The journey back to Camelot passes swiftly, and though everyone else in their party is quite happily celebrating their alliance with Caerleon, Arthur is quiet. It's late enough that he can get away with not having on his courtier's mask, as Merlin phrases it. As they make the square and begin to dismount and unload, he takes Merlin by the arm and draws him near. "Here." Arthur presses the sealed case holding the treaty into his hands, reaching down to take a key from his belt. "Take this down to the vaults and speak to Morgana. Tell her what's happened."

"What are you going to do?" Merlin wonders.

"Speak to Dara. He deserves to know as well, and he might be able to say something of this."

"Wait." Merlin catches him by the wrist before he turns away and presses the case back towards him. "You take this and speak to Morgana. I'll go, and I'll bring Dara to your study," he murmurs. He can see Arthur's hesitation, clearly reluctant to have him off on his own when there is more than likely an assassin seeking him, but he squeezes the king's wrist gently. "Go see the council to the castle and speak to Morgana. You shouldn't be seen at the Pavilion now." After a successful treaty like this, Arthur needs to be seen in the castle with his sister and the court, helping to extinguish any doubts of his ability to be an effective diplomat and conciliator. Now that he was king, he'd be under closer scrutiny than before, and he can't be seen slinking off to a bordello immediately upon return to the city. Merlin knows every hidden passage and stairwell; getting Dara into the castle unseen will be a simple enough task.

After a moment's hesitation, Arthur closes his hand around the key and nods. "Very well. There and directly back," he adds on sharply.

Under any other circumstances, the tone would've rankled—being spoken to as if he's a small child and not a man grown. However, he knows Arthur is both angry and uneasy over the events at Castle Fyrien, and it makes him snappish. Therefore, Merlin doesn't argue and dips his chin in acquiescence. "Of course, sire."

In the midst of the bustle, it's easy for him to slip out of the square and make his way through the upper city towards the Pavilion, moving through the narrow alleys between buildings to keep from being spotted by any of the nobles. When he comes to the back of the walled garden behind the Pavilion, Merlin backs up a few paces and makes a sprint towards the wall, managing to scramble up and over without falling, though he does manage to scrape both his shins getting over. There's a young man in the garden tending to a bed of flowers, and he yelps loudly when Merlin drops to the ground in front of him. "I'm here to speak to Dara," he says.

The young man gapes at him a moment, then bobs his head, pointing towards the doors. "Yes, my lord. He's in his study."

"Thank you." Merlin crosses the garden, leaving the young man blinking bemusedly after him.

Dara is at his desk writing in his ledgers when Merlin walks in, and he smiles as he sets aside the quill, though there's a small crease between his brows as well. "I wasn't expecting you so soon after arriving, my friend," he observes. "I trust you were successful?"

"We were, but…" Merlin takes a breath and lets it out slowly, sickly-hot guilt twisting in his belly. "Arthur needs to speak to you. Privately. I'm to show you to the castle."

The other man gazes at him for a moment as though he's looking all the way down through Merlin, but if he sees aught amiss, he doesn't say anything of it. Rising from his desk, he takes down a cloak with a deep hood, drawing it on. "Lead the way, then."

There's a door that lets out to the rear of the building for the discretion of certain patrons. When they gain the castle, Merlin waits until there's a moment of stillness before leading Dara through the hidden door in the larder of the kitchens. The passage is narrow enough that they have to walk single-file, turned slightly sideways because the walls are too close for them to stand full forward. "I've never known this was here," Dara murmurs interestedly.

"Nobody does, save me." Thank you for that, Cornelius. He keeps hold of Dara's wrist in the darkness, counting steps and turns. Reaching out, he presses his free hand against the wall, tracing along the cool stone until he feels the engravings etched deep there, marking the exit. He pushes the false wall out and open, blinking in the light as they step out into the King's study.

"Sit down if you'd like. I'll go and find Arthur. He's gone to take the treaty down to the vaults and to speak with the council," Merlin says as he slides the false wall back into place, hearing it settle with a quiet rasp of stone; Dara sits in one of two chairs set before Arthur's desk, folding his cloak over his lap. He slips out of the study and starts in the direction of the council hall, knowing Arthur's most likely to be there. However, when he rounds the corner, he nearly runs full-front into his king, both of them chuckling at each other in surprise.

Arthur gives him a faint smile. "I've sent the treaty to Geoffrey to be preserved in the vaults, and I've told Morgana we'll have a proper meeting of the council tomorrow, once everyone's rested. They were pleased to see me." The way he says it, that faintly begrudging tone, is his way of admitting that Merlin was right without actually having to say the words, the stubborn prat. It makes Merlin smile as well.

"Dara is waiting for you in the study. Will you require my services any further, sire?" he asks, tacitly asking to be dismissed, and Arthur's expression darkens. Before the other man can voice the protest he already knows is coming, Merlin adds in a lower voice, "I'm going home with Leon, to ward the townhouse." When Arthur only scowls, even though they stand in the middle of the corridor where anyone might come 'round and see, he lifts one hand and sifts his fingertips through the fringe of golden hair, just brushing the frown lines on Arthur's brow. "I won't be afraid to set foot in my own home, and you cannot let this rattle you. I'll be fine."

Arthur takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sharp huff, then nods, drawing up his shoulders. "Very well. I'll see you in the morning," he replies, sounding properly himself again for a moment.

"Goodnight, sire." Glancing about to ensure they are still alone, Merlin takes Arthur's head between his hands, leans up, and kisses his brow, quick and darting.

Arthur gives him a halfhearted push backwards even as the tips of his ears turn pink. "Off with you," he grumbles, and Merlin chuckles, quickly leaping away from the playful swat aimed at him.

Once the sound of footsteps fades down the corridor, Arthur takes a deep breath to settle himself, the brief flutter of happiness evaporating, squares his shoulders, and goes into his study. Dara looks as lovely as he ever does, hair loose over his shoulders, and he holds his cloak draped over his lap, prim as any courtier. There's a small frown lingering at the corners of his mouth, however; he's more than intelligent enough to know that this isn't a pleasant conversation to be had between friends. Arthur takes the chair beside Dara rather than the one behind his desk proper, and as soon as he does, words escape him entirely.

"Arthur," Dara says softly, his voice soft and knowing. "Something's happened."

It isn't a question, but he jerks his chin once. "Tal was murdered at the signing. An assassin's work. We believe someone mistook him for Merlin."

The other man inhales sharply, fingers tightening nigh imperceptibly around the folds of his cloak.

"I am so very sorry," Arthur murmurs, and the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth with their pathetical inadequacy. "Did he have any family?"

"None but us." Sinking back in the chair, Dara closes his eyes for a moment, the muscles in his throat working as he swallows hard. After a moment of quiet, he straightens and turns his deep gaze back to Arthur. "You believe that the assassin was after Merlin. Tell me."

"You don't have to do this now…."

The other man waves a hand, dismissing Arthur's protest. "No, no, this helps. I can do no more for Tal now, except to find his murderer and bring him peace that way, and if there is danger, I need to tell my people," he insists. "Pray go on."

Arthur does. He explains all that had happened during the treaty, or at least, near as he can remember it all, how Tal had been found by Bellegere, their suspicions and worries.

When he runs out of words, Dara reaches up to press a hand over his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. "All right. Very well. I agree that Merlin was the more likely target. For now, let's not look at what has happened but what was meant to happen. I know you have lovers' bias, but I trust in your ability to dissemble. Try to set aside what you feel for Merlin now and look at it from an outsider's point of view," Dara instructs firmly, and Arthur nods. He's not sure how well he'll do, but he'll try. Drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair, Dara says carefully, "Was Tal killed before the treaty was signed?"

Arthur recalls just how long Hunith had said the lad had been dead and counts back the hours. "Yes. Probably the night before."

"Mm. If you had been unable to find Merlin that morning, you would've sent someone to look for him?"

"Of course I would've, I…" Arthur trails off faintly, breath catching in his throat as things begin to unfold in front of his eyes, like a length of thread being unspooled, coming closer to the needle at the end. Merlin had been with him all that day, both easing his nerves and raising his confidence for what would be his first major act as king. If he had just up and vanished, then Arthur would've turned the castle upside down to find him, knowing damn well Merlin wouldn't leave him without reason. And if he had found Merlin dead…. He forces a deep breath, letting it out gradually. Focus. Set it aside. He wouldn't have suspected anyone from their own party; he would've been suspicious of the others first. "They were trying to stop the signing. They wanted to cast suspicion on Annis and her people," he declares.

Dara nods slowly, having watched Arthur intently as his mind churned, no doubt waiting to see where he arrived. "And who would you have blamed? Who in the queen's party would've had a reason to harm Merlin?"

"Caerleon," Arthur murmurs. "Merlin lured him to the ambush where we captured him. Merlin suggested we hold him captive and treat with Annis."

The other man nods again, gaze dark and intent. "Just so."

He presses both hands over his face as he leans back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed lids until red spots bloom behind them. Someone hadn't just tried to scupper the peace talks, they might have provoked an outright war between the kingdoms. Tense as things had been, it wouldn't have taken much of a spark to ignite them. And other than that, it means that there is very likely a traitor in their midst, working against them. "Dara," he mutters without pulling his hands away from his eyes, head resting against the chairback. "We have a great deal to discuss."

"How are your charges?" Merlin asks as he rubs an oiled cloth over the tangled straps of his dagger sheathes, Allegra's heavy head resting on his thigh. His kit is all spread out on the rug in front of the hearth, the daggers laid out in a row on his other side like a string of glittering silver teeth. The routine is comforting to him, the reassurance of a task unchanged, especially now that he's carefully woven protective magics around the townhouse.

Leon stretches his legs out towards the fire, shaking his head and taking a sip of perry. "Miserable, the three of them." He'd been given charge of Bellegere, Ione, and Mordred for the entirety of the journey home, and none of them had dared to so much as look in the wrong direction under his guard. Having grown up with a younger sibling, particularly one like Merlin, he is quite immune to sad eyes and coaxing words, and he has acquired quite the skill in managing troublesome young ones. "Lord Agravaine's ordered her confined to her chambers for now. He's not even letting Ione see her." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, cup cradled between his hands. "What do you intend to do about your ward?"

Merlin lays out the last of the straps and picks up a whetstone instead, reaching for the first of his daggers absentmindedly. It's strange to think of Mordred as his ward when they're near enough in age to be siblings, and yet the lad is his responsibility, not only as his elder but at his teacher and protector as well. "I don't know yet," he admits, his gaze flicking unconsciously towards the ceiling, Mordred's bedchamber being just above them. "I'll think of something. They were foolish."

Mouth twisting wryly, Leon chuckles and shakes his head. "To hear such coming from you…oh, how things do change," he remarks.

"I never smuggled myself along on a political mission I was expressly forbidden from attending," Merlin protests, staring at his brother indignantly. Alright, he'd gotten himself into a few…interesting situations as a child, but not like this.

"No, but I do seem to recall a certain venture in which we visited a set of ruins known for housing wyverns, and no sooner does Father tell you not to go off alone, you up and vanish for hours, only to come back to camp after dusk, barefoot, covered head to toe in scratches, and hauling a lamed wyvern pip along with you, begging Father to let you keep it because it'd been so cruelly abandoned."

A hot flush creeps up the side of his neck and burns in his cheeks and ears. "That happened once, and I was nine."

"And then there was that one time with Allegra and Sir Horas—"

"Sir Horror deserved that."

"Naturally, I could never forget the incident with the frogs—"

"Alright, alright, alright!" Merlin cuts him off, raising his voice over his brother's laughter. He balls up the oiled rag he'd used to clean his kit and pitches at Leon's face, laughing in vengeful glee when the rag falls right into Leon's cup. Sighing softly as his mirth fades, he picks up the whetstone again and turns a dagger over in his hand. "I'll think of something," he repeats.

The most efficient punishment Lionel and Evaine had ever visited upon him was to bar him from his yew tree and his secret cave. They couldn't forbid his magic, of course, but they'd cut him off from the wild places he loved best. He'll have to do the same, granted in a different way. Mordred loves climbing. The boy's agile as a squirrel and spends almost as much time on the rooftops as those ravens of his. Merlin supposes he'll have to keep the boy from the roofs and ramparts for a time, ban him from the mews. It'll make him miserable, but it'll serve to make the point.

Leon chuckles and settles back in his chair, looking down into his cup with a small pout. Setting it aside, he rises to his feet and carefully steps over the row of blades on the rug. He reaches down to ruffle the top of Merlin's hair. "You'll manage him, villain. I've managed with you, at any rate."

"Ass."

"I love you too."

Almost as soon as he finishes breakfast with Elfgifa, Sam, and Beryl, Mordred is summoned to the library by Allegra nudging at his legs, sitting beside his chair and gazing at him intently with her wise brown eyes. Rising from the table, he follows Merlin's familiar through the townhouse into the library; Merlin is sitting at his desk penning a letter, half-hidden behind his books. That desktop has never once been clear as long as Mordred's been living here. Allegra lopes around to lay at her master's feet. Coming to stand in front of the desk, he clasps his hands behind his back and ducks his head, waiting for his punishment. He knows it's coming, certainly. Both Bellegere and Ione had been reprimanded—Bellegere more so because she is responsible for Ione—but he knows his chastising will come from Merlin, who is responsible for him.

"You know that what the three of you did was foolish and dangerous?" Merlin prompts without looking up from his writing. "You could've been lost down there. There might've been traps left behind. Wild beasts. More than that, you might have been discovered by someone that could've treated you far less than kindly. What if you had come across the person who murdered Talorcan? Do you think they would've treated you any differently?"

Mordred winces. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I know it wasn't wise, but…" He closes his mouth before he can say that it'd been Bellegere's idea. It didn't matter. It'd been her idea, but he'd gone along with her and hadn't done anything to stop her. It's just as much his fault. "I shouldn't have done it."

Merlin nods. "You'll not climb on the rooftops or the ramparts, nor will you visit the mews. I'm certain Mother and Gaius have plenty of tasks suited to a young man like yourself."

Which means he'll be scrubbing the floor of the physicians' chamber and scouring the leech tank, but that is still secondary to the first part. No climbing. No birds. If Merlin means to punish him, daresay he's done well in it. "May I…?" Mordred begins to ask, then finds his voice faltering when Merlin's head raises to gaze at him with silent inquisition, one eyebrow cocked. Swallowing hard, he gathers up his courage again and says, "May I at least see to Kala? She doesn't enjoy being handled by strangers, and Bellegere is not allowed to fly her. Ione doesn't know how to hawk."

Merlin stares at him for a long moment, then sighs softly. "Very well. Kala only, no more than an hour, and I will speak to the falconer if I must. Now sit down. You've been falling behind in your lessons." He gestures to the table. A space has been cleared and set with sheets of blank parchment, a quill and ink, and a book. "Start translating," he instructs. "I've marked the pages where you'll begin and where you'll stop."

Mordred takes his seat obediently, opening the book. He recognises Cornelius Sigan's writings, though it's written in Hellene, and despite the general unpleasantness of the day, he brightens somewhat. Merlin had made a set of fair copies of Sigan's works and gifted them to Iseldir years ago when they brought Morgana to learn with him under Necthana. He hadn't been allowed to look at any of them then, as the elders all agreed they were too powerful for one so young. However, Merlin has begun letting him study some of the lesser magics, saying that he's powerful enough to at least make a start. They've not actually practiced any of them yet, but he's still allowed to learn the incantations and memorise the rituals.

After two pages, he stops to shake the ache out of his hand. "Emrys?" he ventures. "Did you learn anything about who might've killed Talorcan? Did Dara tell Arthur anything?"

"I've told you to call me Merlin, and what do you know about Dara?" the other man asks, eyes narrowed slightly.

Mordred shifts a little on the stool. "I know he owns the Pavilion," he replies carefully, "and I know that Talorcan worked for him." He doesn't quite want to say that he'd once snuck into the Rising Sun with Gwaine and had heard some of the more inebriated patrons speculating on whether or not the nobles bedded the same courtesans as the commoners or if Dara…serviced them personally. The matter of Talorcan working for him, well…Mordred is used to noticing small details, subtle signals like what his own people use to recognise one another without drawing attention from unfriendly eyes. He's noticed that some members of the royal household have anemone flower tokens on their person, just like the flowers that are planted in all the window boxes of the Pavilion.

Merlin chuckles softly. "Yes, that's right. He's also called the Whoremaster of Spies." He braces his elbows on the desktop and laces his fingers together beneath his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face; Mordred waits to see if he'll be told anything more. "Dara and Arthur…they both believe that whoever murdered Talorcan mistook him for me. Bellegere was right in that. However, they don't believe it was meant against me, personally. It was done with the intent of halting the peace treaty and inciting war between Camelot and Caerleon instead, and I was simply the easiest target which would achieve that goal, compared to Arthur himself or any of the nobles."

That…makes sense, in its way. Merlin is the King's manservant, and even though Mordred cannot imagine anyone trying to attack Emrys, someone who didn't know about his magic might take him for a safer target than a well-seasoned warrior. "So the danger is passed?" he asks, hopeful.

"I don't believe it's gone entirely. Like as not, there is a traitor here in Camelot working against us. However, I doubt they will make the same attempt twice. And they have quite a serious disadvantage." Merlin straightens in his chair, and the air around him seems to glimmer darkly, drawing closer to him like an unseen cloak. Mordred's skin prickles with the strength of the magic rolling off the other man. "I know about them now, and they do not know about me."

Mordred grins.

When he's turned loose from his lessons, he's sent promptly along to Gaius and Hunith, appropriated as their dogsbody for the day. Sure enough, one of his first tasks is to scour the leech tanks. As a Druid, he believes that all forms of life have their purpose, even ones seen as unpleasant or wicked. That being said, however, he is quite certain that leeches are some kind of sadistic jest on nature's part and wishes they weren't so damned useful to a physician because he could absolutely go without ever handling one again in his entire life.

"Here, lad. I'll set them back to rights," Gaius says, taking mercy on him. "You can, however, deliver these to the proper persons. I'm afraid my knees aren't what they used to be, and there are more stairs in this citadel than there should rightly be."

"Agreed." Mordred slides the strap of the physician's bag over his head, holding the small bag gently to keep the bottles from clattering against each other as he leaves the physicians' chamber. He imagines that sooner rather than later Gaius will be retiring and Hunith will be Royal Physician. The man is old enough to have retired twice by now, and there's always a time when elders must pass on their mantle. Perhaps once he's free of his duties, he might go to one of the Druid camps. In the days before the Purge, Gaius practiced magic of great healing, an ollamh in his own right. He would certainly be welcome with their healers.

As he starts up the first of many stairs, Mordred pauses. Merlin has forbidden him from climbing on the rooftops and visiting the mews but not from visiting Bellegere. He's not spoken to her since they left Castle Fyrien. After a moment's debate, he starts in the direction of Bellegere's chamber. She's still under confinement by order of her lord father, though she's at least allowed Ione's company again. He won't stay, of course. He'll just…stop by before he begins his deliveries, let her know that he's looking after Kala, nothing more.

A hand lands on his shoulder, yanking him to a halt sure as a lead on a lymer, and his pulse leaps fearfully when he turns to face the owner of the hand: Lord Agravaine's manservant. Sayer looms behind him like a skeletal grey shadow, his slate coloured eyes seeming unnaturally pale and bright in his dark face, sharp features arrayed in a scowl. "I-I was—I was just…" Mordred stammers. The hand tightens on his shoulder, fingertips digging in painfully underneath his collarbone; his magic flares in quiet alarm. "I'll go," he gasps out.

Sayer's hand moves to the nape of his neck instead, turning him back the way he came and giving him a none-too-subtle push towards the stairs. Mordred staggers, barely catching himself before he goes falling headfirst down the steps. He runs a hand over the nape of his neck, feeling the five achy spots where the man's fingertips had dug in, casting a baleful glance back over his shoulder. The mute isn't looking at him any longer however, and is fixing the cuff of his sombre grey coat. A glimpse of scarlet, so bright against the uniform grey of his clothing, catches Mordred's gaze. A bit of red yarn, tied around one bony wrist, visible only for a moment before Sayer tucks the trailing ends back up his sleeve and out of sight.

Mordred rubs sullenly at the other achy spots on his shoulder as he descends the stairs, his magic settling the further away he gets. Crossing the courtyard, he hears the familiar rustle of wings just before small talons land on his shoulder. "Shoo, Calypso," he scolds, trying to shuffle the raven off his shoulder. "I'm being punished, you're not supposed to be here. Don't you have a mate to be tending to?"

"Bow! Bow!" Calypso squawks, ruffling his wings against Mordred's ear and refusing to budge.

"Bow?" He casts a glance around the courtyard in bafflement, wondering who in the world would have a bow in the middle of the main courtyard. The guards on duty wield pikes, not bows. "What bow?" There better not be some idiot taking shots at his ravens. He'll strangle them with their own bowstring.

"Bow!" the bird repeats, flying off Mordred's shoulder and flapping up to the edge of the rooftop above, squawking loudly as if demanding attention.

Mordred stares up at the idiot bird for a moment, then sees an incongruous sparkle of metal next to Calypso. When the raven pecks at it, the metal glint moves. Calypso lets out another raucous cry of, "Bow!" and pecks at the bright gleam again. This time, something falls from the edge of the roof and onto the stairs below it. Frowning, he crosses the courtyard to see what the feathered fool has gotten into now. He says a string of colourful words, many of which he learnt from Gwaine at the Rising Sun, when he sees what it is—a short birchwood arrow with a steel head. The fletching is all but ruined, but he still recognises the metallic green of peacock. He tilts his head back to look at the roof.

Calypso ruffles his wings insistently. "Bow!"

He heaves a deep sigh, curling his hand around the birchwood shaft. "Yes, yes, I understand. Bow," he grumbles. Great. He's only one day into his punishment, and he's already breaking the rules. Or, at least, he's about to break them. Merlin is going to kill him.

From her window overlooking the courtyard, Morgana watches the people moving about below her. Her gaze tracks the familiar mop of curly hair as Mordred crosses the square, one of his ravens fluttering about after him.

One hand drifts up to touch the hollow of her throat, fingering the small silver pendant the Druids had gifted to her long ago in her learning with the ollamhs, tracing the spirals of the triskele with one fingernail. Warmth tingles in her fingertips as if to reassure her, but the sharp threads of unease won't be so easily plucked from her thoughts. Still, she turns her gaze from the window towards the candles, unlit in the middle of the day. "Byrne," she whispers.

Power tingles across her skin, delicate and light as the tickle of a feather, and the wicks all ignite as one, small flames burning away merrily.

Exhaling in relief, she twitches her fingers; the flames extinguish themselves in a whisper of breeze. Morgana reaches up to rub at her temples. Gaius's mixtures and draughts had done little for her dreams before she had come into her own power. At this point, they'll likely be as effective as water. Still, something must be done.

Withdrawing from the window, Morgana crosses her chambers to her table, gathering a small piece of parchment and a quill. It takes only a simple enchantment to ensure that no unfriendly eyes can read her message, a little trick of her own invention, partly a glamour and partly a notice-me-not charm. After a moment's hesitation, uncertain what to write, she decides not to waste ink on pleasantries and terms of subtlety, penning a swift message. Sprinkling sand over the parchment to dry the ink, she goes to the window once again, this time picking up a small whistle made from the hollow leg bone of a bird. Mordred had gifted it to her, as well as to Arthur, Leon, and Merlin. When she blows it, the sound is high and surprisingly soft. No less than a moment later, one of the boy's ravens arrives on the sill, rasping a greeting in its hoarse voice.

"I have a message for you, my friend," Morgana says softly, collecting the parchment and rolling it up. Coaxing the raven near, she affixes the small message to the brightly woven jess on its leg. Once she's fastened it on securely, she runs one fingertip over the bird's sleek black head, magic breathing over her skin as she murmurs, "Iseldir."

The raven caws in response and opens its wings, taking flight neatly.

She braces both hands on the sill and watches it fly further and further away, until it is no more than a black grain of sand in the sky. Even after it is lost to her sight, she stays there, staring up into the half-clouded sky, the words of her message still running through her mind again and again. A headache throbs dully behind her eyes and at the base of her skull. Gods be good, Iseldir and the elders will have the answer she seeks. If not….

Morgana dreads to know what it means for a seer to stop dreaming.