am ever fool enough to forget them."
"Here now, that's not why and you damn well know it," he interjects, straightening up in his seat, but the young man overrides him, high colour in his face.
"I cannot even breathe freely in this damn kingdom, and I do not need all of you reminding me of the chains I wear when I can feel their weight myself. I am your manservant and your friend, not an invalid for you to look after, and if that is what you think of me, then perhaps you should find someone else to serve you."
And that is just a step too far. He shoves out of his chair and rounds the table in two quick strides. "Merlin!" Arthur snatches his wrist, yanking him sharply a halt when the other man tries to shove past him, and abruptly, they're standing toe-to-toe, scarce a breath of space between them.
Too close. Far too close. Close enough to see Merlin's pupils dilate, flecks of gold like sparks against blue. Close enough to hear his indrawn breath, a barely audible gasp. Close enough to see the pulse in the hollow of his throat leap, for once not hidden by those damn neckerchiefs of his. Beneath his fingers, Arthur can feel a length of cord wrapped around Merlin's wrist, the so-familiar shape of a crystal pendant pressed into his hand, the point of it digging into his palm. His necklace, the one he couldn't find after the Questing Beast.
Blood roars in his ears, and he can feel that hollow place in his chest reverberate like a struck bell, near forgotten until now. Abruptly he thinks of Merlin's busy hands and the sharp bones of his wrists, wonders if he'd be that sharp and callused everywhere, or if he'd be softer, yielding. It'd be easy to find out, so easy. One more small pull, they'd be flush.
Arthur drops his hand. "You're dismissed for the night." How he forces the words out, he doesn't know.
Merlin's lashes flicker. "Arthur…"
"I said, dismissed," he snaps.
Breathing unevenly, Merlin backs away from him and stumbles for the door.
Once the door shuts, Arthur staggers as though he's taken a blow, backing up blind until the backs of his legs meet the edge of the chair, and he drops down into it, gripping the arms tightly. Forcing out a breath, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubs both hands over his face. The strain of these events must have fractured his mind. Surely they must have, for it seems he's taken leave of his wits.
Gods' mercy, what's wrong with him? What was that? He has an idea, but the idea of looking at it directly, staring into that particular mirror, isn't something he can handle at the moment. He's not even sure he wants to know what will be reflected back at him.
No, that isn't wholly true. He knows what he wants. He knows precisely what it is he wants. He wants the ban of magic rescinded. He wants to not be the crown prince. He wants Merlin in his bed. He wants so deeply he's near ill with it, knotting up sick and hot in the pit of his stomach.
Looking to the side, he sees a cup of wine left on the table; snatching it up, he drinks it all down in one and hurls it against the wall. It explodes in a spray of crockery shards, droplets of wine smeared on the wall. Shoving to his feet, he goes to do the only sensible thing he can think of. Arthur snatches his cloak out of the wardrobe and slings it around his shoulders—the musky forest smell of loam and ripe berries surrounds him, making his skin burn. He leaves the castle, dismissing the guards with a silent glare.
The Cockerel and the Rising Sun are the two most prosperous taverns in the city of Camelot, but they are hardly the only ones. There are plenty of others. He meant to visit a great many of them. Wine, ale, whatever he can stomach. Some places he avoids, as the gods only know what the proprietors mix into their wares to make them more potent; more than one patron has ended up facedown in an alleyway. Or blind.
It's not enough. He can't escape himself.
It doesn't stop him from trying, though.
His fool's endeavour comes to an end at a disreputable place towards the very edges of the city, a truly rough place, not one such as the gentry sometimes visit for a taste of the forbidden. He staggers out of the building, drawing his hood up over his head, though it's scarce necessary. Nobody knows who he is here, or doesn't care if they do. The ground seems to be moving beneath his feet, and he keeps seeing three wavering figures of single things. He walks for a long time. The city is quiet this deep into the night; after a while, he starts to feel more sick than drunk and has to stop a few times to vomit.
When Arthur gains the main square, he staggers over to the fountain and dunks his head in, scrubbing at his face and rinsing the foul taste out of his mouth. The water is cold and clean, fed from the aquifers beneath the city; it's the best water he's ever tasted in his life. Dripping and shivering, he feels a degree more sober. Not by much, but at least he's only seeing one of things. As he sits on the ground, leaning up against the side of the fountain, the door of a wineshop opens, and a trio of men come staggering out, two supporting the third between them. They're all laughing, and the tallest of the three points them toward the city, raising a slurred cry between them, "To the Pavilion!"
Arthur watches them go, gazing after them with a mix of bitter envy and longing. The Pavilion. A thought striking him, he rummages through his pockets a moment, nearly dropping the rest of his money, and finds what he's looking for: an ivory token, etched with an anemone flower.
Pushing himself to his feet, only a trifle unsteady now, he starts down the street in the direction the men had gone. He knows where the Pavilion is. Everyone does, even if they would never admit they knew. It's established just between the lower town and the upper city, belonging to both and neither, standing apart despite having no true distinguishing characteristics. He nearly trips on his way up the front steps, and even though some distant part of him burns with alarm, he pushes open the doors and enters the Pavilion.
A pair of attendants, male and female, come to meet him. "Where's Dara?" he asks before either of them can get a word out, holding up a hand to forestall them.
"Master Dara only attends to patrons of his own choosing," the male attendant says in a patient voice which suggests he's had to explain as such a great many times to a great many people.
He fumbles the token out of his pocket and holds it up. "Bring him to me. I want to see him."
The male attendant examines the token, bows lowly, and retreats further into the Pavilion, vanishing through some hidden doorway. Arthur leans back against the wall, hands braced on his knees, and waits, breathing slowly. The female attendant only clasps her hands before her and waits, silent.
"Prince Arthur," Dara's familiar voice sounds, and he raises his head. In the lamplight, his hair shines like burnished bronze, held up with its ivory pin. "Is there aught I can do for you?"
"You said I could come to you if I ever needed your assistance or anything else." Straightening up, he holds out his arms. "I'm here for the anything else."
"My lord, I don't think—"
"I don't care what you think," Arthur cuts him off sharply, then swallows hard. "I'm not here for your counsel. Do you make it a point to argue with paying patrons?"
Dara gazes at him for a long moment, then dips his chin. "As you wish. Come with me, my lord." He grasps Arthur's arm and draws him further inside the Pavilion. Arthur's too drunk to make much notice of anything, but he's surprised by the clean, calm quietness of the place, only a few fully-dressed attendants to be seen. He's drawn, stumbling, up the stairs and into a richly furnished room, the floors covered by thick rugs woven in a complex pattern that makes his head swim staring at it. "Sit down, my lord, and wait a moment," Dara instructs, releasing his arm.
"I've not seen anyone," Arthur protests.
Dara gives him that deep, inscrutable gaze, and it's Arthur who looks away first. Drunk as he is, he understands what Merlin meant now. Dara doesn't need to be told things. He sees through people, even the parts of themselves they'd prefer to hide. "Sit," he repeats.
This time, Arthur obeys. He sits down on the end of the soft bed, putting his head in his hands with eyes closed. His stomach is rebelling against the rotgut ale he's drunk, though he's already vomited most of it up, and he breathes slowly, trying to steady himself. The door whispers open, soft footsteps on the thick rug. Arthur lifts his head and doesn't know if he wants to laugh or scream or weep. The young man standing before him is probably a few years younger than him, tall and slender, with curling black hair and deep blue eyes. Oh, yes. Dara can see through him.
The young man inclines his head and gazes up through thick, sooty lashes. "Do I please you, my lord?"
Arthur shudders as he gets to his feet. The young man's a poor imitation, but in his swimming vision, it's near enough. "Don't call me that," he slurs out. He only gets called that when he's done something wrong. Perhaps he has, or is. But he doesn't want to hear it, not now.
"What should I call you, sire?"
He nearly says to call him by name, but the idea of it makes his stomach churn again, feeling ill and flushed all over as if feverish. "That'll do." It's not said with the right amount of impudence, but it will do. He lurches forward, grabs one slim wrist, and draws the young man towards him, willing himself to be lost, just once, only if for a night.
When he wakes in the morning, he's alone in the bed, his head is pounding, and there's a taste of bile in his mouth. He lurches out of the bed, falling on hands and knees, and retches a few times, though there's nothing in his stomach to bring up again. Once his stomach stops rebelling against him, he sits back on his heels. There's a jug of water set on the table, still cold, and he takes several hasty swallows of it, ridding his mouth of that terrible aftertaste.
"Better, my lord?" asks a dry voice from behind him, and he startles slightly, glancing around. Sitting in a chair set unobtrusively in a corner of the room, Dara has one ankle resting on the opposite knee, gazing at him. "I was just coming to wake you. It's still early enough that you can get back to the castle without being seen by anyone important."
"Thank you," he mumbles thickly. His clothes have been neatly folded on the foot of the bed, and he fumbles them back on, roughly doing up his laces. The empty, rumpled bed makes his stomach roll over again, so he sits on the floor to put on his socks instead, searching for his boots.
Dara rises from his chair and crosses the room to him, silent on the thick rug, and crouches on his heels, holding out his cloak. "Go home, my lord."
The weight of Dara's so-knowing gaze is entirely too much to bear, and Arthur hastily tugs on his boots and lurches to his feet. He snatches his cloak, throws it around his shoulders, and strides from the room, forcing himself not to sprint from the Pavilion. There's a door that lets out to the rear, no doubt for the discretion of certain patrons; he makes his way back up to the citadel. By some stroke of luck, it's the guards' morning rotation, and he slips past them into the castle.
To his utter horror, when he comes staggering into his chambers, Merlin is already there waiting for him, laying out clothes on the bed for him. "Name of the Mother, Arthur, where have you been?" the young man exclaims in exasperated relief.
Arthur doesn't move from where he's frozen in front of the door, wishing with everything that he was somewhere, anywhere else.
"I don't know what possessed you to go wandering about at this hour, but the least you could do is leave a note. If it's about last night, I am sorry for what I said. Does that suffice? I was angry and worried about Mother, and I didn't—" He strides across the chambers towards Arthur as he speaks, reaching for the ties of his cloak, but he goes entirely still when he gets near enough to catch the unmistakable scent of sex and stale wine clinging to his clothes. The colour drains from his face, eyes going wide, disbelief and hurt and betrayal flickering across his expression; he drops his hands from the ties, taking a stiff step backwards.
Arthur feels he might be sick all over again, guilt knotting up in his ill-settled stomach. "Merlin…."
The young man takes another step away from him, arms folded behind his back, and his voice is cold, unfamiliar and sharp, a mask settling on his face. "Your breakfast is on the table, and your clothes are laid out. I'll ready a bath. You stink."
The food doesn't taste of anything to him. Arthur forces himself to eat some anyways, hunched miserably over his plate and loathing himself more than he ever has as Merlin fills the tub with the help of another servant. The silence in the room, broken only by the sound of water being poured into the tub, is painful to hear. Once it's full, the servant sketches a bow and bolts from the room like a frightened animal, taking the buckets with him.
Abandoning the rest of his breakfast, Arthur strips off his clothes, wondering if perhaps he could tell Merlin to burn them. The bathwater is cold. A faint, hastily-stifled sound of pain is uttered from behind him as he sinks down into the water, gripping the edges of the tub. The dim recollection of nails digging into his back surfaces, and he realises, nauseated, there must be marks. Shivering, he grabs a stiff-bristled brush and sets himself to scrubbing that damned smell off his skin.