Unable to convince Arthur that Oswald had refused castle chambers, Merlin found himself, in the early hours of dawn, knocking at the home of Timaeus, a spice merchant of some prominence. A large house, by lower-town standards, it stood midway between the upper wall and the outer wall protecting Camelot, and when a young boy answered, Merlin peeked through the half-open door, looking for the two misplaced knights.
What he saw were signs of an occupation: Helmets and hauberks on the table, clothing on the floor, muddy boots on chairs—Oswald and Ethan had strewn themselves everywhere.
"Yes?" Wide blue eyes stared up at Merlin beneath a mess of dark, dust-coated hair.
"Hello," Merlin said, but the boy stood unmoving until his mother came up behind him.
"Felix," she shooed him away from the door, and he returned to a collection of rocks on the floor beneath a window.
"I beg your pardon," she said to Merlin. "Welcome to our home—how may we be of service to Prince Arthur?" Behind her, a dark-haired, dark-complexioned girl sat at the table, chin on folded arms, glaring at a snoring figure laying in one of two beds.
"Sorry?" Merlin jerked his attention back to the woman, her own dark hair coiled around her head.
"You're the Prince's servant," she said. "It's Merlin, isn't it?"
"Yes," Merlin smiled. "Didn't think anyone ever noticed me."
"In our trade, it pays to remember faces and names."
"What's yours?" Merlin asked.
"Octavia. What can I do for you?"
Merlin was not accustomed to such respect from someone who was in many ways better off than him—at least, than how he grew up—was richer than him. He re-gathered himself: "I was just wondering how your guests are doing."
"They're mean," the girl said from the table, practicing an evil eye at the man still in bed.
"Flavia," Octavia shot a warning look to her daughter. "It's an honor to have them," she told Merlin.
They're mean, Flavia mouthed at Merlin behind her mother's back. The boy, Felix, remained focused on his rocks until the figure in bed snorted awake.
"Why is it so bright in here?" Ethan demanded as he sat up, shoving his blankets away. He wore only trousers, and a strange crystal dangled at his sternum. Merlin tried not to stare—but the crystal—something about it . . . Ethan covered his eyes and smacked his tongue around to clear a bad taste from his mouth.
"Finally up, I see," Oswald strolled around the corner, shirtless and drying his hair. A similar crystal hung against his chest, wet from Oswald's bath. Oswald grabbed a shirt from off a chest of drawers and threw it at Ethan. "Get dressed," he ordered. Ethan tugged it on and Oswald hunted for his own.
"Allow me?" Merlin lifted a hauberk from the table (Flavia, undisturbed by Merlin, narrowed her eyes at Oswald), and unveiled a blue shirt underneath. Oswald strode to the table, staring down Merlin as though by finding the shirt, Merlin had challenged him. Merlin stared back innocently.
"Does Princess want something?" Oswald said, crossing his arms. By doing so, he covered the crystal he wore, but Merlin suspected that was incidental, that Oswald's intent was to demonstrate his properly pompous and noble displeasure.
"Yes," Merlin smiled obsequiously. "He just wanted to make sure you were suitable for your quarters."
"I expect you gentlemen are hungry," Octavia butted in front of Merlin, smiling genially—impressively, Merlin thought.
"Starving," Oswald told his host and grabbed his shirt from the table.
"Are these my boots?" Ethan grumbled quietly, examining a road-mucked boot. "These are my boots. These are my boots."
"It's your dirty goblet, too," Flavia said, without comment from her mother. Ethan looked at Flavia, at Merlin, at Octavia, finally registering their presence. He noticed a goblet lying on its side on the floor. He lifted it upside-down above his head, staring into its emptiness. Octavia walked over with a cup of water, switching it for the goblet in Ethan's hand. She grabbed both of Ethan's boots.
"Brush them off, Flavia," she said quietly, with a look that brooked no argument. Flavia glared at her mother, she glared at Ethan, and she glared at Oswald, fully dressed, sitting down at the table.
"Good girl," Oswald said.
So rude, she mouthed to Merlin as she stomped out the door, boots in hand. Merlin wished he had time to commiserate. Octavia placed two goblets in Merlin's hands.
"They're not ours," she said apologetically, leading him to the door. Both goblets were from the palace.
Merlin took one last look at Oswald and Ethan, their crystals now hidden beneath their shirts; he glanced sympathetically at Octavia; and he left, brooding on the two crystals as he returned to Gaius's chambers.
"You're up early," Gaius said. "And I see you stopped by the kitchens—no food?"
"What—oh. No, these wandered off from the feast last night."
"Oh," Gaius said, not understanding, but not asking further, since a servant had entered carrying a tray of oatcakes and cheese in one hand, meat and apples in the other, and a basket of bread around his arm. Dried sweat stained his face. He placed the trays and basket carefully on the table and stiffly bowed to Gaius, then Merlin.
"I'll admit one good thing about the Melee is the food," Merlin said. He bit into an oatcake as he retrieved a magic book hidden behind other books on Gaius's shelves.
"Merlin," Gaius warned, making sure his chamber door, and Merlin's, were both closed. Merlin was getting far too lax and careless for Gaius's comfort.
Merlin sat down at the table, glanced at the door to his room—behind which Gwaine still slept—and opened the book. "Do you know anything about magic crystals?" he asked Gaius.
"A little," Gaius said. "Why?" He sat down and filled a plate with food.
"Oswald and Ethan are both wearing one."
"Magic crystals? How could you tell?"
Merlin knew Gaius was asking him to describe a sensation—an echo, a vibration, radiation—but he couldn't. He couldn't explain why the crystals bothered him—why they struck him as a mystery he had to unlock. Not without sounding nosy.
"You're assuming," Gaius concluded.
"Will it hurt to check?" Merlin flipped through some pages to the chapter on crystals—unfortunately, it was only on their healing properties. He flopped back, disheartened. Gaius discreetly moved the book to his lap.
"Maybe it's about winning the Melee," Merlin said aloud. "Preventing injury or fatigue."
"Why wear them now—why not wait until the Melee itself?" Gaius asked.
"To get used to them?" Merlin guessed. "They're not exactly small." Not a terrible supposition, though it didn't satisfy Gaius—and Merlin had to admit, he didn't like it either. He was missing something. He grabbed another oatcake and some cheese, ruminating as he chewed. The door to his room opened and Gwaine stumbled out, rubbing his face and eyes.
"Too much to drink?" Merlin said.
"Not enough," Gwaine groaned, then chuckled. He plopped down heavily at the table and snagged a piece of quail. Merlin rose to fetch him a cup.
"You know, I can get you real chambers," Merlin said as he poured water from a ewer.
"You think that I think I'm too good for you room?"
"No," Merlin had to parse what Gwaine had said—accused, almost—and Gaius had no insight. "I think I like my bed, and there are some chambers in the castle that went unclaimed."
Gwaine seemed to consider it, staring downcast at the food in his hands.
"But we're happy to entertain guests," Merlin said. "If you're comfortable here."
"I'm much more comfortable here, Merlin, thank you," Gwaine said. "Gaius, you too, I mean it—thank you."
"Yeah," Merlin said. It wasn't really a problem—sharing and making do to help each other was just how he grew up.
"You might have to learn to pour your own water, though," Gaius said. Merlin had placed the ewer on the table and sat down again. Gwaine dropped his head and chuckled, conceding Gaius's point. He raised his cup of water in a silent toast, and Merlin and Gaius joined in.
By midmorning, skirmishes had begun outside the walls of Camelot—friendly fights that guarded, for the most part, against major injury, and let the participants flex their muscles and earn bragging rights. It was ludicrous, in Merlin's opinion, but Arthur honored the peacocking as if it were some sort of rite.
"Sure you don't want to join the pleasantries?" Merlin asked Gwaine. Three crowds had formed in an open space beyond the city, each filled with knights and squires and peasants. Between two of the crowds, a pair of knights on horseback rushed toward each other, lances aimed.
"Lion wins," Gwaine said. The shield of one jouster depicted a red lion on yellow background, while the other's shield had a yellow gryphon on green. The lion unhorsed the gryphon.
"Show off," Merlin said.
Arthur was in the third crowd, where knights fought on foot with sword and shield. Merlin had no idea who was fighting, but Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan stood beside Arthur. Sir Cadoc, too, was nearby, ignoring the skirmish to watch Arthur and Oswald.
"How's Sir Oswald behaving?" Merlin startled Cadoc.
"Wha—fine—wonderful," Cadoc stuttered unconvincingly. He looked Gwaine over.
"Yes, this is Arthur's cousin Gwaine," Merlin said. To Gwaine: "Sir Cadoc is one of Camelot's best knights."
"An honor to meet you," Cadoc shook Gwaine's hand. Oswald and Ethan sauntered away from Arthur.
"Likewise," Gwaine said.
Merlin excused himself and joined Arthur. Oswald and Ethan elbowed their way to another spot in the crowd—up front, with an unobstructed view of the ongoing fight.
"Merlin," Arthur stated, as though Merlin were unexpected—whatever had just occurred, it bothered Arthur.
"Is Oswald still being an ass?" Merlin said.
"Merlin," Arthur said impatiently—and gave up. "Stop judging things you don't understand. Whatever Oswald's problem is, I'm not losing sleep over it."
Arthur lied—whenever it was a question of honor or duty or amity, Arthur didn't stand by and let things fester. Yet Arthur hadn't done anything ignoble or insulting as far as Merlin could tell.
Back where he'd left them, Gwaine and Cadoc were commenting on the fight. The surrounding crowd shouted mockery or encouragement. Oswald and Ethan yelled loudly, vehemently, full of bloodlust. Beside Merlin, Arthur watched with detachment. Merlin had no interest in the skirmishes—a sentiment shared by one lone kindred spirit: a dark-haired man whose attention was locked on Oswald and Ethan. A man Merlin's own age, pale-skinned, wiry, dressed well enough for a minor noble—and entirely unremarkable.
Yet he was uncomfortably familiar.
Merlin couldn't place him. Someone won; cheers erupted and too-bads abounded; Oswald met the man's gaze and sneered.
And the man, thoroughly satisfied, walked away.
The skirmishes petered out as the sun hit its zenith. By that time, servants had erected pavilions and were bringing out blankets, cushions, tables, and chairs. Squires removed armor. Some shields were set aside for repair or refuse, others hung proudly in fighting condition. Ladies descended upon the field of play, smiling and soothing—in some cases wooing—and making general pleasantries.
Morgana, however, had not come for such tedium. She ignored the bustle as she walked through it, looking for Gwaine. Uther was back in the castle, conferring with Gylberd, his seneschal—perhaps now she would get some answers.
That Gwaine might have none was a possibility too depressing to consider. Her cage was more than the walls of Camelot, it was Uther's lies, too. She would break them.
Music had started. Servants were pouring wine and water, and carrying baskets of bread, plates of quail. Apples. Cheese. Morgana saw knights wrapping cut fingers as she headed toward the largest pavilion. Knights splashed their faces, washed their hands, rubbed their shoulders. Laughed and groaned. A young lady coquettishly wiped a clean-shaven jaw with her kerchief. Off to the side, Gaius examined the calf of one of Camelot's knights, who winced in pain, and Gwen stood by attending them. Morgana hurried along, not wanting to be seen, and not knowing, really, why—she told herself it was just her need to question Gwaine.
But then she heard the overbearing voice of Lady Marcella:
"Guinevere!"
Gwen, Gaius, and the knight looked up as one. Lady Marcella stood a few yards away. She wore a bright red and gold dress, multiple necklaces, and a jeweled hairnet over her gathered grey hair. Having received everyone's attention, she moved no closer—as if doing so were beneath her—and servants carefully avoided blocking her line of sight.
"We need water—be of use," she ordered. Gwen could not hide her irritation—she glared at Lady Marcella as though responding to a spoiled child. Morgana smiled with pride.
"Mind your place, girl," Marcella snapped at Gwen.
"Lady Marcella, Gwen is assisting me," Gaius said, with none of his usual deference.
"Marcella," Morgana approached, "surely you don't think we should abandon one of Camelot's gallant protectors?"
"I think, surely, that an apprentice would be more appropriate," Marcella said, unconsciously lifting up on her toes to meet Morgana's eye—and not quite succeeding.
"Let's respect the expert," Morgana said. "Fetch your own water."
Morgana now stood in Lady Marcella's way. Gaius, too, had paused his ministrations to shield Gwen. Lady Marcella assessed her situation: affronting the King's ward and the King's physician over a mere servant.
"As Lady Morgana wishes," Marcella said, shoring up her pride and striding off. Once she was out of earshot, the knight whistled in amusement. Gaius and Gwen turned back to him.
"Your ankle's twisted," Gaius said. "I'm afraid there'll be no Melee for you."
"I'll let you get on with it," Morgana said to Gwen. Gwen smiled weakly—she didn't know what else to do—she wanted to say something—to accompany Morgana—but she was committed now, to the task before her.
Gaius noticed her regret. "I really do appreciate the help, Gwen. But if—"
"No, no it's no problem," Gwen said. Morgana had already disappeared into the crowd anyway.
The distance to the largest pavilion—presumably Arthur's pavilion—felt to Morgana like it had doubled. People were everywhere. Servants, out of habit and instinct, moved around her, lowering their eyes and bowing their heads and reciting My Lady; knights and nobles barely noticed her. Morgana navigated around them, irked at their self-absorption and obliviousness.
All her tension evaporated when she spotted Arthur's pavilion—he was laughing with Lamorack and Aglovale, Sir Darien from Wight, and several others she didn't recognize. Gwaine sat inside the pavilion too, but off to one side, talking to Lady Ettare. Morgana halted, wondering if she should interrupt. Ettare twisted a white kerchief in her hands, and alternated between straightening up proudly and staring aggrieved at the ground; Gwaine drank from his mug. When Ettare wouldn't notice, his eyes darted Arthur's way, signaling for respite.
Good, Morgana thought: interrupt.
Merlin beat her to it. Suddenly standing over Gwaine, Merlin—shouldn't he be yipping at Arthur's heels?—said something to Gwaine, with an apologetic expression thrown at Ettare. Gwaine kissed Ettare's hand and walked off with Merlin. Lady Vawse quickly swooped in, occupying Gwaine's abandoned spot. Demanding gossip, no doubt.
"Morgana," Arthur called out to her. "Come here—the men want to meet you."
How she wished she could shove Merlin off a cliff. How she wished she could just run away—she loathed playing King Uther's Beautiful Ward—but the dread of returning to her chambers in defeat pushed a smile to her face and moved her feet forward to the free seat beside Arthur.
And as Morgana headed into the pavilion (once the men stopped trying to woo and impress her, it wasn't so bad), Merlin and Gwaine headed out.
"What was so awful about talking to a beautiful woman, that you just had to be rescued?" Merlin teased as the crowd enfolded them.
"Nothing," Gwaine said, ignoring Merlin's upbeat tone. He lifted his mug to his lips, pretending it wasn't empty. "Although, she told me she'd been cursed by a jilted warlock—that sounded awful."
"Yeah," Merlin sobered. "I heard about that—I wasn't here when it happened."
"Arthur out seeking adventures and renown?" Many a knight glanced at Gwaine as they passed, but Gwaine made point of acknowledging only the servants.
"Hunting a vicious manticore, actually," Merlin replied. "Not as honorable as avoiding renown—and sobriety—but that's Arthur for you."
Gwaine raised his empty mug to Merlin with a grin. And once again, Merlin was struck by Gwaine's determined insolence, the insistence on not being proper while still behaving—as if Gwaine's personal code of honor were trying to slap the pretensions of knighthood in the face. They'd stopped walking, Merlin's scrutiny making Gwaine uncomfortable.
"So did he catch it—the manticore?" Gwaine asked. He gave his empty mug to a passing servant, saying thank you.
"We caught up with it, yeah." They started walking again, toward the lower town. "But a knight of Cameliard killed it."
"Cameliard—Leodogran?" For some reason, this amused Gwaine. "Prince Arthur of Camelot fought with Leodogran over a manticore?"
"What? No—no. We were guests in Cameliard."
Oh really, Gwaine's face demanded, still amused.
"Well, incognito guests—long story—my point is, that's where we were when Pelleas was in Camelot. There was nothing I could do to help Lady Ettare."
"She doesn't think anyone can help. But she wants someone to try anyway," Gwaine shook his head, his sympathy shifting to disdain. "Oh, but she only trusts Camelot's intolerance—'who but King Uther can protect her'."
"Intolerance . . . for magic?" Merlin asked, daring to hope for an ally in Gwaine. "You don't hate magic? Is that why your family's never been to Camelot before?"
"Talk about a long story," Gwaine snorted. "But you'll have to ask my mother because I stopped listening years ago." Something about Merlin's demeanor gave him pause. "Does it bother you, that the family's a bit estranged?"
"It's just curious."
"I thought it was mutual," Gwaine said. "Philosophical differences—because Uther forbids the Faith."
"The Faith? You mean the Old Religion?"
"Is there a new religion?" Gwaine gibed. He spotted a tavern, already overflowing with patrons. When Merlin wavered, Gwaine confirmed, "Yes, the Old Religion."
"Magic is legal in your kingdom?"
"Of course not. People who use magic without understanding what they're doing, it causes imbalances," Gwaine raised his voice as he weaved through the throng—Merlin had to work to keep up. "But that's not the Faith. According to my mother, Uther doesn't understand that."
"What do you think?" Merlin asked as Gwaine signaled for two ales.
"About the Faith? Is this a test?" Gwaine eyed Merlin with amusement. "Is Uther suspicious of me—if I start praying, will it get me out of the Melee?"
"And into the dungeons."
"You'd bust me out."
Yes, Merlin probably would. Their ales arrived and he wrapped his hands around the mug. Gwaine was likely to get them both into trouble, and he didn't care. The voices of the patrons roared around them like a waterfall. The room stank of sweat and leather. A couple of squires glanced surreptitiously at Gwaine—but it was Merlin most of the regulars stared at, including the barkeep.
"Guess knowing Arthur makes you famous," Gwaine said.
"I'm nobody," Merlin said. "Unlike some."
"And yet, you're the one garnering all the attention."
Merlin couldn't help but feel a small wave of pride, but the attention was transient, he knew.
"You deserve it, Merlin. In the end, titles mean nothing—it's what's inside that counts."
Merlin wished he could believe like Gwaine—he certainly agreed with Gwaine. The tavern turned back to its own affairs, dousing his flicker of fame. Friends in high places notwithstanding, Merlin was still just another peasant, after all.