Sins of the Father
It was a day after her fight with Morgana when Merlyn awoke with the first set of scratches on her skin. She thought nothing of it, initially; it wasn't illogical to believe she might have been bitten by something and itched too much in her sleep.
It took four more nights for her to accept it wasn't a persistent insect living within her sheets but the pressure of her magic itching and crawling beneath her flesh, just as it had when she'd foregone sorcery in her first weeks within the city. She did now as she'd done then and took to wearing socks on her hands when she went to bed; an inconvenience but a manageable one.
A week passed with Arthur spending much of his days out on the training fields, preparing several of the apprentices for their knight's challenge. He was pleased by the sheer volume of men deemed ready to face him, eager to expand his ranks and Merlyn enjoyed the view flexing, sweaty warriors provided.
But she soon realised her magic wasn't going to lay down and suffer the abuse quietly.
The smelling salts started to irritate her sinuses, causing her eyes to run and her nose to stuff up, airways burning near flowers and perfumes where once had only been pleasantness. Even the stables set her off into sneezing fits, the cat hair and horsehair causing her eyes to swell – which particularly irritated her now Sunstrider was returning to light exercise.
These sneezing fits and reactions disguised the odd shine she started to see one day in the yards, ground working her steed. She blinked several times to clear her vision, thinking the white glow little more than a trick of the sun distorting through her watery eyes. But dizziness swelled up like a wave and she started tottering like a drunk, trying to find balance upon the suddenly uneven ground.
She staggered into the fence of the round yard and put a hand to her head, a high-pitched ringing growing louder in her ears. Her knees went weak and the last thing she felt was Sunstrider's whiskers as he nuzzled her cheek before thought tunnelled into oblivion.
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She was lying on grass.
She was lying on grass?
She shifted and groaned as her body's aches made themselves known. She felt like she'd been beaten into unconsciousness.
Had she?
She cracked her eyes open and saw Sunstrider's front hoof planted firmly on the ground, not a hand span away from her face. She flinched and rolled onto her back, squinting with tired, swollen eyes up at the overcast sky – midday if she judged correctly.
The stallion seemed to be standing guard by her prone body and, when she regained awareness, he ducked his head to snuffle at her cheek with his nose. She pushed him away with trembling arms and took several deep breaths as she tried to organise her thoughts. Goodness, she was tired.
"What happened, boy?" she asked her horse, not expecting an answer but needing to give voice to the confusion.
Reluctantly, she pushed herself into a seated position, rubbing her neck as it protested the movement. Had she passed out? But then, why was she aching so much? It didn't appear she'd been unconscious for more than a few minutes. No one had approached to see why she laid in the yard and the day didn't appear to have slipped by.
She used Sunstrider's leg to lever herself to her feet and leant against his side as her head spun and vision spotted. Urgh, she wanted to lie down. She felt like a newborn fawn, shaky and weak and muddled.
Several minutes passed and, with it, the dizziness lessened. Merlyn leant against Sunstrider and rubbed at her snuffed, itchy nose wearily. Her wrist spiked with pain, fire shooting up her forearm like lightning, and she rolled up her sleeve to frown at the irritated flesh. Shallow red tendrils crept from the chafed skin immediately around the Cuff, crawling up her arm like a strangler vine. That hadn't been there the last time she'd looked.
With a sigh, she rolled down her sleeve and resisted the urge to scratch the prickling flesh. Perhaps she should see Gaius. Fainting spells, aching muscles, and sickly veins worming under her skin… she was unwell.
She flexed her left hand, the joints stiff. Gaius already felt guilty for not knowing more information about the Cuff; would it do any good to throw more stress his way while he still recovered from the Witchfinder?
A large, ashamed part said no, overwhelming the small, sensible whisper telling her yes.
She didn't have much to divulge anyway, so what exactly would she tells him to narrow down his options beyond, something's wrong?
Merlyn waffled a little more before surrendering to her cowardly impulse. She would keep it to herself for now but maintain vigilance for more symptoms: the odd sheen, like sunlight glinting off water, increased prickling beneath her skin, uncontrollable vertigo. If it repeated itself, she would have more information to give him afterwards.
Later, when Gaius came down with a fever from the stress his body endured in the dungeons, she could only be relieved at her silence. She plied him with ginger and garlic until he stunk, and his snotty nose and mild cough evaporated in the night. He grumbled and groaned at her mothering but accepted the ministrations, even allowing her to take his workload for a day as his old bones creaked with weariness. That, in itself, told Merlyn how out of sorts he truly felt.
Merlyn and Morgana shared not another word after their argument, tension ripe and thick enough to choke. Thankfully, without constrictive duties forcing them together, they could remain out of each other's way and keep their mutual friends away from the drama. Despite their row, Merlyn watch with pride as Geoffrey took on an apprentice for the library – Morgana hadn't dismissed the idea. The young girl was tall for her age, and slender, bearing thick, midnight hair that reached down to the small of her back and skin a smooth ochre brown, similar to that of the druid woman from the far eastern lands. She bore no red spot between her brows, but her features were comparable enough for Merlyn to assume they were of the same heritage.
Her black eyes were what drew Merlyn, however; large as a doe's but shrewd with intelligence. She watched everyone with a sharpness defined from her unstable childhood – looking for threats as much as observing to learn – but there also lived an innocence, a kind of social awkwardness which declared her preference for solitude. Regardless, she appeared content with her new career and Merlyn hoped she would find sanctuary within books she appeared unable to find among people.
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"Would you stop sneezing?" Arthur exclaimed in annoyance, scowling at her from over the top of the quill he held. He was already frustrated with his paperwork and Merlyn's uncontrollable and random bouts of nasal noises were fraying his last nerve. She scowled at him in return through watery eyes. It wasn't her fault. She didn't even need to be here, except utter boredom drove her mad, and Gaius had kicked her out when her restlessness had her accidentally ruin a tonic he'd been prepping.
"I can't help it," she retorted thickly, dabbing at her stuffed nose with a rag. "I'm reacting to the dust and flowers. Who brought you flowers anyway? Do you have a secret admirer?"
She pointed towards the long table where a tall vase held an attractive multicoloured bouquet – though she could barely tell which shades with her dulled colour spectrum – with leafy stems and tiny stephanotis florets filling out the assembly. They all looked to have come from the royal gardens and the striking blend was well designed to catch one's eye.
"No," Arthur said in an odd, reticent tone. He shuffled his papers to avoid Merlyn's stare then finally added in a defiant way; "I collected them myself. I was bored after training."
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. The training fields and gardens were opposite ends of the castle; he would have had to trek through the halls to reach the yards, passing many places and people who could have entertained him if that had been what he sought.
"They're beautiful," she said instead, unwilling to ridicule whatever budding new hobby had taken his fancy. She approached and grazed her fingers up the ferny leaves of one stem, feeling the waxy texture against the tips. It had been much too long since she had observed flowers in a purely aesthetic way; the past five months of anxiety and doubt having dulled her wonder for the simple things and now the Cuff stole her wits, she hadn't been much in the mood for meandering through gardens.
She sneezed. Then again, and again.
Merlyn backed away from the table with a hand pressed against her nose in frustration.
"You've been sniffly for near a week now, and it's only getting worse. Are you growing ill?" Arthur asked, concern bleeding through his voice, though he tried to hide it.
She shot him a dry glare. "If this was a sickness, I would already be ill. But no, it's the smelling salts; the ammonia has made my nose sensitive." She scrubbed at her itching eyes and sighed in misery. "It's awful."
"Perhaps you should leave it alone for a little while. Let your body settle."
"If I stop, I'll revert to that-that… sleepwalker."
"If it means you aren't suffering then perhaps it is better."
Merlyn snorted, choking back hysterical giggles. Hah! Suffering. Like her sinuses were the only thing hurting right now. Like they were the thing to hurt worst right now.
"Merlyn?"
The black-haired girl looked up with swollen eyes, saw Arthur's worried expression, and her grim humour dissipated like smoke. "I'll be fine," she said. "I think I will put the salts away for now. Just to give me a break."
And she needed it. Her emotions had been flitting from one extreme to the other at the slightest provocation, and it was frankly exhausting. She wasn't sure if it was because of the Cuff, or because the numbness had her forgetting how to control herself, but she didn't like how wild she felt, how liable to overreact she had become. Despite the hollow ache of reaching for something unattainable, the absence of emotion made things simple. And she craved simplicity, even for a little while. Her mind felt weary and thin, like a lonely tree sprig clinging to a seaside cliff while high, corrosive winds stripped it down to twigs.
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Arthur bore several men through the Knight's Test and Merlyn prepped him for the official celebrations. She intended to stay only for the knighting ceremony as the later festivities were predicted to last to dawn. It had been many years since five men had passed muster in one bout and the ale gathered by the kitchens was enough to keep Merlyn far away. A grumpy Arthur was going to be enough to deal with tomorrow without her own sleep deprivation to add. Times like this she didn't miss being his servant.
She zoned out of the proceedings beside Gwen and Gaius, awareness drifting as the long and practiced ritual droned on. Even if she wasn't disassociated, it would have been difficult to maintain concentration as King Uther spoke with a detachment conveying his own familiarity with the task.
Then the ceremony was disrupted when, beyond the double doors, a clash of swords and the yells of guards were heard as they fell under attack. The new knights alongside the seasoned ones turned to face the unknown threat, drawing weapons to hand. The sound of clashing swords ended shortly, and a moment lapsed before the doors were shoved wide to show off a single figure.
From the threshold marched a knight, fully bedecked in shining armour with a wicked sword in hand. He marched with confidence, seemingly unconcerned with the number of distrustful soldiers present, and Arthur stepped from the dais to meet him, posture that of a man ready to battle.
The knight halted not two paces away and, after a tense silence, threw a gauntlet at Arthur's feet.
Predictably, the prince picked it up.
"If I'm to face you in combat, do me the courtesy of revealing your identity," he commanded, and, after a pause, the knight removed his helm.
Beneath, a beautiful woman was revealed, long blonde hair falling from its tuck to curl against midback while kohl-lined brown eyes flashed from a fair face. Her lovely visage was matched only by her challenging glare.
"My name is Morgause," she proclaimed, voice echoing in the stunned quiet.
It was clear the court didn't know what to do with the revelation, but Morgause didn't stick around to hear their outrage. With a last lingering pass over the royals, she marched out.
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Merlyn sat on the edge of Arthur's bed while the prince remained in the Council Chambers to speak with his father. In her hands the flask of smelling salts sat, though she had yet to take a whiff. This was the first time someone posed an immediate risk to Arthur's life since her magic was bound, and she needed to be entirely cognizant to meet the challenge. Yet, Kilgarrah's warnings about her choices lingered in her mind. Arthur could die tomorrow upon the dirt of the arena, and she would be able to do nothing with the Cuff upon her wrist. The reality of how critically she'd handicapped herself hit hard – she'd taken herself out of play while threats to the Once and Future King remained as extreme as ever.
The prince entered, feet dragging with tiredness, and Merlyn quickly inhaled the sharp scent of ammonia before tying the satchel to her belt. She hurried over to pour him a strong cup of black tea from the hearth as he slumped into his high-backed chair at the table, sighing and rubbing his forehead. He absently thanked her when she placed the cup before him, not questioning the absence of George.
"My father wants to pull me from the duel," he said as she moved off to tidy the room, dabbing at her dripping nose. She was always too hyped to sit immediately after breathing the salts, restlessness nipping under her skin. It mattered not that Arthur's new servant completed his duties impeccably, leaving not a thing out of place.
"Do you know why she challenged you?" she asked, folding back the covers on the bed.
He puffed out a breath and said in a tone of educated guessing, "I'm the King's son. Perhaps she believed she will prove herself."
"But to the death?" she asked, looking over to frown at him, even as he focused on his fingers tapping idly on the table. "That's a very all-or-nothing attempt at validation."
"She's a woman," he said, scratching his nail into the wood in mild discontent. "She wouldn't be able to challenge me to a friendly contest. She'd be laughed off the field."
"By you?" she asked, watching him carefully. He met her eyes without humour.
"Not any longer. I've seen many times the merits of a woman in non-traditional situations, and this one has already proven herself a skilful warrior."
"Do you wish to fight her?" Something in his voice spoke of caution and grudging respect, grudging because the woman had slain five guards and badly injured two more. Men who were only doing their duty to defend king and castle.
"I have no choice. If I refuse to fight her, I'm a coward. If I kill her, what will the people think of me then?"
"You've never faced a woman in combat," she said, and he shot her a pointed look. She scoffed and corrected herself, "A capable swordswoman. You cannot hesitate; she could use it to her advantage."
He sighed and rubbed his forehead again. "I do not want another incident like with Odin's son; that death has haunted me for too long. It is clear she bears some sort of nobility. I refuse to start another war because of her desperation to prove herself."
"What do you want to do?" she asked, knowing to debate his blame in the passing of Odin's son – a situation where the boy had challenged him to the death – as well as King Odin's years-long vengeance, would be counterproductive to the situation.
"I need you to take a message to Morgause for me. If I'm seen to do it, it could be viewed as cowardice. You must persuade her to withdraw her challenge."
"Very well," she agreed, throwing a fluffed pillow back onto the bed. "The bath boys are on their way so you will be able to relax a little before bed. Let them have the pick of anything in the fruit bowl since they agreed to bring preheated water, alright?"
"Ah," he realised with raised eyebrows. "So that's how you won them over."
She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow in return as she approached him at the table. "You mean with consideration and friendliness, then yes."
"Pfft," he scoffed. "Everyone knows the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."
"If that's the case," she said with a cheeky grin. "Then you should be in love with Audrey, the Head Cook." She darted close to pat his belly loudly then ducked away before he could react. "She's been keeping you well fed for years."
He shot her a wounded pout as he cradled his middle, and she laughed as she left the room.
Since Morgause was an unexpected and unwanted intrusion, she had been placed at the far end of the Visitor's Wing, far away from the Royal Wing. The rooms were no less large or lavish, but it could be cooler at night, away from the central heating the kitchens provided.
Still, she reached the correct door without hassle and knocked quietly lest any prying ears be nearby. There was no answer, so she opened it cautiously and peered inside, withholding a cumbersome sneeze. It appeared to be empty, but she entered anyway, curious to this warrior woman who would challenge a prince without provocation.
She made it three steps before the cold touch of a steel blade met her throat. She jerked away with a gasp, hand darting up to cover the vulnerable area, and met the warning glare of Morgause. The blade in her hand did not lower when they were face to face.
"What do you want?" she demanded, and Merlyn swallowed nervously, eyes on the sharp point directed her way as she remembered the innocent men this woman had felled.
"I have a message from Prince Arthur," she said. "He wants you to withdraw your challenge. Arthur has no desire to fight you. If you withdraw, he will grant you safe passage through the kingdom."
"If Arthur has no desire to fight me, perhaps he should withdraw," she challenged, and Merlyn tutted.
"No, he'll never do that. It's not in him to withdraw."
Morgause watched her, eyes narrowed in contemplation. After a weighted pause, she stepped back and lowered the sword, accepting Merlyn wasn't a threat. "Then we have that in common," she said in answer. Without the confronting attitude, her voice was soft and honeyed, seductive.
She turned away and moved to her bed, throwing her sword carelessly atop its covers. Merlyn frowned at her relaxed state, slowly lowering her hand from where the cold touch of the blade haunted her memories.
"Arthur has no quarrel with you. Why would you challenge him?"
Morgause stopped fiddling with a pillow and met her curious gaze. "My reasons are not your concern," she dismissed lightly.
Merlyn's frown deepened. "Arthur has no wish to kill you."
Morgause approached with a casual sway to her hips and humour quirking her lips. "Who's to say Arthur's life won't rest in my hands?" she asked, eyes glinting with confidence.
The black-haired girl stared at her, trying to understand her motives. "So you would kill the Prince of Camelot to validate your worth to the public?"
Morgause scoffed. "I do not do it for fame. I care little what these small-minded people think. I have larger goals."
"Revenge on the King?" she pressed with a raised eyebrow.
Morgause paused, realising she was being baited, and the smirk quickly returned, approval twitching her eyebrows. "Perhaps," she answered silkily, her curiosity highlighting the sensuousness in her voice. She stepped closer to peer at Merlyn, dark eyes captivating the black-haired girl like a moth to flame. The brown irises were striking against her pale hair, gleaming with flecks of bronze. "But who are you to be so protective?"
Merlyn couldn't help but be intimidated. This woman was beautiful and fierce, competent and merciless. Merlyn was… nothing right now. She could so easily die at this warrior's hand, unable to defend herself, unable to defend Arthur. Yet, despite all that… something drew her in. Something…
She was hypnotised; enchanted in a way that had nothing to do with sorcery.
Her wrist hurt.
"My name is Merlyn," she said, sniffling pathetically as she tried to stop the tickling in her nostrils.
Morgause stared at her, her face inches away, before a crinkle pinched between her brows and her hand darted out to snag Merlyn's forearm.
"What is this?" she asked as she lifted the limb between them. For some reason, the black-haired girl didn't struggle, didn't try to hide as Morgause pulled back her sleeve to see the Cuff sealed around her skin. Morgause's features darkened in rage. "Who did this to you?" she demanded, gaze moving from the object to Merlyn's face. Her glare piercing Merlyn's defences.
"A hunter. He lives no more."
"Good," she snarled, before gently turning her arm to see the underside. The inflammation had worsened, making the Cuff tight around her flesh and the redness was no longer localised to the immediate space around the iron, dusting up her arms like a spreading rash. The tendrils she first noticed after her blackout had grown and darkened, almost reaching her inside elbow.
The meaning of them was horrifically, undeniably clear. Slowly, surely, poison tainted her blood.
"This was created by an amateur," Morgause stated and dropped her arm like it was diseased.
"Can it be fixed?" she asked, staring at the septic veins beneath her skin.
Morgause was silent for a long moment then said neutrally, "Possibly."
Merlyn looked up and met her calculated stare with narrowed eyes. "What is your price?"
The blonde tilted her head in thought, eyes running over Merlyn as if inspecting her value. "A favour," she eventually decided. "To be determined later."
The black-haired girl scowled and purposefully pulled her sleeve back over her damaged arm. "No," she refused bluntly. "I don't trust you. To know what this is means you are a sorceress. One who is challenging Arthur to duel to the death. Your motives cannot be pure."
Morgause raised an eyebrow and moved away, apparently done with her after her refusal. "Pure or not, you have no say in them."
"I do if you intend to harm Arthur," she argued hotly. "Magic used defensively is one thing, but to use it in a provoked fight is cowardice."
The woman scoffed at her, clearly deeming her opinion as less than worthy. She tossed her pillow back up at the headboard and readied to slide under the sheets, sword still nearby. "I do not need magic to win my swordfights. Watch tomorrow and you will see, a woman can be trained in more than one art of war. Now leave me."
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Merlyn dithered over telling Arthur his opponent was a sorceress, weighing the pros and cons while trying not to influence her own thoughts with bias. If she told Arthur then, chances were, he would tell his father and a confrontation would occur. Merlyn couldn't sense it with the Cuff on her wrist, but something warned her that Morgause was not a simple enchantress. Her bold attitude, her self-assured manner; it reminded Merlyn of Nimueh. And that wasn't the kind of threat she wanted to test with no ready defence.
In the end, she decided to keep it to herself. Morgause's approach suggested her challenge was not driven by a simple vengeful desire; she was playing a longer game. In no way did it make her trustworthy, but it lessened the immediate threat to the prince's life. She hoped.
"Forget she is a woman," Merlyn instructed as she fussed over the finishing touches of Arthur's armour down by the arena the next morning. "She challenged you; there is no guilt in defending your honour, nor of granting her the respect of accepting her contest. As you said, she is a viable warrior; gender is meaningless."
She could tell he was nervous, teeth clenched as he stared towards the field, hidden from view by one of the stands containing the townsfolk. They were behind the arena, beside a small tent designed for only one thing – the body of whoever needed to be shrouded after the battle. Yet, it was large enough to hide them from the curious crowds heading to watch the spectacle, so they ignored its austere presence.
"Arthur," she said softly, wanting to comfort him but feeling childish with what she had planned. "I – I found…" she stuttered over her words like a silly girl with a silly crush, "Here." She thrust out a small brooch. "It's-it's not charmed or anything but… I like to think it will help in some way, even without magic. It is a shield knot, a symbol to ward off evil and offer protection. It's-it's basic – the main element is the fourfold corners within the circle but…" she smiled self-deprecatingly, already regretting her spontaneous (not so spontaneous) gift. "It's-it's stupid. You probably can't even wear it – it's not druidic but its history is magical. If your father saw –"
His hand closed over her own, preventing her from moving away. "My father knows little of the symbols of magic," he said, uncurling her fingers so he could pluck the brooch from her palm. He looked at the recurring, four-sided knot design with interest. "The only one he recognises with ease is the triple spiral of the druids."
"Triskele," she identified shyly, amazed that he was willing to hear such information. "The three spirals represent the sacredness of the number three and how it exists in nature: birth, growth, death; earth, water, air… Um, it's interpretive depending on the individual and their focus."
He was staring at her with an odd expression on his face. Not frowning or confused… softer. The attention made her blush.
The heavy gong of the arena bell interrupted their moment and she blinked rapidly, dropping her eyes in embarrassment. Hurriedly, she lifted his helm and was even more flustered when she watched him pin the brooch through the chainmail links on his chest – a place of spectacle and pride.
He graced her with an uncharacteristically bashful smile before he took the helm from her numb hands and turned to stride away.
"G-good luck!" she called at his back then slapped her palm to her forehead at the horrible stutter.
She thought her crush had died as ugly a death as their friendship after he discovered her magic. Speared with bitterness and left to rot. But with his attitude reverted to the way it had been before – coaxing her interest with his subtle shows of compassion and the very real struggle between his desire to be a good prince and his father's push to be a great leader – she found her infatuation rising from the ashes.
But trust was not so easily reborn, and feelings meant nothing without a foundation on which to grow.
Merlyn moved from her hidden place and joined Gaius in the stands, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief.
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If she cared a little less, Merlyn might have been amused by the fact Arthur lost because of his honour. His chivalry had nothing to do with Morgause being a woman, as Merlyn had seen him do the same with male opponents in the past, but it seemed foolish to allow an enemy to retrieve their weapon when to lose meant to die.
But Arthur Pendragon did so – and paid for it when left at the mercy of Morgause's blade, the sharp tip resting beneath the brooch pinned to his chest. Later, Merlyn would think of it as a lesson in pride, but in the moment all she knew was panic.
Gaius held her back from running onto the field and she had to force herself not to knock him aside as she watched the pair exchange unheard words. Finally, Morgause stepped back and retracted her sword, reaching out a hand to help Arthur regain his feet. As a show of respect, Arthur took the proffered limb, slack expression revealing his disbelief. Morgause paid it no mind as she nodded to the displeased King and strode from the arena without a backwards glance. Gaius shared a heavy look with Merlyn before moving to follow the retreating warrior, his basket of medical supplies ready to treat her sliced forearm. Merlyn ran to Arthur, who stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the scuffed field.
"Come on," she said as the murmurs of the crowds grew in the wake of the departing king. Honestly, the monarch couldn't even pretend to support his son's loss. "You fought valiantly and fairly. It was only luck that handed her the victory."
"I was arrogant," he admitted, keeping his head low to avoid the eyes of the people as she led them away. Contrarily, Merlyn met each one, daring them to say something. None appeared to be outraged with his loss to a woman: shocked, disappointed, yes, but not indignant. It was oddly gratifying to see.
"You were noble, as you always are. Admittedly, in a death match, it's probably smarter to go in hard and fast, but… that's probably asking too much of your knightly traits."
He glanced at her, mildly offended, and she stuck her nose in the air with a raised eyebrow, daring him to challenge her statement.
"Camelot's knights are the mightiest in the Five Kingdoms!" he argued, and she laughed at his defensiveness.
"That may be in the battlefield," she agreed. "But you cannot deny you all like to play with your food when in the arena."
Arthur sputtered in affront. "We do not play! We battle. As warriors. With nobility and pride."
Merlyn rolled her eyes with a grin. "Of course you do, Sir Knight." she said condescendingly. "How terrible of me to assume otherwise."
He stared at her with a gaping mouth. "I'll have you know I'm still a prince! I can put you in the stocks for the day no worries."
"But then who would keep your toddler mind entertained? George?" she asked with a cheeky grin then skipped ahead before he could retort, feeling peculiarly animated. He may have lost the bout, but he was not harmed, and the matter seemed settled. And… he still wore the brooch she had gifted him proudly upon his chest, seeming unashamed of its suggestive location.
"There are many people who could keep me entertained," he yelled after her, manner like that of a petulant child. "Anyone I wanted!"
She merely spun back and stuck out her tongue, then released a squeal and ran away when Arthur leapt forward to give chase.
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Turned out, the words Morgause and Arthur exchanged on the battlefield had been a promise to find the blonde woman three days hence. Hearing this, Merlyn felt prudent to mention Morgause was a sorceress. The threat the woman posed had increased now her plan had been put in motion. Merlyn didn't like the idea of Arthur leaving the relative safety of Camelot to seek her out. It stunk of a trap, though of what kind had yet to be determined.
"Why did you not say this before?" he demanded as he paced within his room. "She could have beguiled the King; bewitched me; caused who knows what kind of havoc! Have you not seen what sorcery does within our kingdom?"
"I have seen what the fear of sorcery has done to this kingdom," she retorted angrily, his bad-mouthing raising her ire as quick as a whip. "Do not talk of consequences when your father has done more damage to the people than any sorcerer has ever achieved."
Arthur sighed and turned away, running a hand down his face. "You're right," he eventually agreed. "And she had the chance to kill me without dishonour and she did not. This was all to gain my attention and trust." He glanced back at Merlyn and added quietly, "She said she knew my mother."
Wow. Alright, Merlyn hadn't expected that. Arthur's mother was like a silent ghost, never mentioned but always there, a sombre shadow. Merlyn didn't even know her name.
"What was she like?" she asked tentatively.
He sighed and retreated to the table, falling into his chair with a thump. "I never knew her. She died before I opened my eyes."
Her heart clenched at the revelation, not realising. "I'm sorry," she murmured, moving to the chair by his left side and, slightly awkwardly, lowered herself into it.
"I barely know anything about her," he added, tracing his fingers along the arm of his chair absently.
"Your father will not share?" she asked.
Arthur shook his head. "He refuses to talk about her. It must be too painful for him." He paused then added as if unable to stop himself, "Sometimes it's as if she never even existed. But… I still have a sense of her. Almost as though she's part of me." He laughed, self-deprecatingly, as if embarrassed by the admission.
"My mother barely speaks of my father," she shared, blurting it without consciously deciding. "Almost as if she's afraid to let me know him. But she did tell me he was a powerful man and my gift with animals is something I share with him."
Though, now she thought about it, Kilgarrah had told her the ability connected to her magic. Had her father been a sorcerer?
"I'd do anything for even the vaguest of information," he said longingly.
"So you plan to follow Morgause and see what she knows?"
"Is that so wrong?" he asked, his voice a mixture of defiant and vulnerable.
She shook her head and said with a huff of wry humour, "No. I'd be just as desperate." She bit her lip but still reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him from picking at the wood. He stilled beneath her touch, eyes locked on their hands. "We need to be careful. You said Morgause organised this to gain your attention but that means she also wanted you in her debt. She could have told you everything she knew of your mother but instead, she gave you a sliver of information to draw you in. We need to be smart about this so you don't end up as a fly caught in her web."
"You do not trust her," he surmised. "But whether or not she means harm, it is not so she can kill me, or she would have done so already. And either way, I made a promise; it is my duty to keep it."
"But she is a sorceress," Merlyn stated, confused – and perhaps a little offended – with his easy acceptance of the woman's abilities and motives. Why was he not regarding her with suspicion and doubt?
"Yes," he agreed, and she gained nothing from his neutral tone.
She frowned at him. "You are deciding to trust a sorceress who killed five guards to challenge you to a duel, just to have you in her debt?"
"I'm not trusting her," he corrected with a matching frown. "I simply believe she does not wish to kill me."
"But she's a sorceress!" Merlyn exclaimed loudly. "She practices magic!"
"I know!" He retorted in irritation, volume rising in return.
She couldn't understand, struck by disbelief at his nonchalance. She pushed herself to her feet and started pacing along the length of the table. "So you trust a woman you've met once in a duel but me – who you knew for over six months before discovering I had magic – I am yelled at and-and treated with anger and disgust! Beaten down with words like I am vermin! How does this make sense? Why was I regarded with such disdain and she is being given the benefit of the doubt?" She shook her wrist to emphasise the lengths she'd been forced to, to remain by his side.
"She does not have my trust!" he yelled as he sprang to his feet then visibly reined himself in. He sighed and leant on the table, fingers splayed on the wood and head bowed. She kept pacing in anger. "I do not trust her. And I do not trust her intentions. But she may have information on my mother. And… I have come to realise that… sorcery does not necessarily mean one is evil."
Her steps faltered and she spun to face him, mouth agape. When had he… she hadn't realised his opinion had changed so drastically.
He continued slowly, as if weighing his words before he shared them. His eyes remained directed at his hands, like he did not trust himself to meet her gaze while speaking plainly. "When I discovered the truth about you, I was hurt and betrayed, driven by the fear you had been manipulating me. I could not trust my own mind, my own choices lest you had been charming me this whole time. And seeing you… fear me only made me angrier because you were the one with the power to destroy – everything – and yet you let me treat you like rubbish. So I did treat you like rubbish, pushing you… testing you, I guess. I wanted to see the demon you should have been not… not the woman who had become my friend."
He pushed away from the table, straightening up to finally meet her gaze. His expression was more vulnerable than she'd ever seen, no mask or mockery hiding his emotions. His sorrow. His guilt. "I tried so hard to make you into what I thought you should have been that I refused to see what you are. You hadn't changed with me knowing the truth. You were still the same kind-hearted, selfless woman you were before, only… I had dampened your fire. When I sent you away, I did it for more reasons than to be rid of your magic. I… I could not control my temper. You had me so confused and it-it made me… the worst person I have ever been." He huffed a humourless laugh, turning to slouch against the table, head bowing in remorse.
"I can never forgive myself for how cruel I became. I do not know how you can stand to be in my presence. Especially with that…" He looked towards her arm, where the Cuff was hidden, before lifting his gaze to her shocked face. He said earnestly, "I have been searching for a way to have it removed. It was wrong of me to demand its creation, and seeing how it has affected you… nearly ruining you…"
Merlyn forced herself not to grab hold of her wrist, where poisoned veins speared up her arm like the fissures in cracked glass. Ruined. It was as good a description as any.
"Learning what I have of the deeds you've accomplished, in the defence of Camelot and myself, I was forced to listen to the questions I kept hidden; those questions you demanded of me. How can you – as powerful as it seems you are – not be corrupted by that power? Lancelot and Gwen say you are special, but sorcery is sorcery, if one can be corrupted so can they all. And then there is this." He pulled from a pouch on his belt, the brooch, holding it cradled in his palm. "A protection symbol, you said; one to ward off evil. And it called to my mind, the druids. I know the druids are a peaceful people, yet very many of them practice some sort of sorcery. For some reason, I never thought about that when I condemned it."
She wanted to say something, anything, but her voice was stuck in her throat, no words forming in her mind. The surreality of the moment had robbed her of her wits. She watched as his thumb stroked over the engraved metal, his face turned down once more.
"I… I do not trust sorcery. It is dangerous and easy to abuse but… I realise perhaps I cannot blame magic for the misdeeds of the world. Perhaps it is the people who use it, the ones who decide to be greedy and vengeful and merciless; perhaps their fault is not in using sorcery alone, it is in using it to hurt others."
Silence fell, heavy and weighted on Merlyn's shoulders, but Arthur seemed oblivious, head still low as he mulled over ideas she had lost all hope of ever existing within his mind.
Eventually, she scraped her brain off the floor where it had splattered and unstuck her throat. She said lamely, "I… I had no idea you were thinking on it so much."
"I have thought on it many times in the past few months," he admitted. "But I was fearful my mind was not my own, that you had crept in and tainted it." He scoffed at his own words, as if even he did not believe them. "I am ashamed of who I've become."
Merlyn didn't know what to say. The urge to release him from his guilt was on the tip of her tongue, but, truly, it would be a lie. She wasn't ready to forgive. His treatment had been terrible and frightening, fuelling her nightmares for months. And he was changing, yes, belatedly, reluctantly, but it didn't change the stress and the tears and the utter certainty she was going to die on the pyre.
But he was changing, and she never liked holding the past over people. She could not resent Arthur forever, nor would she wish to; she just needed time. To allow the vividness of the memories to fade and to heal. Forgiveness would come eventually, she was sure.
Honestly, the immediate emotion filtering through her body was stunned relief.
"I do not know what to say," she admitted, numbly returning to her chair and lowering herself into it, absently wiping her nose on a rag. "It's… I had no idea. I had hoped… I hoped but I …" she trailed off, shaking her head in astonishment. There was nothing she could say to convey her thoughts right now.
"I'm not… I need time," Arthur said. "I need to learn about sorcery, to understand it by its own merits. Everything my father has taught me might be wrong and I need… I need to see for myself what is the truth."
"Yes, of course," she said, grasping the idea and letting it lead her from bewilderment. "Books will help you. Many of them are written objectively, depending on the study. Mine will be a good place to start; it summarises a lot of subjects. Um, stay away from the studies of the High Priestesses. The Old Religion is… merciless. It focuses on maintaining the balance of this world and the spiritual realm, but is uncaring of personal cost. Er, Druidic lore is fine; they are connected to the Old Religion, but they forsook the harsher teachings in favour of seeking enlightenment through inner peace."
Arthur looked overwhelmed, so she choked off the rest of her verbal vomit and let out a quiet laugh. "I can't… this is unreal. I never thought I'd be recommending magical books to the Prince of Camelot."
"Perhaps we can focus on that after we meet with Morgause," he suggested a little desperately, looking just as wrong-footed. His words sobered her giddiness and she nodded.
"You're right. We still don't know what her plans are."
"Nor how I am to leave the castle."
"I assume you mean the extra guards stationed at the door."
Arthur snorted. "My father has forbidden me from going after her. He has ordered them to keep me within my room like an unruly child."
"In his eyes, you are exactly that," said Merlyn, rubbing her tickling nose.
He rolled his eyes, stepping away from the table to view the courtyard from his window. "Do you have any ideas on how to sneak out?" he asked, watching the people mill below.
She cocked her head, contemplating. "There are a few options. I'll have to see what I can find."
"Good. I leave tonight."
Merlyn's brow rose. "Alone?" she asked, already knowing an argument was ahead.
"You're in no state to leave the city and go gallivanting across the country, and I'll not risk anyone else should Morgause have wicked intentions. This is my journey."
"And what if her intentions are to ensorcell you? Even if I could not stop it, knowing the enchantment used would help us find a cure."
"If her plan was as simple as that, would she not have already done so when allowed into the citadel? No, her plans lay elsewhere, though her methods are suspicious."
"I'm not allowing you to go alone, Arthur. I will follow if I must, but you need someone to watch your back – someone with spell knowledge," she added when he opened his mouth, likely to suggest Lancelot. "And someone unimportant enough not to be punished for allowing you to leave the castle."
Arthur frowned at her, unimpressed with her argument but lacking a counter. "And what will I do should you fall into one of your-your dissociative episodes? It'd be irresponsible of me to bring you along when I cannot guarantee your safety."
"No one's safety is ever guaranteed. And you will not stop me. This is why I'm here, Arthur. This is my job, and I'll not fail because of this." She wiggled her left arm.
His nostrils flared in annoyance, likely from knowing she would follow if he forced it upon her, and he relented grudgingly.
"I plan to leave soon after the ninth bell. Make sure you're here before then."
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Merlyn prepared Hotshot and Hengroen with provisions before racing up to Arthur's chambers with a large length of rope tied about her middle. Arthur helped her unwind it and she tried not to shiver when his gloved hands accidentally brushed the skin of her stomach. The blush on the prince's cheeks revealed he wasn't unaffected either, though he kept his eyes averted as much as possible.
The window beside Arthur's bed overlooked the south side of the castle, the training fields, and the forest beyond the city walls. That side of the grounds saw much less usage than the east because of the sharp angle of the hill beyond the citadel, leaving little room for development. It was perfect for scaling the walls without risk of being seen – that is, if the rope had been long enough.
As it was, it dangled a good dozen or more feet from the ground – not an insurmountable distance, but enough to be nerve wracking when letting go. Thankfully, Arthur played a great gallant knight and caught her before she could touch ground, saving her from a probable twisted ankle or scraped hands or something equally clumsy.
"Come on," he whispered when she was steady, and they pulled the hoods of their dark cloaks over their heads before ghosting through the shadows to the stables. Once there, they could do away with the cloak-and-dagger routine, as Merlyn had checked and none of the gate sentries had been informed of Arthur's lockdown. The King probably hadn't wanted to make a fuss and didn't trust Arthur's skills enough to make it beyond the castle. His mistake.
They trotted over the drawbridge in a clatter of hooves and Merlyn flapped an acknowledging hand towards Favian, who had returned to his old position now Merlyn's phase-outs were under control. He waved back and shook his head, clearly understanding they were off to cause trouble. Was she becoming predictable?
They rode through the night, guided by Arthur's steed, who had, apparently, been shown the path by Morgause. Merlyn didn't want to be, but the casual display of talent was impressive. This woman was definitely a skilled sorceress.
The pair rested for a handful of hours the next morning then continued south until they reached the southern border into Deorham – King Alined's territory – just as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the treetops. Deorham was a neutral party in Camelot's politics, but Arthur called the ruler greedy and selfish and bemoaned the upcoming peace treaty, which the man would be attending alongside three other kings.
"He smiles at your face while he plots to stab you in the back," he grumbled during a break, their pitstop halfway between Camelot and Odin's territory.
"At least you know it," Merlyn said brightly. "He can't stab you in the back if you make sure it's shielded."
He rolled his eyes at her simplification but let it go as they continued to trek towards wherever Morgause wanted them to be.
Another day passed, and Merlyn noted their food stock was starting to run low.
"You don't think she will ask you to kill King Odin, do you?" she asked as their path led them closer to the enemy king's capital.
"I don't know," he replied, the slightest hint of trepidation in his voice.
In the end, they ventured through a waterfall into a secret valley bearing an ancient stronghold. The looming structure was weathered with much of the roofing destroyed and evergreen vines creeping along the walls in long, thick strands. Despite the visual wastage, fresh magic sparked against Merlyn's senses, setting off the burn in her wrist. It wasn't as debilitating as when she'd ventured near Kilgarrah, but it was enough for her to know Morgause was aware of their presence.
"She knows we're here," she murmured to Arthur when they drew their horses to a halt beside a narrow side entrance and dismounted. The main gate was rubble.
"That does not surprise me," he replied just as quietly, sliding his sword free of the scabbard on his saddle and sheathing it into the one at his belt. "Stay close."
The side entrance led up a narrow, steep staircase, dark without a torch and smelling strongly of wet stone. It opened into a narrow courtyard surrounded by walls reaching high above their heads, inviting a sense of claustrophobia. Another set of stairs set into the wall perpendicular to them led up to a second level but, between it and them, an ominous block of wood with a battle axe lodged in its top sat in prominent display. The wood was darkly stained and, though Merlyn's vision was near colourless, the scene implied enough to make her wary.
"Now what?" Arthur asked, walking over to the axe and pulling it from the wood, twirling it absently as he glanced around the empty area.
"I don't like this Arthur," she murmured, approaching cautiously as apprehension prickled at the back of her neck. Her eyes tracked the high places around them, searching for archers or spell-casters. They were being watched. "I think we should leave."
Arthur swung the axe back into the wood with a thunk! and turned to her, but Merlyn's attention was suddenly caught by a figure appearing on the staircase above them.
"You kept your promise," Morgause said softly, descending like a princess at a ball. The prince turned to face her, blinking at her changed visage.
Her outfit was stunning. A long, dark (possibly wine-red, or purple, or even midnight-blue) silk number that wrapped around her slender frame without regard for propriety. One arm was loosely laced with slender ribbons of fabric that revealed a sleeve of pale, shimmering, sheer fabric beneath. A lace girdle stretched around her slender waist, studded with gems matching the ones on her sleeves. Her loosely curled hair was threaded with small firestones glittering in the dying light of the sun, completing the image of otherworldly enchantress.
"What is the nature of the challenge you wish to set me?" Arthur asked, drawing Merlyn from her daze.
Morgause approached with a calculated stare before reaching out and plucking the axe from its place. "Place your head on the block," she said in answer.
Arthur hesitated and Morgause added, the hint of a smile on her lips belied by the coldness in her eyes. "You gave me your word that you would do anything I asked."
He clenched his jaw and glanced at Merlyn, but she saw the resignation in his eyes. She grabbed his arm. "No. Don't do it, Arthur!"
He shook her off and ordered, "Stay out of this, Merlyn."
He lowered himself to his knees and leant over the block, but Merlyn took a warning step towards Morgause. "Don't you dare –"
Morgause jutted her chin and Merlyn was suddenly immobile and mute, muscles frozen and voice stuck in her throat. Her wrist flared with agony, but she couldn't scream.
And then, suddenly, she was released. She staggered and fell to her knees, hand clenched around her forearm as she curled over her wrist, jaw clenched to contain her whimpers.
"I apologise," Morgause said as Arthur scrambled to her side. "I had forgotten she was bound by that atrocity."
"Merlyn," he whispered, arm wrapped around her back as she rode out the worst of the waves.
"I'm alright," she gasped when the flames began to retreat slowly and steadily, sliding back from her fingers and palm, leaving them chilled in the aftermath. It was an odd, contradictory sensation but it was a relief compared to the overwhelming heat. She wiped sweat from her brow with a trembling arm.
"Can you remove this?" Arthur asked of Morgause as Merlyn slowly flexed her prickling hand, assuring her stiff fingers were moveable. She looked up to see how Morgause would answer.
The woman cocked her head, eyeing him with surprise and speculation. "You would free a sorcerer from her bindings?" she asked.
"I would release my companion from something which harms her," he retorted defensively.
She eyed him with fascination. "Perhaps there is hope yet for us all," she murmured, almost to herself. "Let me see."
Merlyn lifted her arm up for inspection, eyeing Morgause suspiciously. Why the sudden change of heart?
The woman's eyes glowed richly as she brushed through the air above the Cuff and Merlyn gritted her teeth against the fresh burn. Morgause made a faint noise of surprise and dropped her hand, stepping back. "I cannot remove it," she said. "It was made by one more powerful than I." Her tone was coated in mild affront, as if the knowledge annoyed her. "Who made this?"
Arthur caught Merlyn's eyes as he helped her to her feet, and she subtly shook her head. She did not trust Morgause enough just yet. Her motives were still unclear, and her methods left a lot to be desired.
"It was in the archives," Arthur said smoothly and met her kohl-lined eyes defiantly. "Do you still wish to behead me?"
"The test was never about my actions, Prince Arthur. But I believe you have proven yourself worthy." She smiled at him, but it was not with kindness; there was a challenge in her gaze. "I will grant you one wish. Tell me what it is that your heart most desires."
And from there, they ended up at an altar within what once must have been a long, low colonnade. The skeletal remains of the roofing had been taken over by the same evergreen vines slowly eating the rest of the castle, giving the illusion that a ceiling remained. Merlyn lingered at Arthur's shoulder while Morgause stepped up to the altar to prepare it for summoning a ghost. Merlyn was sceptical it could be done outside of Samhain, particularly with no bloodletting and only one sorceress, even if she was powerful.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she whispered to Arthur, eyeing Morgause warily. The woman had her back turned to them, as if to show trust, but Merlyn knew she was aware of their positions. A woman like Morgause was not one to risk her life so needlessly.
"If you were granted the same opportunity, would you not want to meet your father?" he returned, meeting her eyes with blue orbs that blazed with fervour.
"Of course," she said softly, wrapping her hand around his gloved fist. "But the ritual for summoning the dead is extensive, fraught with danger, and usually requires a blood sacrifice. Ad-admittedly, I know little beyond the basics but…" she lowered her voice further, not wanting Morgause to know she suspected. "But I do not think one woman can do it alone."
"And normally," interjected Morgause, turning to them as she blew out her lighter. "You would be correct. But I have studied with the High Priestesses since I was a child, and during the Purge. Knowing their time was growing short, many imbued objects with their life essence to preserve and aid those of us who remained. It is through their gifts I am able circumvent the darker aspects of calling upon the dead, within limits."
Merlyn blinked in surprise. "You are a High Priestess?" she asked. "I thought the last had died."
"Nimueh," Morgause said, dipping her head in acknowledgement. "She and I were all that remained. Now there is only me."
The black-haired girl swallowed, almost admitting her role in that situation, but she bit her tongue in time. It would do no good to test Morgause's clemency, nor to reveal the extent of her own power at this moment. Let Morgause believe the black-haired girl was some simple, bound spell-caster until the woman either revealed her true purpose or validated her trustworthiness.
"It is time," Morgause said, stepping closer to lead Arthur to the altar. She turned his body to face out, so he was looking down the length of the colonnade, and Merlyn retreated to the pillar by the entrance to watch for foul play. "Close your eyes."
Arthur did so and Morgause started chanting, her voice rising and falling like a singer weaving a tale of mysteries.
And then. There was Ygraine.
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TBC...
*Rubs hands together in excitement*
Welcome to the New Year everybody. Hope January has been good to you all! And to those who left such long, thoughtful reviews, can I just say *hand to chest, tears in eyes* my heart exploded many times reading them. You guys are the best and give me the kick in the butt I need to edit these chapters and send them on their way. Much love!