The sound of raised voices is audible in the corridor even before he even reaches Arthur's chamber. Merlin shortens his steps a bit. He's not meaning to eavesdrop, exactly, merely hoping that the…conversation will end, and he won't have to interrupt. There are only a few people Arthur would ever argue with in his chambers like this and not in the council hall—Morgana, Leon, and Agravaine. And no matter who it is, he doesn't want to be in the middle of it.

The door of the rooms swings open, and of course, it is Lord Agravaine who strides out, a thunderous expression on his face. Merlin bows as the man passes, even though it burns at everything in him to do so; he keeps his gaze up, however, following the other man. Agravaine gives him a scalding glare in return, lip curling, then continues on his way, passing so close the hems of his jacket brush Merlin's boots. Gripping the edges of the tray tightly, Merlin waits until the sound of footsteps fades before he closes the last of the distance and uses his elbow to nudge open the door. Arthur is seated at the table, elbows on the tabletop and face in his hands, groaning under his breath. "That sounded pleasant," Merlin says with exaggerated cheer.

Dropping hands from his face, Arthur glares at him halfheartedly even as the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying his amusement. "Shut up, Merlin. Uncle wasn't pleased with my decision to keep Caerleon as a hostage. He says Queen Annis could see it as an act of war and summon their army." He draws the tray towards him and automatically swats at Merlin's filching fingers, though they still retreat with a warm slice of bread.

"And executing her husband wouldn't be seen as an act of war?" the young man prompts in return, brows raised. Either he's not as versed in statecraft as he ought to be or there is quite the flaw in Agravaine's logic.

Arthur shrugs, dipping a piece of bread into his soup. "He's concerned. He isn't the only one. Annis has been known to be a fierce woman, and their army is equal in number to ours. Greater, even. If it comes to war…" He shakes his head, forcing himself to swallow. "It'll be a terrible thing."

"Which is precisely why it won't come to that," Merlin reassures. "Have faith, Arthur. You're a better king than you think. You're doing an excellent job. Everyone thinks so."

"Oh?"

He nudges Arthur's arm with his hip as he circles around the king's chair. "Yes, but don't go getting a big head. Your crown scarce fits as it is," he retorts, then yelps when he receives a sharp swat across the back of his thigh in reproof. Moving out of range, he starts gathering up the various clothes scattered around the chamber, wondering not for the first time how Arthur leaves such a trail of disarray in his wake. "Speaking of, how is our unhappy guest? Has Queen Annis responded to your request for terms?"

Whilst the rest of his men have been put into the dungeons, Caerleon has been appointed lodgings more suitable for a royal prisoner in the west tower. It's the most ideal place to keep him, as the single window is too high to jump from, and there is only one stairwell which goes in or out of the tower. It certainly isn't the most luxurious quarters the castle has to offer, but it is still far more than other prisoners are afforded. Lancelot is appointed charge of Caerleon's guard, and the two servants that attend to the captive king have been chosen for their unique skill set—both are watchers for Dara, trained spies he has placed in the royal household. Under Uther's reign, they had reported only to Dara, leaving the man to work on his own, but now they give information to Arthur and even to Merlin and Leon when prudent.

"He remains steadfastly silent, and a rider arrived this morning. She's agreed to meet with me and discuss negotiations, but she refuses to come to Camelot." Arthur can't fault her for that. He wouldn't want to walk directly into the lions' den either, especially since it means that he would have both rulers of Caerleon essentially at his mercy if she did. It's a dishonorable thing to think, but a few members of his council had suggested that very option to him. "And of course, I cannot go to her. Morgana suggests a compromise. We choose a place near the borders, between the kingdoms. Leon agrees it's the best choice, and I agree."

"Have you an idea where?"

Arthur smiles. "I believe I do."

"Look at this place, Mordred. All these years, and it's hardly damaged in the least," Bellegere exclaims in a hushed voice, reaching out to tug insistently at her companion's arm, peering past the rest of the party to get a glimpse of the castle of Fyrien, the legendary stronghold itself. It's situated neatly up against the edge of the cliffs, empty land stretching out from it in every direction. An ideal place for a meeting of two potentially hostile parties, as there's no way for anyone to possibly approach without being seen. Arthur had chosen the place wisely. "I wonder if the tunnels are still there. I imagine they would be. This place was built to withstand everything."

"I don't know, and we are not going to go looking for them," Mordred grumbles in return. "We aren't supposed to be here at all, and I am not about to get in any more trouble just because you want to go climbing about."

She rolls her eyes skyward and swats his shoulder again. "Oh, come on, where is your spirit of adventure?"

He tugs his hood further down over his head; the salt air from the sea plays unholy hell with his hair. "I lost it in the mire with my first pair of boots," he snipes back.

Walking at his other side, Ione scoffs. "I thought your lot was s'posed to be used to livin' outside and all that. Gone soft?"

"I'm more used to living outside than you are, and keep your voice down." Mordred glares and pinches her arm, making her curse. At least once in a day, he wonders why he ever told them he was a Druid. Well, he hadn't exactly told Bellegere. She'd come striding into his chamber without knocking just like she always did, when he didn't have a tunic on, and had seen his tattoo. And of course, she has the tenacity of a terrier with a rat, so lying had been out of the question.

"I think we should at least go look at the tunnels," Bellegere says thoughtfully, ignoring their bickering. "Just to make sure there's nobody lurking about in them. That's how King Uther defeated Caerleon's forces before, you know."

Ione casts her a puzzled look. "I thought they weren't at war then."

She shrugs one shoulder, tugging her hood back into place when the wind tries to snatch it away. Even in servants' clothes, she doesn't want anyone to recognise her. "They were, but not with this one," she replies, then frowns. "See, this is why you shouldn't have the same name as your kingdom, it's confusing. The old king, King Caerleon's father, he was the one who was at war with Uther. After he was defeated here, they made peace with Camelot and the other three kingdoms, but once he died, Caerleon withdrew from the peace."

Mordred makes a face. "You're right, it is confusing."

A horn sends up a call at the fore of the party, and Bellegere's heart leaps in her breast. Seizing hold of Mordred and Ione, she drags them through the party, slipping between the wagons, soldiers, and porters, until they emerge on the other side. "Look, there she is!"

On the far horizon, just coming over the hill, is a second party advancing from the north. She knows they'll number the same—300 strong, soldiers and servants and nobles and knights—as they should, per their agreement. Overhead, banners snap in the breeze, but they don't sport the proud gold-on-red dragon of Camelot. These banners are blue, bearing a snarling black wolf's head. Queen Annis.

"This is going to be fantastic," she whispers.

Mordred groans.

One thing is certain, Arthur thinks as he surveys the main hall. No one can ever say Fyrien did not have a sense of dramatic aesthetic. There's more than enough space in the hall for both their parties to have a seat at the great, long tables which are still intact and useable despite the years. Both had supplied servants to the task of cleaning away the accumulated cobwebs and grime, setting up torches and setting a fire in the great hearth.

When the doors of the great hall open, he rises to his feet, turning to face the Queen of Caerleon for the first time. Annis is a formidable woman of middling years, clad in a deep blue gown with golden embroidery, a drape of rich fur across her shoulders. She wears only a slender circlet on her brow, but Arthur recognises that proud carriage, that air of authority she carries around her. For a brief second, Arthur feels as though he's a boy allowed to dine at the adults' table for the first time, but then his resolve settles firm and steady, steeling up his spine. "Queen Annis," he greets, inclining his head.

She dips her chin as well, though her eyes don't stray from his, green and inscrutable. "King Arthur. Where is my husband?" she asks, gazing at him. Her tone is steady, passably casual even, but he's not fool enough to believe it.

Without taking his gaze from her, Arthur gestures towards Leon; his First Knight bows and leaves the hall, departing through a side door. A moment later, he returns with Lancelot, his guard, and Caerleon. Arthur had sent for a bath and more suitable clothes for the captive king; the first he'd accepted, the second he hadn't. So Caerleon comes before his queen in the same dark, hardy clothes he'd been captured in. They'd been laundered, of course, but that didn't do much for their appearance; in a hall full of polished steel and richly coloured fabrics, he stands out sharply, a vulture in a falconers' mews.

Arthur watches Annis's face as she turns to face her husband. He sees the way her eyes narrow the slightest bit, sees the tightening around her mouth, and he knows that Lancelot was right. Caerleon hadn't told her of his actions against Camelot. Cutting a glance at Caerleon, he sees the way the man's jaw is clenched tight, hands in fists, how he can't quite meet Annis's eye.

"He's been quite intractable," Arthur says lightly. "I do hope you and I may speak more reasonably."

"Of course," Annis replies, her voice smooth and cold as a frozen lake. Her brows lift slightly. "I wouldn't presume to demand the payment before the bargain, however. You may return him to his holding. I wanted only to see he was unharmed."

"Annis—" Caerleon hisses.

"I warned you nothing good would come from this," she cuts him off. "You brought this solely upon yourself. If you could not come to terms in Camelot, I see no reason why you should make them here."

Arthur conjures no fewer than a dozen horrifyingly uncomfortable images in his head in order to keep from laughing at the expression on Caerleon's face. He might not have been king long, but he is still fairly certain that laughing in the middle of a peace treaty is not conducive to their goal.

Looking as though they're fighting grins of their own, Leon and Lancelot escort Caerleon from the hall, the captive king silently fuming between them.

Once the door closes, Annis turns to him once more. "Shall we begin?"

Arthur draws one of the chairs out from the table for her. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"She agreed to surrender the Burn?" Merlin asks in awe as he unrolls a clean blanket across the bed that's been theirs these past three days. The feather-stuffed pallet hasn't rotted the way straw would, but gods only knew what might've made a home in it. He knows a spell to clear out vermin, but he isn't comfortable doing magic here, outside of Camelot and in a foreign castle full of strangers.

Arthur chuckles as he rolls his left shoulder slowly, easing the ache out of it. "You know, you and Mordred are the only ones I've heard who call it that," he muses, wondering if perhaps that's what the Druids call the river that runs through the province of Everwick. On maps it is dubbed Coldwater, so named because it is fed by snowmelt and is permanently frigid, even in the midst of summer.

"Nothing burns like the cold," Merlin replies loftily. "What else?"

He sits on the edge of the covered bed and tugs off his boots, pitching them aside. "Well, she's only surrendered up to Coldwater. The land on the other side will remain part of Caerleon. It's more than half the province to Camelot, however, so it suits. Some territory along Landshire as well. Mostly forest, but it's good game land. This castle, as well. As of tonight, Merlin, we are now officially back in Camelot." Leaning back on his hands, he tilts his head back to look at Merlin, watching fondly as he pushes open the windows and makes a face at the squeal of the hinges. Apparently the servants who had cleaned the chamber hadn't thought to oil them. His smile fades, however, as he recalls the rest of their meeting. "After we signed the treaty, Annis asked to speak to me privately, told me why Caerleon began raiding the borders," he adds solemnly.

Merlin frowns as well, catching his tone. "What is it?"

"Well, you were right, for a rare miracle," Arthur retorts; Merlin extolls a rather colourful and unlikely depiction of Arthur's intelligence and heritage. Once the brief tirade ends, he continues. "Caerleon was targeting those villages and townships that had belonged to his kingdom before his father's treaty. We thought he was simply taking what valuables they had, but it's more than that. He was after their food stores. I thought they'd hidden it away somewhere, or burnt it, but they were sending it back to Caerleon."

"What for?"

"Blight." Arthur lays back against the bed, staring up at the dust-greyed canopy above him, holes eaten through the thick cloth. "There's been an outbreak of blight in their crops. It spread quickly through a number of fields. They've contained it, burned it out, but…they've lost over a third of their harvest. Entire towns will starve if they can't replace what they've lost."

"By the goddess," Merlin murmurs quietly as he climbs up onto the bed. "But… why would he not simply…I don't know, bargain with one of the other kingdoms? Make trade with the merchants from Eire? You've said yourself they have quarries of good stone, mines. They're not lacking for material to trade."

He closes his eyes and moves further up onto the bed, reclining back to let his head rest on Merlin's stomach. Even after so many years, he is still betimes amazed by Merlin's ability to be so sagacious and yet still callow. "It isn't as simple as that," he sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Just what part isn't simple?" Merlin retorts. "Your people are starving; you find a way to get them food."

Arthur opens his mouth to insist, no, it isn't that simple, though Merlin clearly isn't understanding, but closes it again, knowing they'll just end up arguing in circles that way. A memory stirs in his mind, snow in summer and the smell of the sea. "Do you recall the unicorn?" he prompts instead and Merlin makes an affirmative sound. "When our harvest died, what did my father do?"

The younger man is quiet a moment. "He chose to stop giving out rations, reserved it for the army," he says at last, his voice quiet but beginning to understand.

"You asked me the same question then you're asking now. I asked it of my father as well. Do you remember what he told me?"

"That he would sooner starve than beg for help."

Arthur hums. "Just so. Caerleon is a proud man." He almost understands it, at least in part. A ruler cannot be seen as weak to others; to do so courts trouble of all ilk. Cenred had planned to invade when Father was weak, occupied with the issue of the Feorrans and Morgana's slow slide towards death. And yet, how can one think of personal pride whilst the people they're sworn to protect starve? A ruler serves their people just as the people serve them, and he is no Hellene deity to rule a kingdom of the dead. Merlin had said it himself when they captured Caerleon—compassion can be its own strength. The virtue of mercy.

Merlin makes a sound of derision, stroking a hand through Arthur's hair. "Damned fools," he mutters. "Royal damned fools. Well, what do you mean to do?"

Arthur lets out another sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know. I'm going to speak to Uncle and the others in the morning. We might be here another few days." He sighs and sits up, turning over to crawl closer to Merlin, looking down into his face. "You would help them, wouldn't you?"

The young man sighs, reaching up to toy with the pendant dangling around Arthur's neck, tracing along the sun's rays. "Nobody deserves to starve. No matter who they are or which kingdom they live in. Yes. I would," he agrees, then drops his hand, gazing up into Arthur's face. The pendant swings, winking gold in the candlelight, reflected in his eyes, so dark they hardly seem blue at all. "But it isn't as simple as that, is it?" He turns over and blows out the candle.

"If we get lost down here, I want you to know that I truly will kill you," Mordred says, voice hushed as to not echo so loudly in the tunnels.

"Craven." Ione flicks a small stone at him, and he makes a rude gesture towards her, which she returns. She starts to climb up a jutting shelf of stone, ascending upwards like some giant's staircase. Mordred stands below her, giving her a helpful shove upwards when she falters, even as she curses at him.

Bellegere turns back to look at them, already having climbed up onto the shelf above them. In her loose trousers, grubby tunic, and frayed jerkin, she looks more herself than she does in silk and brocade. "We aren't going to get lost. I've been marking our way," she reminds him, holding up a piece of chalky white stone. At every branching path and turn, she'd used it to scratch marks on the darker stone of the tunnel walls so they might retrace their steps. "And even if we do, you can use your magic to call to Merlin, and he'll come find us."

Grasping a jut of stone, Mordred braces one foot against a boulder and hoists himself up, carefully seeking out hand- and toeholds in the tunnel wall to climb up. "And if that happens, we are all three of us going to be in an unholy amount of trouble," he grumbles under his breath. For all she is his friend, he believes Bellegere sometimes forgets that neither he nor Ione are first cousin to the King. Mordred knows Arthur's passing fond of them, but he isn't willing to gamble on it as easily as Bellegere. Not to mention, if they are caught, Merlin won't be pleased with them, either. He has no great desire to earn the discontent of Emrys, though Merlin's disappointment is just as disheartening. The two are wholly separate from one another.

Under any other circumstances, he would be more than happy to explore the tunnels. He had been born in a cavern like this in the White Mountains, and he feels at ease in the deep places of the earth. Even though the tunnels have been crudely dug, he can still feel the difference between them and natural caverns. Walls made by man are always separate from those formed by nature. However, this surely isn't the time to do it, when there is half a castle's worth of strangers above them. Queen Annis has already signed the treaty with Arthur, though they're still in discussions over something, but that doesn't mean they should simply drop their guard around Caerleon's soldiers. Their king had been furious, and that anger hadn't dissipated in the least. Who knew if he would even honour his queen's agreement with Arthur?

As they approach another rise of stone, Bellegere nudges him. "Are you angry with me?"

"No," Mordred answers. "I worry, nothing more." It's only partly untrue.

"You fret like a fishwife is what you do."

He elbows her side. "And if I did not, then you would have probably been caught half a hundred times already. You don't plan through things. You need to learn patience, Lady Belligerent."

She wrinkles her nose. "You sound like my tutors," she retorts, then grasps at the stone and begins to climb.

Mordred waits until she gains the lip of the shelf, biting back the sharp rise of temper. If only she knew. He imagines that not having to grow up as a hunted breed gives her the luxury of impatience. He hadn't been allowed to be playfully reckless as she is, not if he wanted to keep his head attached to his neck.

"You're good at this. Are you sure you aren't a squirrel?" Bellegere poses as he gains the lip of the shelf, both quicker and neater than she or Ione had.

He snorts and rolls his eyes skyward, deciding it isn't prudent to tell her that whenever she is at her lessons or away doing whatever it is noble girls do, he makes it his business to scale the castle walls and explore the rooftops.

"I see light," Ione says from ahead of them, craning her neck to peer upwards. Sure enough, there's light coming from above, enough to illuminate her face and play strange tricks in the red-gold of her hair.

Bellegere grins victoriously as she comes to her maidservant's side, tilting her head back as well. "This must be the way into the castle. What part of it do you suppose we're under?"

Mordred joins them and peers upwards. Though the tunnel dead-ends horizontally, it takes a sharp turn upwards now, a wide shaft that goes upwards. In the sides of the shaft, he can see regularly spaced apertures gouged out of the stone. A stone ladder. It'll make for an easy climb, even for clumsy Ione. Over the sound of their hushed voices, debating what part of the castle they'll emerge into, another sound reaches his ears.

"Did you hear that?" he murmurs, grasping Bellegere's arm. Beyond the meagre light of the small lightstone he had brought in lieu of a torch, the tunnels stretch away into darkness, different from the dark of night, a living blackness that has never seen the light of day.

"Hear what?" Bellegere asks, brow furrowed as she looks in the direction he faces.

"I don't know. Something moving." Sound can do strange things underground, he knows, but he had certainly heard movement.

"Rats," Ione declares confidently.

Mordred shakes his head, gripping the lightstone tighter in hand. "Larger than that."

For a moment, they're all silent, listening. There is no sound other than their own breathing and the occasional scutter of vermin elsewhere in the darkness, the faint drip of water and the far-off moan wind over the mouth of the tunnels. "There's nothing there," Bellegere reassures him, though there isn't quite as much confidence colouring her tone now. "Come on. We've been down here too long, you're losing your wits."

Mordred nearly snaps that he does not lose his wits in places of the earth but bites his tongue. The sooner they're out of here, the better. "Fine. Stand aside. I'll go first," he says instead.

"Why you?" Ione retorts, propping her fists on her hips.

"Because I am the best climber of the three of us, and if there's something blocking the way out, I'll be able to move it better than you two. Here, just hold this and wait for my signal." He hands over the lightstone. Stooping down, he scoops up a hand of the fine, powdery loess that dusts the floors of the caverns, dusting his hands with it before he reaches for the first of the handholds in the wall, beginning the ascent.

The shaft isn't small, no doubt made for grown men carrying arms, so he has ample room to move about. Just to see if he can, he reaches out as far as he can with one arm, keeping the other holding tight on the wall, and he cannot touch the opposite wall of the shaft. Uther's army probably could've hoisted an entire wagon this way, he muses as he continues climbing upwards. The higher he goes, the clearer the light above him becomes until he's directly beneath it. Carefully, Mordred reaches upwards, feeling out with his fingers, and he finds a smooth lip of stone. When he reaches further, he finds only more empty air. Gripping the edge tight, he climbs up slowly, eyes closed and going only on his touch; light can play tricks as well as sound. There's room enough for him to climb up, and once he's pulled himself up, lying on his belly on the stone, he opens his eyes and looks around. The shaft leads into another small tunnel, more of a hollow than a proper tunnel, and the light comes from a metal grate set in the top of it. He eases himself forward and peers up, looking through the cross-set bars. Smooth stone walls, manmade; the corner of a dusty, moth-gnawed tapestry; a stairwell.

Despite his earlier protestations, he feels a bright stab of victorious glee in his chest. They'd found the way into the castle.

Scooting closer, he starts feeling around the edges of the grate, grinning wider when he feels a set of catches, one on each side of the grate. Unfastening them is no easy task, as they've been left unmoving for however many years, flakes of rust sifting down as he turns them loose; when he pushes up on the grate, however, it lifts with surprising ease, and he slides it aside, poking his head out of the opening.

The grate is set in a small alcove in what looks to be a servants' stairwell, narrow and poorly lit. For a span of heartbeats, he strains his ears to listen for any signs of movement. When he hears none, he retreats back into the hollow. There's just room enough for him to turn around.

At the bottom of the shaft, he can just make out Bellegere and Ione, lit by the glow of the lightstone. Mordred tugs his whistle free from his tunic and blows on it thrice, two short and one long note, echoing softly in the shaft. If it'd been a huntsman's horn instead of a birdbone whistle, it would've been the call to advance. A heartbeat of quiet, and then he hears a responding whistle from below.

Wriggling backwards, he climbs up out of the hollow, standing in the stairwell. It seems to take a small eternity for the girls to emerge, but soon enough, Ione's head and shoulders pop up out of the hole like a rabbit emerging from its warren, a victorious grin on her face. Mordred helps her up and out, and no sooner than she clears the hole does Bellegere emerge as well, wriggling out without waiting for assistance.

"This is the best day," she whispers gleefully, sliding the grate back into place. She tosses the lightstone into his hands. "Come on, let's find out where we are and get back to camp."

"Agreed," Mordred murmurs. He whispers the charm to extinguish the stone's light and drops it into his pocket, following her as they start down the staircase, Bellegere leading the way.

At the foot of the staircase, she comes to an abrupt stop, so sudden he collides with her back and nearly unbalances her, having to clutch the back of her jerkin to keep her upright. Not that she notices. She's gone stiff as a stone, and through the hand on her back, he can feel her trembling. "Bellegere? What is it?" he whispers, feeling Ione tug at his sleeve curiously. When she doesn't reply, he tugs at her jerkin again, this time moving her sideways so he can peer around her, the staircase too narrow to move around her easily. His breath seizes in his throat.

On the landing at the bottom of the stairs, a young man is lying on the floor. At first glance, it almost looks as though he's simply decided to cease in his duties and take a brief doze on the landing. Except his face is discoloured, his open eyes bloodied red and unseeing, and around his throat is a bloody band of raw flesh, raked with scratches.

Even as he reaches out to touch his thoughts to Merlin's, Mordred thinks in a strange, detached way that all he'd wanted to do this morning was go down to beach and look for cockles.

"Report," Arthur orders firmly, staring at Hunith and Leon. He paces the length of his temporary chambers, unable to force himself to keep still. Behind them, Merlin leans against the wall beside the doors, quarterstaff in hand; he's holding an enchantment over the chambers, ensuring that their private words remained private.

Hunith steps forward first. "Whoever strangled the man was quick about it and didn't hesitate. He didn't have time to get his hands up, which means it's likely he didn't see it coming at all. The other marks on his throat are likely self-inflicted. He tried to pull it loose, scratched himself," she adds quietly. "The wound is clean, so I doubt it was rope. Something smoother. Silk, maybe. Or steel thread."

"Steel thread?" Arthur echoes.

Here, Leon interjects. "I've heard of it, though I have never seen it with my own eyes. Smiths work steel out thin and fine until it's no thicker than a thread, braid strands together to make a cord. I imagine it'd make quite a deadly weapon in creative hands. Sire, do you believe it possible that any of Caerleon's people are responsible for this? I understand the king wasn't pleased with the terms of the treaty."

Pacing the length of his chambers, Arthur shakes his head, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. "He wasn't, but he gave me his word that he would uphold it. We've already secured trade with them," he replies shortly. "If Caerleon wanted someone dead, why would he have a camp porter strangled in a servants' stairwell? No, this was done by one of our own. Did you find anything in his belongings?"

"No, sire," Hunith replies.

Arthur stops a moment, biting the knuckle of his forefinger, a nervous habit he only ever indulges in private. "Dismissed. Say nothing of this to anyone, understand? Hunith, if you find anything else, come to me immediately. Leon, find my cousin and her maidservant and Mordred, and you keep them under your personal guard. They are not to go anywhere else unescorted. No one speaks to them except myself, Hunith, or Merlin," he orders brusquely.

"Sire." Leon bows and Hunith curtsies, taking their leave.

Once the door shuts behind them, Merlin reaches out to set the crossbar in place. "You knew him?" he asks in a soft voice. When they had been shown the strangled man, Arthur had looked too shocked, gone too pale for it to be a stranger.

Arthur slows his pacing a moment, his gaze flicking to Merlin, and there's something like guilt there. "Yes. His name is Tal. Talorcan. He's one of Dara's. When I…when I went to the Pavilion, Tal…" He sketches a gesture in the air.

Merlin takes his meaning. "That's all you know him from? He didn't work in the castle?"

"No, no. I've only seen him twice, that first night I went there and when I went to speak to Dara, after you'd left for Silverpine. He was standing attendant then. I don't understand," Arthur says softly, running a hand back through his hair. He stops pacing and drops down into a chair, shaking his head. "Tal…he worked for Dara, but I can't imagine he could know anything that would warrant this." Tal's only purpose here in the camp at all was to listen for any stirrings of trouble, to gauge the level of hostility or goodwill amongst Annis's party, not to actively infiltrate.

Merlin moves closer, reaching out to run a hand over Arthur's back in quiet comfort even as his mind turns, trying to understand. No matter how distasteful some might consider Dara's business, he knows that the man would never let any of his workers get into something so dangerous without giving him some kind of protection or telling someone. He had only a handful of spies allowed to take on dangerous assignations, and this Talorcan certainly wasn't one of them.

Someone knocks on the door of the chamber, making them both startle from their thoughts. Merlin withdraws his hand and goes to the door to remove the crossbar; Arthur rises from his seat, gathering himself. "Enter."

They both relax slightly, when Bellegere edges in, her face drawn and pale. Behind her stands Leon, with Mordred and Ione lurking further behind him. "She asked to speak to you privately, sire," he explains.

Arthur nods and waves a hand; Leon withdraws and closes the door, leaving her alone in the chamber with them.

"What is it, dear heart?" Merlin asks as he returns to Arthur's side, resting a hand on the king's back, a silent reminder to stay calm. He knows Arthur isn't wholly pleased with his young cousin for her deception, though these events have helped check his temper for the time being; Lord Agravaine, however, is furious.

"It's…it's about that man," Bellegere says softly. "The one we found. I…I think I know why someone…" She makes a vague gesture towards her throat, looking faintly ill. For all her belligerence, she is still only four-and-ten and has lived a fairly sheltered life compared to most. Before today, odds are fair she's not seen a dead man.

Arthur softens as well, hearing the tremor in her voice, and he lifts one arm. Bellegere darts across the room to fling herself into his embrace, burying her face against his chest, and Merlin strokes her hair with one hand. "What is it?" Arthur asks gently, lifting her chin with fingertips.

"That man…I saw him earlier. In the camp, this morning before we went down to the tunnels," Bellegere explains, straightening up and turning to look at Merlin. "I thought he was you, at first. I didn't see his face clear, and I-I thought he was you." Her chest heaves rapidly, eyes wide and overbright, voice climbing in volume and pitch. "I called him by your name, Merlin. In front of all those people, I called him your name, and now he's dead."

Arthur hushes her gently, stroking her hair again, and she shudders, hands over her face. Over the top of her head, he meets Merlin's gaze, sees the same grim understanding in his manservant's expression. Talorcan did look like Merlin. If one wasn't familiar with either of them, he could see how it could possible to mistake them, especially in a dimly lit stairwell. And if Bellegere had addressed Talorcan by Merlin's name in the midst of a crowded camp, it'd be all the easier to confuse the two.

No one had intended to kill Tal at all.

They had been after Merlin.