Chapter VI: Two Conversations

Kilgharrah shook his great head in mild disbelief. "You should not leave Camelot ever again, I fear."

"I wasn't really planning on it," Merlin returned dryly. "Not for this long, certainly. But can we talk about this?"

"Of course," the dragon replied, settling in for a long conversation.

It was Wednesday, two days after his return, three after Sigan's escape. Merlin had wanted to speak with his scaly friend right away, but between the paranoia and the need for research and the prisoners he'd had to free and send to the Isle and of course Arthur's endless list of chores, he'd barely had time to eat, much less sneak away to talk with an enormous golden lizard. But Wednesdays had been sheep-smuggling days, and Kilgharrah would be coming anyways, so he'd made himself stay awake and come out.

"I was not in Camelot when Sigan fell out with his king," Kilgharrah stated. "I was far to the north, in the lands that would belong to your family. I cannot tell you for a certainty what happened, but given the timing, I cannot but believe that their quarrel had something to do with Balor."

Merlin's brow crinkled. "Balor? Like the Cave of Balor?"

"Yes, he was named for the cave. Tell me, young warlock, have you ever wondered why Camelot's sigil is the dragon and why its ruling house's name means 'Chief Dragon'?"

The warlock frowned. "I always thought it was because the citadel was literally built by magic, and dragons are some of the most magical beings in creation."

"A reasonable assumption, but wrong. Bruta's father was a dragonlord, and he was the man's first trueborn son… yet when the dragonlord passed, Bruta did not inherit his father's voice."

"He had a bastard," Merlin realized, eyes going huge. The dragonlord gift went to the firstborn son regardless of his legitimacy, though it had been known to pass to a younger brother if the eldest died without issue.

"Yes, Balor's father Brynden. He was a simple farmer with no idea of the power in his blood. When the assassin came for him, he did not even try to use his magical gifts. He fought with a farmer's scythe instead, and though he was no match for a professional killer, he survived long enough for his pregnant wife to escape. She hid for a time in the Cave of Balor, with her sisters smuggling her food and news. When her son was born, she brought him north, to take refuge in the Celyddon."

Blue eyes widened to enormous proportions. "But that's where my father's family is from."

"So it is," Kilgharrah replied, amusement in his eyes. "Ganieda chose the name Caledonensis for young Balor, and their line continues to this day."

"But… but if my ancestor and Bruta were brothers….."

"Fear not, young warlock. Bruta was the founder and first king of Camelot, and it is to Bruta's descendants that the crown belongs."

The tension drained out of Merlin's shoulders. "Thank the gods for that, then. But why do you think that this is connected to Sigan?"

"The timing, as I said," the dragon reminded him. "Brynden was slain at the start of summer. By the time the leaves turned, Cornelius Sigan was his king's prisoner. He was executed when the first snows fell."

"Do you think they were friends?" Merlin wondered.

"I doubt that they ever even met. However, it is quite likely that Sigan took offense to Bruta's assassination of another spellbinder—his own half-brother, no less—and made his opinions known. I believe that this was the catalyst of their enmity, the first of several worsening arguments that culminated in Sigan's arrest and death."

"That would explain why he wants to destroy the city he helped create," Merlin muttered. He signed heavily. "I have other questions, though."

"Perhaps I shall answer them."

"Don't you mean 'perhaps I can answer them'?"

"Of course not," the dragon sniffed. "Any fool can answer a question and be wrong."

The warlock fought back another sigh. He was far too tired for Kilgharrah's word games. "Okay, then. If you insist. But questions. First, do you know of any way to prevent possession?"

"For certain creatures, yes. For a being like Sigan…." Kilgharrah trailed off with a scowl. "First, I must learn more of what he has become." The dragon tilted his head, considering. "Have you inquired with your druid tutor about this?"

"Not yet," the warlock admitted. "He was staying back on the Isle for a few days because it's been so long since he's seen his friends and family, and I had no idea that this sort of disaster would be waiting for us in Camelot." Though in retrospect….

Shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear it, Merlin continued, "What about tracking spirits? Do you know anything about tracking spirits?"

"Only what I have imparted to you."

Merlin frowned, thinking back to the things that Kilgharrah had taught him. "You mean those projection spells?"

Kilgharrah smiled.

Early in Merlin's stay in Camelot, he'd accidentally projected his spirit out of his body in order to save Arthur's life from a bunch of giant spiders. Kilgharrah had taught him how to control that particular ability after he leaned of it (and after detailing all the horrible ways something could have gone wrong). Merlin hadn't used the spells much—Lancelot and Arthur had both nearly died because Merlin couldn't defeat Sophia and Aulfric Tir-mor without his body—but he still remembered how to perform them, how in his disembodied state he could see through peoples' skin and bones to the life and power within. Those spells wouldn't be much good for fighting Sigan, but for finding him….

That might work, he realized. At the very least it would be a start.

"Okay," he mumbled, for what felt like the millionth time that night. "But do you have anything else? Ideas about what he might be, where we could get more information on him, anything like that?"

"Merely a theory. If the myths are true, then Cornelius created his own new spell for immortality. This will not be written down in any book save his personal grimoire, which has most likely been lost to time. However, spells of this magnitude and duration require an anchor. Perhaps the anchor could present the key to your victory."

If Merlin hadn't been so tired, he probably would have thought of that himself. Blaise had taught him a bit about anchors, after all, though they hadn't truly focused on them. They really ought to rectify that. "I might be able to find that while I'm spirit walking."

They chatted for a few minutes more, but soon Merlin begged exhaustion and began making his way back to the physician's chambers. On the way, he thought about what he had learned. If Kilgharrah was right and the immortality spell had an anchor, then it was likely one of the things in Sigan's tomb. Cedric would have grabbed it, triggered the enchantment, and gotten himself possessed. Had Arthur had Cedric's body searched? Merlin couldn't recall. Did the anchor need to be in physical contact with the host for it to work, or could Sigan have hidden it somewhere and then carried on? Could he possess anyone he wanted now that Cedric was gone, or did all potential hosts have to touch the anchor?

Merlin really hoped that they did, but he had a sinking feeling that the old spellbinder's spirit was now free to roam. After all, when had protecting Camelot been easy?

Friday night, and Arthur was ready to give up. Hell, he should have given up days ago; getting more sleep would have made his life at least marginally more bearable (though in his defense, he was nowhere near as bad as Merlin, whom he'd caught unconscious and surrounded by armor just that morning). Sure, Sigan and that blasted dragon would still be at large (probably), and sure, he would still have faced an assassination attempt, but could have dealt with those much more efficiently if he'd been fully awake. So it was past time that he gave up waiting for his stupid warlock and went to bed, where he belonged at this hour of the evening.

So, naturally, it was only when he turned around to leave that he saw Emrys finally walking through the door.

Arthur jerked back, tightening his jaw to prevent a most un-princely yelp of surprise. "Nice of you to show up," he snapped automatically.

Now that the warlock had actually arrived, Arthur realized that he wasn't quite certain how to proceed. They'd interacted before, even held a brief conversation or two, but this was the first time that he had deliberately sought out a sorcerer—spellbinder, he reminded himself—for the express purpose of asking for magical aid, or at least for more knowledge about magic-related topics. Also, there was the fact that Emrys might have had something to do with the missing artifacts, and he would eventually have to confront the younger man about that. Best save that bit for the end, he supposed, but it seemed he'd likely have to make the rest up as he went along.

Emrys hunched defensively. "I was busy," the warlock muttered, "and I don't seem to recall making any arrangements to meet you here."

"We didn't," Arthur had to admit, "but the news about Cornelius Sigan—not to mention everything else—is all over Camelot, and I thought that you'd show up here sooner rather than later."

Emrys sighed, and Arthur realized just how tired the other youth looked. Black circles underscored his odd yellow eyes, which were duller and less alert than he'd ever seen them. "I know, and I probably should have been here earlier. I just didn't think of it until tonight. I'm sorry."

He looked sorry, too, which made this the first time in over twenty years that a spellbinder apologized to a Pendragon. Arthur tried not to think about that little fact, tried not to think about how what he was doing was a hundred different types of illegal and how his father would kill him if he ever found out. Emrys was like Gaius, he told himself, and anyways, if Sigan really was still running around, Camelot would need all the help it could get. He would just treat Emrys like he would any other retainer and feel guilty about breaking the law, betraying his father, and not caring nearly as much as he should later.

"Don't worry about it," the prince instructed, a bit more gently than before. "Now, er, what sort of progress have you made?"

Emrys gave him an odd look—he was probably nonplussed by how casual Arthur was being, like they did this every day over bread and cheese—but didn't comment. "I've been asking around about Sigan, and it turns out that nobody I've talked to knows how he made himself immortal. He would have created the spell himself, you see, but there aren't any surviving copies of his notes. However, the spell probably involves the use of an anchor or vessel."

Arthur thought back to the things Gaius had taught him about magic. If he remembered correctly, anchors could, among other things, help stabilize spells and make them last longer. Sigan had lived centuries ago, so it made sense that he'd need an anchor.

"What would this anchor be?"

"I don't know," Emrys sighed. "I assume that it's a jewel of some sort or the thief wouldn't have tried to steal it."

That also made a great deal of sense. Arthur made a mental note to inventory the tomb.

"Of course," the warlock grumbled, "the anchor is likely heavily enchanted, possibly with more spells of Sigan's own making, and touching it might be a prerequisite for possession."

"Of course," Arthur groaned. Clearly, they'd have to do the inventory without touching anything. "Have you found out anything else about him?"

"I'm afraid not," the warlock admitted. "While I've discovered a bit of biographical information, I don't have much to say about his skills and abilities. Your court physician could tell you more."

"You know about Gaius's research?" Arthur asked, surprised.

Emrys smiled ruefully. "The spellbinder who gave up magic to serve Uther Pendragon seems like a logical choice for researching an ancient warlock."

"I suppose," Arthur admitted. He'd never thought about how magic users might perceive Gaius's loyalty. "But have you found where he is or if he's still around? Sigan, I mean."

"I'm hoping to learn that tonight," the warlock replied. "Him and his anchor."

"Through asking people or through…?"

"Through my magic," was the dry response.

"Of course, of course." That was probably better than Emrys having a spy network of sorts in the heart of Camelot, he supposed, but it also meant that he was essentially telling a subject of the crown to defy Uther's law. "That. Once you've found him—if you find him—send an anonymous tip to Sir Leon or myself, and we'll take a squadron of knights to apprehend him."

Emrys just stared at him. "You're going to take a bunch of knights in bright red cloaks and shiny chainmail to capture an ancient warlock whose known powers include possessing whoever the hell he wants and probably has a dozen other skills as well?"

"We'll knock him unconscious," Arthur said defensively.

"And then what?" Emrys had his hands on his hips, and his face bore a mulish cast that reminded the prince of Merlin. "Kill his host and hope he passes on with whatever poor sap he's possessing?"

Arthur couldn't suppress a grimace. That wasn't what had happened with Cedric, he reminded himself. That had been a matter of life and death, one that Sigan had entered willingly, and Cedric had been a criminal as well. This, though… he had to concede that Emrys might have a point. "We'll think of something. We can keep him drugged until we've found and destroyed the vessel. Unless you're willing to loan that sword of yours that kills dead things?"

The warlock's eyes widened to enormous proportions. "That's actually not a bad idea," he stated, looking far too surprised by the fact.

An entirely inappropriate sense of hopeful longing surged in Arthur's chest. He tried to quash them, reminding himself that even if he was certainly at least going to look over the laws against magic (though he wouldn't necessarily do anything more), his father was still the king, and as such, Uther's word was law. He shouldn't want the sword like he did, even if he'd coveted the thing since first laying eyes on it.

"Of course," Emrys continued, "I'm not certain how exactly Excalibur will affect him or the anchor. It will probably destroy the anchor well enough, but I'll still need to ask Kilgharrah…."

Arthur should have asked about who Kilgharrah was and why Emrys didn't know something so important about his own magic sword, but what he said was, "Excalibur?"

"The sword's name," Emrys confirmed. "And it's technically yours, not mine."

Arthur's heart swelled with far too much enthusiasm. "How can it be mine if—wait." His eyes narrowed. "Did you take it from the weapons vault?"

"No, I bought it from a blacksmith and asked Kilgharrah to burnish it for you." He scowled slightly. "The original plan was to smuggle it to you so you could fight the wraith, then squirrel it away for safekeeping until you were king." The scowl deepened. "Believe you me, the last thing I wanted was to have to fight the wraith myself."

This was an excellent chance to segue into the topic of the weapons vault, but Arthur was becoming increasingly certain that he didn't want to know the answer to that mystery. Instead, he commented, "You're being awfully careless with your friend's name."

The scowl morphed into a grin. "Your father's already given orders that Kilgharrah must be slain on sight. Giving you his name won't endanger him any further." The grin widened into a smirk. "He's a dragon, you see."

"…a dragon."

"A dragon." Emrys was clearly enjoying himself.

Arthur had, like most other people in the castle, assumed that the dragon had escaped on its own. It had been down in a dank cave for decades; likely its chains had gotten rusty or something. Now, though…. "Emrys, how exactly did the dragon escape?"

"I asked him to promise that he wouldn't hurt anyone, and then I broke the chains. That was quite some time ago, and to the best of my knowledge he's kept his promise."

"And you believed it?" Arthur squawked. "And how the hell did it even promise you, anyways?"

"Dragons talk," Emrys explained, laughter dancing in his eyes.

"No they don't," Arthur blurted.

"Have you ever even seen a dragon?"

"Well, no."

"Well, I have, and I say dragons can talk. But anyways, yes, I did release him, and I don't think it's a very good idea to go hunting him down. He's not going to start any fights, but he will defend himself if some knight comes charging at him with a lance."

"By which you mean he'll set them on fire."

"Possibly," Emrys acquiesced, "though I suppose he could do something else."

This conversation was not doing much to reassure Arthur. "Where is the bloody thing?"

"He's safe, in the wilderness, minding his own business."

"And what about the things from the treasure vault?"

"Also safe, in the wilderness, and minding their own business. And before you say anything," he added, holding up a hand, "I didn't technically steal them. I'm giving them back to you when you're king, because hopefully you'll use them for things other than killing people like me."

Arthur closed his eyes and counted to ten. There was no way he could convince the impudent little bugger to give the artifacts back; he recognized sheer pigheadedness when he saw it, and it wasn't like he had any leverage over the youth. One day, perhaps, he could talk or trick him into disclosing their locations, but until then, he'd have to focus on more immediate battles. "Is the Raven's Key among the items you… borrowed?"

"Yes," Emrys replied. At least he had the grace to look slightly (very, very slightly) embarrassed and ashamed.

"And is it in a place where Sigan can't find it?"

"Kilgharrah's guarding it," Emrys said.

Arthur's lips twitched at the thought of the spirit fighting the dragon before settling into a stern frown. "The dragon."

"Yes."

"You realize that any deaths that thing causes will be your fault entirely?"

Emrys grimaced, pursed his lips. "Would you feel better about him being free if you could meet him?"

Arthur's words died in his throat. His jaw hung slack as he goggled round-eyed at the lunatic in front of him. "You want me, the crown prince of Camelot, to go traipsing out with a spellbinder to talk with a bloody dragon in the dead of night?"

"…We could wait until daylight, I suppose."

Arthur continued to gape at him, because there was really nothing else he could do.

Emrys flushed a little. "Very well. Ah, sire, if you don't want to meet Kilgharrah tonight, perhaps you'd like to retrieve your sword?"

Compared to his last suggestion, that sounded perfectly reasonable. Still, Arthur hesitated. Sneak out of the castle with a known spellbinder to find a magic dragon sword that might be able to harm a spirit (and/or the object anchoring it to life) that might or might not still be on the loose. It was madness.

And yet, Emrys had saved his life.

Emrys wanted him on the throne, Arthur knew, because he wanted Arthur to restore magic to Camelot. He wanted an end to the bloodshed, which meant that he wouldn't kill the prince. Enchant him, possibly, but he could enchant him here in the barracks too.

Besides, he really wanted a closer look at that sword.

"Can we get there and back by dawn?"

A nod.

Arthur squared his shoulders and hoped he wasn't making a mistake. "Then let's go."

Emrys's smile could have outshone the sun.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Spends His Evenings Chatting with Important Characters Instead of Sleeping in His Bed, Thereby Acquiring Sleep Deprivation"

This book is a lot less episodic than last one. I personally think that's a good thing. As a result, though, it might end up shorter than The Warlock's Quickening. I honestly have no idea.

Next update: September 9. The nocturnal adventures of Merlin and Arthur, part two.

-Antares