When Gwaine awoke, he was lying in a strange bed with sunlight seeping in through a small window. Barefoot, shirtless, a light blanket up to his chest, he at least had his bag, hanging on the wall, and his crescent charm around his neck. Stale mead lingered on his tongue—familiar enough, though usually he rinsed his mouth out before sleeping.
All in all, he felt great—and grateful—and very much confused.
The door to the room opened, and Merlin entered with a tray. Gwaine at least recognized his (he hoped) benefactor.
"What am I doing in this bed?" Gwaine asked.
"You were wounded. Arthur wanted to make sure you were treated by his physician." Merlin waited, letting Gwaine absorb the information and his surroundings.
"Arthur?" A familiar name, though not one Gwaine had encountered personally.
"Prince Arthur," Merlin said. "You saved his life."
"If I'd known who he was, I probably wouldn't have." Gwaine adjusted his position in the bed—a sharp ache in his left thigh flared, but it didn't feel debilitating.
Merlin was giving him a curious look.
"He's a noble," Gwaine explained.
"Yeah," Merlin admitted. "But he's a good man." He placed the tray on the bedside table.
"If you say so," Gwaine reached for the cup of water.
"You're a hero," Merlin said—news that usually pleased fighters. "The King wants to thank you in person."
Gwaine choked.
"Please," he insisted. "No. I've met a few kings. Once you've met one, you've met them all."
Years ago, Merlin would have agreed. But his time in Camelot, dealing with nobles, meeting visiting royalty—and especially his sojourn with Arthur to Cameliard—had forced him to reconsider: once you've met one, you've met most of them.
"He'll probably give you a reward," Merlin ventured.
"I'm not interested," Gwaine said, as though Merlin had offered him a half-dead mule. "Besides, I have everything I need right here," he proudly patted his bag.
Modest yet preening—Merlin couldn't get his head around it.
"Why did you help us?" Merlin asked.
"Your chances looked between slim and none," Gwaine smiled impishly. "I guess I just kind of liked the look of those odds." He popped a morsel of bread in his mouth and leaned back comfortably.
Gwaine was claiming a death wish? Merlin didn't buy it—Gwaine was too assured, too amused—but too unpresuming to be in it for the glory. Far too coy—something was off—yet Merlin didn't care. Gwaine was taking his situations in stride, with an ease and joviality unlike anyone Merlin had ever met.
Thus, despite Gwaine's mystery, Merlin found himself quite liking the guy.
"How's Gwaine?" Arthur asked, stretching his arms high above his head.
"Recovering," Merlin said. He pulled back the curtains and opened one of the windows of Arthur's chambers. Some days, Arthur couldn't do anything for himself.
"He says he doesn't like you," Merlin continued. The bed was a shambles, and while Arthur had finished his breakfast, crumbs and bits of meat lay in evidence all over the table. "So, not only a great fighter, but a great judge of character."
Arthur ignored Merlin as he put on his boots. Merlin tied back the last curtain, and in the courtyard below saw a knight, not wearing Camelot's colors. Still astride his horse, he must have just arrived.
"We have company," Merlin said. Arthur joined him at the window and smiled.
"Sir Darien."
Old friend? Merlin almost asked. Sometimes he forgot he'd only been in Camelot for three years.
"He's here for the Melee," Arthur said to Merlin's unasked question.
"Oh yeah—the tournament where knights run around hitting each other for no good reason."
"If you don't understand something, it's unreasonable?" Arthur said, with a slight edge that Merlin interpreted as petulance.
"Exactly—was that so hard to understand?" Merlin jested. Arthur softened.
"Merlin, do you know what a battle looks like?" Arthur wrapped his belt on.
"I did find that one outside Cameliard rather memorable." Fine—battles looked like chaos that someone tried to control as an afterthought.
"The Melee is practice," Arthur explained. "It lets us see who can acquit himself."
"Practice? Is Uther planning a war?"
"No, Merlin—we're having a contest."
With that Arthur grinned—an order for Merlin to stay put and finish his chores—and bounced out the door to go greet Sir Darien.
Dagr hated people who questioned his dominance. Obedience required intimidation, and people who were not intimidated were waiting to stab you in the back. His men understood this. They obeyed him because they feared him, and because they feared him, they knew he would take care of them—and it would be fair and just. Or else.
Prince Arthur thought he was special—this was the bugbear Dagr fed as he and his henchman Ebor rode—in the opposite direction of Camelot—upon stolen horses—to a dark-green pavilion in the depths of the forest. Arthur had not just defied Dagr, he had humiliated him—a situation Dagr refused to accept—and worse, Arthur had given that wart of a hamlet the gall to question Dagr's dominance.
It would not stand.
So while the rest of his men continued collecting their wages, Dagr had followed a rumor and made a deal with a sorcerer, a scrawny man named Malduc. Malduc had also failed to cow before Dagr—indeed, Malduc seemed to believe he deserved some sort of reverence. A month ago, Dagr would have let it pass, but he was not in a giving mood anymore, as he and Ebor returned to the pavilion to collect their goods.
"Stulorne blades, as requested," Malduc said. He was tall for a brat, youthful, with dark, unruly hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. Dagr and Ebor each took one of the two swords—ample lantern light shone inside the pavilion as they examined the blades.
"They're blunt," Ebor said.
"That is only how they appear," Malduc said with pride.
Dagr lifted the tip of his sword to Ebor's shirt, easily slicing the neck strings with the smallest flick. Ebor waited for Dagr's reaction to cue him as to how he should feel about his damaged shirt—Dagr grinned like a spoiled child, so Ebor chuckled.
"And the crystals?" Dagr demanded eagerly.
"Right here," Malduc said, grabbing a small, wooden box from a table behind him. He lifted the lid, revealing two large, opaque crystals attached to two chains. Dagr lifted one out and held it before his eyes, mesmerized.
"I haven't activated them yet," Malduc said. "And you haven't shown me your money."
Dagr glared.
"They aren't magic yet?" Ebor said.
"He's trying to cheat us," Dagr blustered, stepping toward Malduc, who stood firm.
"You hold in your hands proof that I've upheld my part of our deal. Now you must uphold yours."
Dagr pulled out a small pouch containing coins and threw it on the table behind Malduc. Without counting the coins—without even looking at the pouch—as if money were beneath him—Malduc tilted his head politely at Dagr and pronounced a spell, reveling in the utterance of each word.
Malduc was worse than Arthur, Dagr decided. The crystals glowed—the one in his hand even vibrated a little.
"There," Malduc said. "The wearer of these crystals will be able to take on the form of whoever's blood they touch."
Dagr's whole body exhaled. "Thank you," he smiled.
"Thank you," Malduc replied. He picked up the pouch of money, turning his back on Dagr and Ebor. "You know where the exit is," he added, and Dagr aimed the Stulorne blade, intending to eviscerate Malduc from behind.
Malduc pulled a coin out of the pouch, the blade frozen in space. Dagr struggled to push forward, but only managed to move when he stepped back and lowered the sword.
"I've dealt with your kind before, of course," Malduc said, laying each coin from the pouch on the table. Ebor, at a glare from Dagr, tried his luck killing Malduc, with the same result. The last coin on the table, Malduc finally turned around.
He lifted his hand as though silencing a crowd—Dagr so badly wanted to punch his face in—and a second pouch of money flew from Dagr's belt to Malduc's hand. Then a third from Ebor's clothes. Malduc presented the two pouches to Dagr.
"I want my crystals back—when you return them, I return these."
Ebor fidgeted awkwardly and Dagr bared his teeth. "Oh, I promise you," Dagr said, squeezing the hilt of the Stulorne sword, "we'll be back."
"Until then," Malduc dropped the money pouches into a sack.
Dagr motioned to Ebor and they made to leave.
"Oh, one more thing," Malduc said when they were at the pavilion entrance, stoking Dagr's rage. "Death is not necessary for the use of the crystals—if you were wondering."
"We weren't," Dagr said.
Gwaine had never before been to Camelot. He'd heard stories, of course, which varied according to the teller, but which had never enticed him. Uther Pendragon and his son Arthur were too big in everyone's imagination, and that made Camelot overrated—pompous and pointless.
Gwaine was restless. The breakfast tray lay empty beside him, his clothes were clean, his trousers mended, and most importantly, his leg felt much better.
He needed air.
He opened the window, and daylight pored over him, alongside a wave of odors: perfumes and flowers, roasting meat and baking bread, horses, leather, smelted metal—all the quarters of the city begging for inspection. Gwaine absorbed it all. The sun hung unseen above the roof, casting subtle shadows and gently warming the air. He listened to the medley of people, carts, and animals, trying to distinguish one from the other—but the only clear sound he heard was door opening behind him.
"Um, you need to get dressed," Merlin said. "The King's waiting."
Right. Might as well get it over with.
Merlin escorted Gwaine to the Great Hall, but when they entered, Merlin hung back, disappearing off to the side. At the far end of the Hall, King Uther sat on his throne—crowned, robed, and bejeweled. On Uther's right sat a beautiful, dark-haired, fair-skinned woman in white. Uther has a ward, Gwaine remembered. As for the King's son, Arthur stood in front of the chair on Uther's left, informally dressed—Gwaine half-envied the long, brown coat he wore.
As he walked forward—deliberately but not quickly—Gwaine kept his eyes on King Uther, as was proper. But he noted the high ceiling and polished wood floor, the scattering of nobles, the handful of guards, and the few servants standing against the walls. Merlin wove his way among them, keeping apace with Gwaine, until he reached Gaius, who stood near the front. Gwaine, too, stopped.
There was nothing formal about this audience, so Gwaine opted not to bow—he couldn't lose a reward he didn't want, after all. He doubted it would have been much of a reward anyway.
"King Uther," Gwaine said.
Uther sized Gwaine up. "My son tells me you saved his life."
"He did," Arthur said.
"Then I owe you a great debt," Uther said.
"I seek no reward," Gwaine said. "Or favors."
"What do you seek, then?" Uther asked.
"Just the next tavern down the road," Gwaine smiled.
"No, you don't," Arthur said. "Or you wouldn't have stepped forward at the last one."
"You wear an interesting symbol," Uther indicated Gwaine's necklace. "Yours?"
"Of course," Gwaine said—kings were so presumptuous. "I don't seize what isn't mine."
"So a family heirloom," Uther confirmed.
Gwaine paused, realizing he'd misread Uther.
"Does your mother know you're here?" Uther asked—not a casual question.
"Are we old friends?" Morgana asked. From the side of the Hall, where half of Uther's council stood, Ulfius spoke:
"Prince Gwaine is Queen Morcades's eldest son."
A quick susurrus filled the Hall—Gwaine's posture sank in resignation and annoyance—Arthur glanced around, dumbfounded, but found a sympathetic eye only in Morgana. Merlin leaned toward Gaius, who shook his head, equally befuddled.
"Greetings, cousin, uncle," Gwaine said drolly.
Uther stood. "If you want people to think you're a peasant, then by all means, continue picking drunken fights—"
"He didn't pick the fight," Arthur interjected.
"But no peasant turns away a King's reward," Uther said.
"They would if they could," Gwaine retorted. "Nobody instinctively grovels."
"Give him suitable chambers," Uther told Arthur, and to Gwaine: "Grow up." He sauntered out of the Hall, more important matters to attend to, and as soon as he was gone, the Hall erupted into gossip. Arthur, Morgana, and Merlin swooped in on Gwaine.
"So that's why you helped," Merlin said.
"No," Gwaine said.
"He didn't recognize me either, Merlin," Arthur said. Merlin jumped at the opportunity to taunt him, and shook his head in faux disappointment.
"Don't recognize your own family"—but once the words left his lips, the jest vanished, for it was a truth too weighted with implications; and it was a truth far too familiar. Merlin also knew next to nothing about his own family—he'd spoken without thinking and it was too late to retract. Anger flared in Arthur's eyes—but his face quickly flattened, becoming an impenetrable mask of formality. Morgana glared at Merlin with accusing hostility—why did that surprise him?
"Merlin," Arthur seethed with control, "Get Gwaine settled."
Merlin nodded deferentially and led Gwaine out of the Hall. Arthur stared after them, ignoring the murmurs, the furtive glances bombarding him. Morgana moved closer.
"Is Morcades Uther's sister?" she asked.
"No," he said. "My mother's—I know that much at least."
"Gwaine didn't know either," Morgana said. She suppressed an impulse to stroke his arm, to comfort him—the palimpsest of a different life. She fiddled with her rings.
"Excuse me," Arthur said with practiced courtesy. "I have duties."
Morgana watched him leave, his wake filled with the petty conversations of Camelot's court. None of it touched her. It couldn't touch her, to her relief—and isolation. Uther thought truth could be hoarded like gold, piled in some secret chamber accessible only to him—and these imbeciles followed him, groveled, agreed.
It was wrong.
Eager for the Melee, Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan had taken every shortcut they could. Yet still they were running late. Experienced in tourneys, jousts, and contests, they shared a love for the finer things in life, and distaste for the actual brutalities of war. Knighthood, for them, was a civilized affair. They slept peacefully each night, ate meals sitting on plush red cushions, and leisured about before packing up their tents and moving on. Today was no different.
"How much further would you say it is to Camelot?" Sir Ethan asked, lounging on his cushion as he finished his breakfast. The fire was dying before him, and the air brisk. They'd camped in the middle of the forest, away from the main roads, where trees and brush blocked much of the sun.
"Half a day's ride," Sir Oswald said, standing to stretch his legs. "The journey is almost over."
"It is for you," Dagr declared as he and Ebor ambushed the knights.
"I don't need some pretentious idiot's idea of 'proper' quarters," Gwaine said as they walked down the corridor.
"That's good, because we don't have any," Merlin said. "They've all been taken for the Melee. Are you competing?"
"Might have to now," Gwaine grimaced.
"If you get hurt again, should we save you?" Merlin asked lightly.
"What?"
"You said you wouldn't have helped Arthur if you'd known he was noble—which means that you couldn't tell he was noble, which means that he really looked liked a nobody—that's going straight to his head," Merlin complained.
Gwaine had no idea what Merlin was trying to accomplish with the conversation. "Are you serious?" he asked.
"Yes, you implied that nobles aren't worth saving, so—"
"I am not losing a Melee," Gwaine said. "But if I treat people like disobedient dogs just because they don't have a pedigree, then yes, please question my worth. You define yourself by what you do, not by who your great-grandfather was. Where are we going?"
"Tour of Camelot. By then, Arthur will have decided where to put you."
"He told you to get me settled."
"Yes, but what he meant was, Get out of my sight before I bludgeon you."
"How noble."
Morgana hadn't been in Geoffrey's library in years—ever since Uther and the noblewomen of his court had so courteously informed her that her reading habits were untoward. Boethius, Ptolemy, Ovid, Plato, Herodotus, and Hypatia, the trivium and quadrivium—her father had indulged her curiosity with fondness, and he'd dismissed 'concerns' as jealousy. But then he died, and Uther didn't want to deal with accusations of a different kind of witch—the noblewomen took far too much umbrage at the range of her studies, and the indomitable Uther capitulated. They made Geoffrey deny her.
Now she meandered among the stacks feeling like a thief—and like a child come home. Her eyes lingered on spines and scrolls. Several tables were piled with parchment and paper, some vellum, ink, quills; completed quires and naked sheaves; boards and cords sat by a sewing frame, along with needles and thread, leather, a hammer. She touched nothing. She would not let nostalgia distract her—somewhere in this library were the records of noble families: Proof.
Geoffrey stood in a shadowed recess, wiping an emptied shelf with a dirty cloth. He muttered curses at spiders and dust, and didn't hear Morgana approach. When she said his name, he swiveled so abruptly that he nearly tripped over the books piled on the floor.
"Lady Morgana," he said, pleasantly surprised. "How lovely to see you."
"Where do you keep the records of our lineages?" she got to the point.
"Oh—over this way. How are you?"
She didn't know how to answer. She had no answer. She remembered conversations with Geoffrey as being fluid affairs, the leisurely rooting out of ideas. But things had changed.
He led her to the opposite wall, to shelves neatly lined with codices. He grabbed an older volume and placed it for her on a nearby dais.
"There we are," he said, avuncular as ever. Morgana had never seen her pedigree before. She'd never asked. She stared at the leather cover, stamped with her father's crest—the crest on the bracelet Morgause had given her—a crest so unfamiliar.
"Ah—yes," Geoffrey said. "Lord Gorlois began using your mother's family crest after she died. But that is his."
"I know," she said, barely audible, tracing the design with her finger. She opened the book and flipped through the pages until she came to the last one with any writing—the one that held her own name. The one that indicated Gorlois had only two children, both by his wife, Rhiannon: Elayne, dead, and Morgana.
Morgana fingered Elayne's name—she'd have been only six when she died. If she had actually died.
"Your father was devastated," Geoffrey said. "Blamed himself."
"Is this complete?" Morgana asked. "Or just official?"
"I don't follow," Geoffrey said, seeming genuinely confused.
"Never mind," Morgana said. "But I was actually interested in Igraine's family."
"Igraine's?"
"Yes. Queen Igraine. Uther's wife. Her sister's son appeared in court today. Surprised everyone—haven't you heard?"
"No, I'm afraid news doesn't always reach me quickly," Geoffrey said, closing the book on Morgana's family. "What's his name?"
Was it her imagination, or was Geoffrey being evasive?
"His mother is Morcades," she offered—she could play this game too.
"Gwaine or Agravaine?" Geoffrey put the book back on the shelf.
"Gwaine," she said. Perhaps her suspicions were unfair.
"I'll note it," Geoffrey said. "I'm sure he's more than welcome, although I hope he wasn't expecting any special recognition—King Uther makes everyone prove himself, as even Prince Arthur can attest." He pulled down another volume.
This one was much thicker than hers. The cover depicted a boar between two crescents. She opened it to Arthur's page, about two-thirds of the way through. Arthur, the only child of Uther and Igraine; Uther, the youngest of three sons, mother Lucia, father Bricus; Igraine, the middle child of five, two sons flanking three daughters, mother Gwenllion, father Amlawdd Wledig. Morgana flipped to the previous page, which included Arthur's cousins—sure enough, there was Gwaine, oldest child of Igraine's sister Morcades, and Gwyar, deceased. Gwaine had a brother, Agravaine, and a sister, Elaine. Arthur and Gwaine had other cousins, but Igraine had no other children.
So this was how truth was buried—the omission of a pen. Morgause did not exist in Geoffrey's records, therefore she did not exist. Such simple sorcery.
Morgana closed the book, carefully, mournfully, caressing its leather as if that would give her support.
Geoffrey noticed her despondency. "Was there something else I could help you find?" he asked.
"No," Morgana said. "Thank you, Geoffrey, but no, there was nothing else."
Just my sisters.
On the ramparts of the inner wall, Uther watched Gwaine and Merlin walk through the lower town, talking jovially. He would have to speak with Arthur about the appropriateness of having a servant—even one's own personal servant—accompany a visiting prince. Gwaine surveyed the town with remarkable curiosity, however, and seemed to appreciate his guide.
Footsteps approached Uther from behind, on the left: Gaius. Guards maintained a respectful distance on either side. Below, a visiting knight stopped Gwaine, pressing him into conversation.
"How did you know who he was, really?" Gaius asked, following Uther's gaze. "The crescent isn't exactly a unique symbol."
"Spies and scouts, Gaius. Of course I knew Morcades's son had run off." On the street, Gwaine tried to maneuver around the knight. Merlin waited. From this distance, it was hard to gauge whether the knight was rudely imposing, or if Gwaine was rudely dismissing.
"Does Morcades still follow the Old Religion?" Gaius asked.
"Morcades never followed any religion."
"Igraine never followed any religion. Morcades—"
"—is unwisely tolerant," Uther said. "But not given to subordinating herself to anyone's dictates."
"Yes, I remember hearing she was proud. So Gwaine's family heirloom?"
"His father's, I believe. Gaius, if I were going to arrest him for sorcery, I'd have done so. I realize current circumstances may induce paranoia in the weak-minded, but my nephew has no more to fear than anyone else who behaves."
Gaius nodded, as if to the rhythm of a breeze. They watched Gwaine finally extricate himself from the knight and continue along with Merlin.
"Do you think he recognized Arthur?" Uther asked.
"That doesn't seem to be the case," Gaius said. "How would he?"
"What do you think he knows?"
"About what?" Gaius asked. "You think Morcades told him something? About magic—or Igraine?"
Uther studied the crowd below, Gwaine and Merlin swallowed by it.
"Sire?"
"No."
Uther woke from his reverie. "Ghosts have a habit of appearing at the worst times," he said. "And you're right, I don't want any lies being spread, especially to Arthur—his mother's memory is precious to him."
"Sire," Gaius bowed his head, and Uther returned to the castle.
In general, Gwen enjoyed tournaments—and feasts—even treaty negotiations brought all kinds of interesting people from all kinds of places. Accents, clothing, jewelry, news—whatever the occasion, for its duration, Camelot expanded in every way.
The Melee was too impersonal and chaotic for her tastes; nonetheless she soaked in the rumors and gossip—bets on the winner, tales of past exploits, assessments of strengths and weaknesses—a great citywide conversation—a topic for anyone.
Today, the sunshine and the constant buzz of preparation lifted her spirits. In the past, when some high Lady had insisted upon Gwen's participation in readying Camelot for an event, Morgana outright refused; this time, when Lady Marcella demanded Gwen join the cadre of servants—she's your maid, not your lady-in-waiting—Morgana rolled her eyes and waved her assent.
Lady Marcella thought she had triumphed victoriously.
Gwen worried Morgana was retreating further into herself. For reasons beyond the sorceress Morgause using and kidnapping her; for reasons more than Merlin poisoning. . .
Well. Merlin had done what he had to do to save everyone.
So despite a full basket of bunting in each hand—and being treated like an untrained dog by Lady Marcella—Gwen stepped lightly to the arena, letting people's opinions of Morgana be their own damn problems.
"Paint's not dry," an elderly man told her when she asked where he wanted the bunting. "Just put 'em down."
"I need the baskets," Gwen apologized. "I still have to deliver flowers."
He grumbled something incoherent, but softened at Gwen's expression.
"With all the prizes going out, you'd think the King could afford a couple extra baskets," he said. "Put the buntin' on the seats—we'll have to shake 'em out anywise."
Gwen smiled and dipped a small curtsey. Carpenters and sweepers and other servants flit about like bees on a rosebush. A wiry stranger had stationed himself at the entrance, and eight guards paced the stands. Gwen placed the bunting on a nearby bench—which she hoped was out of everyone's way—brushing off the wood beforehand.
As she left, the stranger at the entrance fell into step beside her.
"Are you so considerate in all your doings?" he asked, brown eyes staring.
"What? Um."
Tall, sinewy, and pale, he wore a fine cotton shirt of Tyrian purple, but a fraying belt, clean (but plain) brown trousers, and expensive (but very worn) boots.
"I-I don't really have doings," she said. "I'm just a servant. I just try to do things well."
"You succeed." He maneuvered in front of her, forcing her to stop. His dark hair was growing long, and a golden torc peeked out from the collar of his shirt. Gwen squeezed the basket handles and swayed forward—as though to take a step—hoping he'd move out of the way.
Instead, he unwrapped her fingers and lifted her hand, sliding the basket up her forearm. He brushed off her palm, her fingers, her wrist; his hands rough and calloused.
"A teacher once told me," Malduc said—he had a small but prominent scar on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger that scrunched as he rubbed her wrist with his thumb—"that the smallest gesture proves your substance."
He raised her hand toward his lips, but she jerked away.
"I have to go," she said mechanically; "I'll get in trouble," as explanation. She hurried around him, leaving as quickly as she could without running—she didn't want to be rude. Just once, she glanced over her shoulder. He wasn't following. He waved and smiled wistfully, rooted to the spot.
She corralled her thoughts toward her next task: delivering flowers.
"I think there's someone behind us," Merlin said to Gwaine, implying that perhaps they move to the side. They'd spent the past hour in the lower town, which was burgeoning with people—the denizens of Camelot, visiting knights, patrolling guards, merchants and entertainers and opportunists—the genuine value of the Melee, to Merlin's mind.
"He can go around," Gwaine said, casually glancing back at the fuming knight on his horse.
Merlin didn't want to argue with Gwaine. In fact, he rather wanted to see what Gwaine would do if this knight tried to force their obedience—Gwaine was suppressing a smile—and they were all three heading toward the inner courtyard of the castle. Arthur would probably reprimand Merlin for disrespecting a knight; it would be worth it.
But no brouhaha ensued. The knight trotted past, close enough that he would have knocked Gwaine over if Gwaine didn't have extraordinary composure and balance.
"Oh," Gwaine said with mock surprise. "Was he somebody important?"
They'd arrived at the gate separating the upper and lower towns. They passed under the shadow of its arch just as the knight dismounted in the courtyard.
"Aglovale!"
At his name, the knight's demeanor softened, and he embraced Sir Lamorack, who'd run to greet him. Arthur jogged down the castle steps to join them.
"Prince Arthur, allow me to introduce my brother, Aglovale," Lamorack said.
"Welcome to Camelot." Arthur shook Aglovale's hand. Spotting Merlin and Gwaine, Arthur extended his arm, summoning them to the group. "This is my cousin Gwaine, and my servant, Merlin."
"Hello," Merlin said. Gwaine eyed both men—a bit distant, even hostile, Merlin thought, but no one else seemed to notice.
"Pellinore's sons," Gwaine said neutrally, offering his hand.
"Gwaine, son of Gwyar—my father speaks highly of him—it's an honor to meet you," Lamorack beamed, warmly grasping Gwaine's hand in both of his.
Gwaine bobbed his head politely.
"Sir Lamorack is staying in Camelot for a while," Arthur said.
"Learning from the best," Lamorack said. Aglovale, too, shook Gwaine's hand.
"I didn't realize you were nobility," he said defensively.
"Yes, I know, he doesn't look like much," Arthur said. "But wait until you see him in action."
"I'm looking forward to it," Lamorack grinned.
Of course, Merlin thought—what could possibly be more fun than pounding each other's heads in.
Gwaine bobbed his head politely.
"Until then," Aglovale said, signaling a servant to take his horse.
As the brothers walked away, Merlin overheard Aglovale ask, "Do they always introduce their servants here?"
Arthur swatted Gwaine's arm—a gesture meaning 'follow me'—and Merlin cocked his ear for Lamorack's reply: "No, just Prince Arthur and Lady Morgana."
"Merlin," Arthur called.
"Is there some feud we should know about?" Morgana asked at the feast that night.
"Morgana," Uther sighed. He sat at the head of the Hall, at the middle of a long table, Gwaine on his right, Morgana on his left. A perfect arrangement for him, Morgana thought—blocking her.
"How will we keep up our noble family traditions if we don't know about them?" she said. Gwaine scoffed into his wine, tilting his head to drain the chalice.
"Morgana, Gwaine wouldn't know the first thing about your family traditions," Arthur said from her other side.
"Indeed," Uther said. "Tell me about your travels," he said to Gwaine, shifting in his chair and showing Morgana the back of his shoulder to signal that she was not to be a part of this conversation.
"Congratulations on currying your father's favor," she hissed in Arthur's ear.
"What is your problem?" Arthur asked, immediately losing interest in any response, as he spotted Sir Oswald and his friend Sir Ethan entering the Hall.
The two had paused at the doors to adjust. Neither man had ever been inside a castle before, surrounded by wealthy nobles, sumptuous food and drink—acknowledged and accepted. And why should they not be accepted, wearing the faces of proven breeding, as they were? Dagr and Ebor stood at the entrance—concealed for all to see—acclimating.
Long tables ran parallel to the walls, knights of all crests seated on both sides of each, filling the Hall with raucous laughter. Servants flowed around, carrying more food and drink. Ebor absorbed the aromas, spellbound; Dagr latched onto Arthur, seated at the King's table at the opposite end of the Hall.
"Oswald!" someone called. Dagr paid no attention.
Prince Arthur sat one person away from the King, a beautiful dark-haired woman between them. Directly on the King's right—a place of honor—sat the interloper, dressed like a lord in purple and black. Gifts from the meddlesome Prince, no doubt. Some old man sat on his other side, while Arthur's village companion stood behind, attending the Prince. Arthur raised his chalice toward Dagr, and Dagr smirked.
"Oswald!" the voice insisted.
"That's you," Ebor whispered.
"I know, 'Ethan'," Dagr sneered. They made their way toward three watching knights, sitting at the long table to the right.
"Cadoc's pining for you," a clean-shaven man in dark green remarked.
"Late as usual," Sir Cadoc slapped Dagr's back as Dagr and Ebor sat down. Two goblets appeared on the table in front of them.
"Must've taken one of his short-cuts," said the man in dark-green.
"Can't come early—you'd think we weren't ourselves," Ebor joked, provoking a sideways glare from Dagr. The three knights laughed, and Cadoc reached his hand across Dagr.
"Cadoc," he said, and Ebor took his hand.
"Ah yes," Dagr said. "This is Sir Ethan, a great friend."
"Sir Taran," Cadoc indicated the man in green. Taran raised his goblet.
"And this is Sir Madoc—he was just knighted last year. Madoc, Sir Oswald here frequents every tournament he can, anytime, anywhere."
"Haven't yet met a fight I haven't loved," Dagr said as he shook Madoc's hand.
"An honor to meet you both," Madoc replied.
By this time, Merlin had navigated through the crowd to Dagr's side.
"Sir Oswald?" Merlin said. "Prince Arthur sends his greetings and apologizes for missing your arrival. And whenever you're ready, I'll show you to your rooms."
"Already found quarters, just fine," Dagr turned his back to Merlin.
"Sorry?" Merlin said.
"You deaf?" Dagr said over his shoulder. "I said we got a place already."
"A nice place," Ebor said.
"Oh," Merlin said. "All right, then."
He faded in among the other servants, but paused to eavesdrop when he heard Sir Taran ask, "Did someone steal your wine on the road?"
"No," Dagr said, confused.
"Then what's gotten into you?" Sir Cadoc asked. "What was that?"
"He's a servant," Dagr insisted.
"Prince Arthur's servant," Taran said. "Who's managed to stay Prince Arthur's servant."
"So?" Dagr said.
"So, you're Sir Civility—Sir Decorum," Taran said, concluding, "You must've had a rough journey."
"I can fix that," Dagr said, grinning broadly and lifting his goblet.