The camp is a scorched ruin, rank with death and human fear; Arthur presses his sleeve over his nose and tries not to breathe in too deeply, turning to survey the damage in its entirety. Mordred had spoken true. It hadn't been an ambush, it'd been a slaughter. He counts all fifteen soldiers of Morgana's guard as well as the other four knights; Necthana, grey hair trailing in blood, her oak branch resting over her breast, half-covering the spear wound that'd felled her.

"Here. That's one of them," the lad says in a faint voice, pointing to one of the bodies.

"You didn't have to accompany us," Arthur reminds him, noticing how white Mordred's face has gone.

Stubborn to the last, though, he shakes his head. A muscle in his jaw ticks. "I did."

Knowing when not to argue the point, he steps forward to look at the dead man that Mordred had pointed out. He's garbed head to toe in black, boots and armour and all. "Were they all dressed like this?" he prompts, and the young man nods quickly. Arthur frowns, reaching up to rake a hand back through his hair. It might have been a tactical choice, given that the ambush had taken place at night, but there's sufficient cover around the camp that they wouldn't have needed the extra measure.

Lancelot approaches him, squinting a little in the sun; like Mordred, he'd insisted on accompanying them to the camp, too persistently noble to be left behind. Hunith and Gaius had both said he'll make a full recovery, though they had advised against any strenuous activity for a time. For now, however, he still winces to turn his head too fast and squints in bright light. "What are you thinking, sire?"

"Southrons," Arthur replies, straightening up. He's heard of the wandering army before, though they've never dared to enter Camelot. They dress in black like this, down to the last man. That means they'll be under the command of a man called Helios, purported to be both ruthless and strategic. He wonders how in seven hells Morgause has managed to make allies of Essetir and the Southrons. Men who are used to commanding tend not to take the commands of others well. It's a wise move, however; if the Southrons were the ones to take Morgana and the others hostage, without absolute proof of Cenred's involvement, then Arthur cannot declare against Essetir. Turning his head, he calls to no one in particular, "Any tracks?"

"Some, sire. Mixed," Bors replies in a frowning voice, having wandered halfway out of the camp into the underbrush, peering at the ground. "I have at least four different people here recently. The rest are older."

"How recent?"

He disappears from sight as he crouches down; a moment later, his voice issues from the underbrush, "I put it at no more than a day, sire. Day and a half, maybe."

That means someone has been in the camp after the ambush, after Mordred and Iseldir had left. The traitor, perhaps? Coming to view their handiwork or perhaps to meet with Helios or Morgause, to plan their next course of action.

"Sire!"

Arthur turns this time, hearing the bright strain of alarm in the other man's voice. "What have you found?"

Bors doesn't say a word as he untangles himself from the undergrowth, bringing something out from beneath his cloak and holding it out to Arthur instead—a steel-banded quarterstaff of white ashwood. It's been snapped almost entirely in two, only a few ragged splinters keeping the two halves together.

The ground seems to open beneath his feet, his heart dropping to the bottom of that void. He wants to say it isn't Merlin's, that it is only an imitation, something similar, and yet, he knows that it is. He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Merlin has been without his quarterstaff; Arthur would know it anywhere. There are the sigils for resilience etched needle-fine into the ashwood. There is the deep scratch on one of the steel bands from when he had fought the Knights of Medhir. There is the blackened scorch mark where he had broken the rowan staff in the burial vaults.

"Here, too!" Gareth calls from a few paces away and raises his arm. Steel winks brightly in his hand: a throwing knife. One of the squires finds another in the burnt remnants of one of the lean-tos.

Arthur holds out one hand, and they both approach, handing him the small daggers. Careful of the edges, he rubs his thumb along the cool steel, brushing away the soot and dried blood. The flat of each blade is engraved with delicate, swirling filigree. Arthur had teased him for it once, saying that blades are weapons, not a lady's kerchief to be so prettily embellished; Merlin had retorted that a weapon didn't need to be ugly in order to stab someone.

Agravaine draws closer to him. "Sire," he says in a voice that is not as low as it ought to be, "I know you strive to see the best in others, but it must be said. This servant disappearing so abruptly within a day of this assault, and now with his weapons appearing here, we must consider the possibility that he may be responsible for—"

"Liar!" The word is spat out in a strangled, furious hiss, and Mordred lurches forward, eyes blazing, colour high in his face. Daresay he would've attacked Agravaine with his bare hands had it not been for Percival. The big man loops one arm around the lad's chest, restraining him neatly, keeping firm hold even as Mordred squirms and struggles.

"Take him out of here," Arthur orders; nodding, Percival shifts his grip and lifts Mordred off the ground, carrying him from the ruined camp.

Agravaine glares after them. "Impudent little—"

"Enough," Arthur snaps, then sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We will discuss this later, Uncle. For now, we need to focus our efforts on finding anything that may lead us to Morgana." The words are bitter, and a part of him bristles in outrage to hear anyone suggest that Merlin could betray him, but he swallows it back, forcing himself to calm. He'd never told his uncle about his and Merlin's relationship, wanting to keep politics well out of it for as long as he could; Agravaine wouldn't have said such a thing if he knew.

Apart from those three weapons, they don't find any other tracks that can be followed. The trail leads out of the camp bearing north, but once they get a dozen paces out of the camp, the tracks end. They don't simply fade, they stop completely, as though the entire party had blown away in the mist; Morgause's doing. Even Bors and Gareth cannot find any further spoor. The newer tracks tell the same tale. They bear north for a stretch, and then they vanish. And there are only three sets as well; the fourth isn't there. Arthur tastes bile to think what that means.

"Alright, enough. We'll send another scouting party tomorrow," Arthur decides, staring up at the sky. They've lost the light, and even the best tracker will founder in the dark. "Bors, Gareth, you'll take a party north, see if the trail doesn't pick up again." They'll be properly supplied, then, fresh mounts and the best lymers from the kennel.

As they return to the camp and their horses, Arthur spies Mordred lurking around the peripherals like a spiteful little ghost, glowering at Agravaine, and he quickly sidles around Llamrei to catch the Druid by the nape of the neck. "You ever do something like that again, I'll have you confined to the townhouse," he hisses, keeping his voice low as not to be overheard. Mordred opens his mouth, doubtless to argue, but Arthur gives him a little shake to silence him. "It is his job to counsel me in these things, even that which I do not wish to think on. I've not told Uncle about my…involvement with Merlin. To him, Merlin is only a servant whose loyalty might be bought. I know you're worried, I know you're upset, but you are not a child, and I expect you not to act like one. Understood?"

Mordred clenches his jaw so hard Arthur can almost hear his teeth grinding together, but then he gives a sharp nod.

Sighing lowly, he gentles his grip and moves his hand up to ruffle dark curls soothingly. "We'll find them, Mordred. All of them."

"You hope," Mordred rasps out, his voice raw and choked. He ducks out from under Arthur's hand before the other man can answer, striding over to the Hellion. With Leon and Merlin both absent, he's been riding the spotted menace, and for a miracle, the ill-tempered mare goes easily for the Druid. Perhaps she simply prefers sorcerers. The broken pieces of Merlin's quarterstaff are lashed to her saddle.

Arthur watches the young man's back for a moment, then turns and mounts up as well, turning Llamrei towards Camelot. As they ride back for the city, his free hand drifts down to trace along the hilts of Merlin's throwing knives, tucked into his belt.

Damn the headsman. When he gets hold of this traitor, he's going to strangle them with his bare hands.

Well, we have a princess, we have a tower, and we have a knight. All we need now is a dragon, and we'll have a complete set, Morgana thinks sardonically as the door of her prison is slammed shut. She can hear the jangle of keys from the other side of the door, the heavy thunk of a crossbar settling in place. Hobbling forward, she lifts the lid of the tray that'd been set on the floor just inside the doorway. Halfway decent fare this time—soup that doesn't resemble dishwater, a heel of bread that's not burnt black, and a hard rind with some cheese still left on it. Barely enough for a child, though, let alone two women. Still, it's a sight better than what they had been fed on the journey here.

Careful of her dangling chains, she picks up the tray and moves it to the table, but she doesn't bother eating. Instead, she sits down in the single chair and begins to study her binds for the third time. The chains are wrought of silver, pure silver, she can tell by their weight, etched with sigils in a strange alphabet, nothing that she recognises in the slightest way. The cuffs around her wrists are linked to each other, long enough they don't restrict the movement of her hands overmuch, though she cannot extend her arms fully without straining the chain which runs to the collar around her throat. The chains running between the cuffs on her ankles are another matter—they force her to adopt a halting, mincing gait.

Morgana remembers reading once about a very foolish enclave of sorcerers that had tried to summon a lesser demon. They had wrought a silver chain to bind it, each link etched with binding runes, like unto this one. According to the survivors, the one who had done the summoning had mispronounced two words in the incantation, and the silversmith had accidentally dripped a single drop of solder on a link, obscuring one of the sigils and allowing the demon to escape and kill two members of the enclave before being banished. She wonders if she ought to be flattered or insulted that they consider her comparable to a lesser demon.

There had been no incantation spoken over her binds, but she can still examine the bonds for herself. Thus decided, she sits back and begins to study the chain, link by link, starting with the one that runs between her wrists, searching for any such flaw that might be similarly exploited.

These chains, however, are impeccably wrought. Every single damned link is a miracle of perfection, joined without the smallest gap or chink, burnished to immaculate smoothness, each perfect link etched with a perfect sigil. She can feel her magic, stifled as it is, roil through her, sickened at being constrained.

She drops the chains at the sound of a quiet moan behind her, turning in her chair.

On the single bed, Guinevere shifts uneasily in her drugged sleep, a crease forming between her brows, mumbling somewhat; Morgana hears Lancelot's name in it. Chest tightening, she moves to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching over to stroke the other woman's hair. At length, Gwen stirs, blinking dazedly. "Morgana? Where…?"

"In Cenred's keeping," she replies in a soft voice. "We're in a tower of his castle, under guard."

Whilst they had been dragged into Essetir conscious, upon approaching Cenred's castle, they'd both been fed a sleeping draught. She knows it had been done as a precaution against either of them remembering the way out should they escape. She had been woken hours ago courtesy of a bucket of cold water by the leader of the ambush party, a man she presumes to be Helios, if she is right in her assumptions that they've been taken by Southrons. He'd asked her if she would give him her royal favour before he went to war with her brother. She'd told him to favour himself with something blunt and preferably serrated.

Gwen sits up slow, wincing against the headache, and grasps Morgana's arm for balance, one hand pressed to her brow. "Sir Leon?" she asks, eyes tight shut.

"I don't know." She imagines he's being put to question about Camelot's defenses elsewhere in the castle. Her chest tightens at the thought, praying for the Mother to give him strength.

The woman nods, then presses a hand to her mouth, a sob catching in her throat. Morgana moves closer, embracing her as best she can with the damn chains, letting Gwen weep softly against her shoulder, silently vowing to see Helios dead for this.

Drawing away, Guinevere reaches into her bodice and pulls free a length of cord, a ring dangling from it. She didn't often wear it when she worked, afraid of losing it somewhere, wearing it around her neck instead so it stayed close to her heart. Unknotting the cord, she frees the band and slides it onto her finger, pressing her lips to the cool metal for a long moment. Sniffling, she swipes her eyes and straightens her shoulders, taking a deep, trembling breath and letting it out again sharply. "Let me see those, my lady," she says, holding out her hands.

Handling the chains gently so they don't rattle quite so loudly, Morgana extends her arms towards her maidservant.

Turning the links in hand, Gwen examines them, though her examination is different, studying not the sigils but the links themselves, the hinges and the clasps, tracing her fingers along the metal with a blacksmith's practiced touch. From the quiet curses she utters, it's clear she's never seen anything quite like these chains either. "Do you believe they are enchanted in some way? Have you an idea what these mean?" she asks, tapping one of the sigils.

"No, none of them." Merlin might have. She swears he knows more languages than any one person rightly should. "As for enchantment…they repress my magic, but I don't know if they would require a counterspell to remove." She hadn't seen any keys about when the Southrons had wrestled her into the damn binds.

"No, I don't think there's magic involved. There's a lock here, just…" Gwen raises Morgana's left wrist, peering at what indeed is a small keyhole near where the chain is welded to the shackle. She halts, staring. "I can't believe it," she whispers.

Morgana's spirits gutter. "What is it?"

"It's only a simple lock." Incredulity paints her words. "This is work unlike any I've ever seen, but…it's a simple lock, Morgana. All I need is something small enough to open it." Releasing the chains, she rises to her feet and goes to the window, looking over the shutters and the frame, then leans down and begins to scrape at the wood with her fingernails for a moment, swearing softly, but then she makes a victorious sound. When she turns back to Morgana, she holds a rusted, blunted nail between two fingers. "Shall we, my lady?"

"No, no, wait." Morgana catches Guinevere's hands before she can start at the shackles, drawing the other woman back down beside her. "We do not know where Leon is. We don't know what part of the castle we're in or how to get out again," she murmurs lowly. Even if she is cut off from her visions, her magic is unharmed, roiling readily beneath her skin. If the chains were removed, she feels as though she could turn the door into little more than splinters, but what would happen then? Even if she and Gwen took weapons from the guards, they are only two alone in an enemy castle. If they do this recklessly, they'll succeed only in achieving their own deaths and likely Leon's as well. "We must take care now, or we will only hasten our deaths."

Gwen closes her fist tightly around the nail, biting her lip. "What do you think we should do?"

Staring down at the hateful chains about her wrists, Morgana glances back towards the window. It is unbarred, open to the sky, but far too high to ever consider climbing or jumping. "I may have an idea."

A knock on the door draws Arthur out of his thoughts, rubbing both hands over his face wearily. He's not been sleeping well since this nightmare began, caught up by worry and fear, in a bed that is far too empty and cold. "Enter," he says, stifling a yawn.

"You asked to see us, sire?" Lancelot calls, lingering in the doorway with Mordred beside him.

He straightens in his chair, rousing somewhat. "I did. Come in, shut the door." Once they do, he gestures towards the other chairs. Once they've sat down, he turns his gaze to Mordred. "Merlin has a trick to keep private words private. I trust you know how to do the same?" he prompts.

Mordred blinks in surprise, but then he nods. He murmurs under his breath, the Old Tongue rolling smoothly; gold flickers brightly across his gaze, bright and familiar.

Feeling the brief flicker of warmth as the magic settles over them, Arthur leans back in his chair, taking a deep breath to settle himself. "There is a traitor in Camelot. You both know this. Merlin and I, we've suspected it for some time, and now we know it for certainty. More than this, it's someone on my own council," he announces, and they both gape at him, startled. He holds up a hand to halt their questions even as they open their mouths to ask almost in perfect unison. "As a precaution, I told no one who would be sent to the Druid camp, save Morgana herself, until the night before they departed, and I told only the council, not the whole of the court. An ambush of that size would take time to organise, which means it can only be a member of the council, who had the extra day to send a message and have things set in place."

"Do you know who?"

"No. But I have an idea to find out." Arthur leans forward, elbows on the tabletop. "As of this moment, the three of us are the only ones who know of Morgause and the Cup. You will tell no one else, understand?" he orders flatly, looking between them. "Dara has his best watchers following every member of the council. If any of them make mention of Morgause or the Cup, then we will know our traitor. Until then, we know that the Southrons were the ones to attack the camp and take our people, so we act accordingly."

Lancelot frowns, shaking his head slowly. "But, sire…what about Cenred? We know that he is a part of this. And what of the Cup of Life? An army of men who cannot die?"

Here, Mordred interjects, sitting forward in his chair. "Using the Cup will take time. Magic this powerful, involving so many people, she will have to be careful with it. We have time." He raises a hand to his mouth, biting at his thumbnail thoughtfully. "Perhaps not a great deal of time, but some."

Arthur nods slowly, grateful to hear such a thing, for thoughts of the Cup and its power had been coiled up like a thorny vine in the corner of his mind, always ready to prick at him with cunning barbs. "I don't much like this either, Lancelot, but we have no choice. We don't know who the traitor is. We don't know what they know. Right now, our only chance is to play this game out. If they suspect we're onto them, what is to stop them from sending word to Cenred and Morgause, telling them to have Morgana and Guinevere and Leon all killed?" he prompts, and the knight falters, falling silent. "Precisely. That is their leverage, the bait to keep me distracted whilst they build this army of theirs. Mordred, tell me, is there an enchantment or a curse that allows someone to control another's will?"

The lad blinks in surprise at the abrupt question, lowering his hand from his mouth. "Aye. More than one. It's a dark magic, of a certainty, but it can be done," he agrees.

"And I doubt Morgause will have any qualms about using it. I imagine they'll either kill me or force me to abdicate, and then once they have control of Morgana, place her on the throne, rule Camelot by proxy." He stops and tilts his head, gazing down at the map in front of him, running a fingertip along the parchment between Camelot and Essetir, an idea gradually taking shape. "Cenred has pride, and he's long coveted this kingdom. If he takes Camelot, he won't give it up to the Southrons," he says slowly. "But Helios…a mercenary like him, he'll want his fair share. He won't keep the respect of his men if he lets himself be shortchanged. Oh…" He leans back in his chair, staring at the map.

"What is it?" Lancelot prompts.

One hand comes up to cover his mouth, and he shakes his head slowly, a wry smile coming to his lips. "Say what you will about that woman, she plays a deep game. Tell me, Mordred, what do you think Morgause wants?"

Mordred cocks his head like a puzzled bird, a furrow between his brows. "To kill you, sire?" he ventures, clearly uncertain of how to answer. "To conquer Camelot?"

Arthur waves a hand, nodding. "Yes, that, but what else? What is there that she would want more than anything else? What would a High Priestess of the Old Religion desire above all?"

Understanding dawns. "The return of magic," Mordred breathes out. "She wants to bring about the return of magic."

"Good lad. Once Camelot falls, she'll kill Cenred or Helios, perhaps both of them, so she is the only who commands the Cup of Life and the immortal army. That's two of the five kingdoms under her control, and the combined forces of Essetir and Camelot are more than enough to wage war against anyone, everyone else. And with an army that cannot die…. She'll be able to forge an entirely new world, one ruled by magic."

For a moment, they're all three silent for shock, imagining what such a world would be like, if it would even be possible for anything worthwhile to grow back through so much blood. "What about Merlin? Why would they take him?" Lancelot prompts at last.

Mordred coughs. "I may know why," he says, reaching up to scratch the nape of his neck. "Morgause has made allies of Druids, so she may know of Emrys and the prophecy about him…and you. She knows he's powerful enough to stop her, and she'll know that he's an ally of yours."

Arthur drums his fingers against the arm of his chair, forcing himself to breathe steadily. He recalls Dara's words about lover's bias and how it'll taint his perceptions if he allows it, and he tries to separate his mind. "She knows he's Emrys, then?"

"Mm…no," the young man continues. "The Druids know of Emrys, but they don't know who he is. It's likely they wouldn't think he goes by any other name. Servants hear things that most don't, so if Morgause wanted to know who Emrys was, if he was allying himself with you…who better to know than the king's manservant?"

Disbelief washes over him, and he puts his face in his hands and tilts his head back against the chair. "You're saying that Morgause has taken Merlin to discover the identity of Emrys because she doesn't know that Merlin is Emrys?" The absurdity of it is enough to make him want to either laugh or scream. Dropping his hands, he stays staring up at the ceiling for a moment, breathing slowly. They'll put him to question, then. Bile rises in his throat, thinking just of what that entails, especially with someone like Helios, and he swallows hard, forcing it back down. "Alright. Very well. So, we understand one another, don't we?"

Mordred and Lancelot both nod, though the knight does it with a faint wince, squinting in discomfort. "We tell no one about Morgause and the Cup," the young Druid recites. "We wait for the traitor to reveal themselves and search for Merlin and the others on our own."

"And we try to do it before an immortal army hacks down the front gate," Lancelot adds dryly.

Arthur can't help a small smile at that. "Exactly. Dismissed." He watches as the knight and the Druid rise and leave the chambers, drawing the door shut and leaving him alone in silence, his chambers feeling unnaturally quiet and still. For the third time in his life, he finds himself praying.

Mother give him strength to hold out against them. Crone give me the wisdom to get us out of this safely. And Maiden have mercy on us all.

"Who is Emrys?"

Brienus has long since lost count of the number of times he has asked that question. And yet, he has received no clear answer. It is a…unique situation.

The young man on his table lets out a soft gasp, staring up at the ceiling. The muscles in his throat move as he swallows and clenches his jaw, but he does not speak.

"You make things needlessly difficult." Brienus turns to the second table which holds the tools of his art, spread out across a piece of finest leather. After a moment of contemplation, he takes up another needle in his gloved hand and dips it in the tincture, carefully coating it up to the band etched in the bronze, no less and no further. Turning back to Merlin, he lays his bare hand upon the young man's shoulder, feeling for the edge of his collarbone. Lining up the angle just so, he slides the needle in up to the marked band, no less and no further. Merlin gives a soft sound of pain in his throat, limbs twitching fruitlessly against his binds, then begins to twitch more as the tincture begins to work into him.

"What is your mother's name?" Brienus prompts. If he cannot achieve one answer, he will settle for another. He will chip away at whatever wall Merlin has placed between them, question by question, answer by answer, until he achieves what he desires.

"H-Hunith," Merlin gasps out, eyes tightly closed.

"Very good." He grasps the haft of the needle—

"Evaine."

Brienus halts. "What did you say?"

"My…my mother…"

"What is her name?" Brienus repeats, disbelieving.

"Evaine…" He swallows hard and twitches against his binds. "Hunith."

He releases the haft of the needle, leaving it in. That is not right. He takes a step back and leans against the edge of his work table, staring at Merlin. He knows the true answer. He had been given that information by the Priestess and her ally in Camelot. He does not have it written down, but such is his memory that he can recall every word of what had been said.

Merlin of Silverpine, the bastard-born second son of Sir Lionel de Galis and Hunith the assistant physician of Camelot. He has one trueborn half-brother, Sir Leon de Galis, who is First Knight of Camelot. He has one maternal great-uncle, Gaius, who is the Royal Physician. He is manservant to King Arthur Pendragon.

Brienus turns and takes up another needle, coating it in tincture as well. He will have to be careful. If too much is introduced into the bloodstream at once, it will cause Merlin's heart to stop. He has the antidote prepared, but if he administers it, it will require time to take full effect, and that is time he does not have. The Priestess is impatient for one so powerful.

This one he places low in the left flank, carefully angling the needle between two ribs so he does not puncture a lung. "Speak the truth to me. What is your brother's name?"

"I…" Merlin whimpers once, low in his throat. "I-I have no brother of my blood."

This is not possible. Brienus has met those who have strength of will to resist the effects of the tincture, who have the perseverance to hold their tongues, but to speak falsely…that is not possible. This tincture has been perfected over the course of six generations. It does not fail. "What is your name?"

"Merlin." It is said through gritted teeth.

"Who do you serve?"

"Arthur Pendragon."

"What is your father's name?"

"Balinor."

No. Brienus reaches forward and grasps the haft of the needle in his side, twisting it slowly, taking care not to withdraw it or push it in further at any measure. "What is your father's name?"

Merlin trembles everywhere, his hands scrabbling weakly at the table beneath him, nails scraping at the stone in fitful spasms. "Balinor." He drags in a ragged gasp of air. "Lionel."

Snatching his hand back, he grips the edge of the table behind him hard; splinters dig in beneath the nails of his ungloved hand. He pays them no mind. "Merlin," he says in a low voice. "You make things needlessly difficult. Do not test me in this."

A choked gasp, then another, and the young man turns his head to face him. The edges of the iron collar cut into his skin with the motion, blood welling up, but he pays it no mind. The flames from the brazier dance in his eyes, and for a moment, the blue almost appears to be golden. "You don't know me very well, do you? I enjoy being contrary for the sake of it," he says, baring his teeth in a grin. "And you shouldn't underestimate my ability to provoke."

Brienus gazes at him unblinking. "Very well. I shall not underestimate you again." Without taking his gaze from Merlin, he reaches back and grasps the haft of another needle. "Shall we continue?"