Day Twenty-Two
(otherwise entitled, In Which Morgana Has a Very Busy Afternoon)
I normally wait to give author's notes at the end, and that's where the real stuff will be, but I'd like to put this out there right now. This chapter was written mainly in two sections because some very difficult personal issues—namely, an old friend of mine murdering his fiancée, who I knew a little—cropped up to wreck my life for a week. Anyways, this chapter is really rough and entirely unbetaed, so if you've got revision suggestions I'm totally open to them.
Morgana was grinning in a childlike manner at her handiwork on the hearth. Three days of constant, sooty practice (for which she'd forgone her mourning whites in favor of a plain dark red dress that Gwen had scrounged up for her) had led to this moment with lovely results. She almost wanted to reach out and touch the little sprites dancing in front of the fire, but as she didn't know whether these particular creations of flame could still burn her or not, she decided to play it safe. She wondered if Merlin had ever knelt by a fireplace and tried to make little tongues of flame dance without wood or wick like she was doing. It was certainly pointless enough for him.
As she continued to marvel at her work, someone knocked on the door twice. Two knocks was one of Gwen's knocks; it meant she was alone. Three knocks meant someone was with her and any magic that might or might not be in progress inside needed to cease or be hidden immediately.
"Come in," Morgana called over her shoulder as she directed the three little flame-figures into a line and danced them across the length of the hearth. "Gwen, you won't believe—"
"My Lady, you're wanted in the King's office immediately. The Dragon has escaped."
Morgana ended the spell abruptly, sending the flames back into the fire. Escaped, not missing, she said, Morgana thought to herself, and they didn't mention Merlin. Gods above, he might manage to get away with the whole thing after all. "How soon is 'immediately?'"
"I don't think he's going to allow you time to thoroughly wash up and change clothing," Gwen pursed her lips. "I suppose you snagged one of your sleeves on that white gown, and I'm sewing it back on for you."
"Thank you, Gwen. Lafiaþ!" Morgana said fervently as she quickly cast a spell to clean most of the soot off her face and dress. That particular spell was one of her favorites (and Gwen's absolute favorite, as she was the one who did Morgana's laundry), though Morgana never managed to get anything absolutely clean using it—hence the clothes that she could actually afford to destroy with soot and dirt and magical accidents.
"I promise that I'll be back in time to dress for the reception if I have to walk out in the middle of one of Arthur's monologues," Morgana said.
"There's no need for that, My Lady. I can only imagine the difficulties it would cause Arthur for his Sister to walk out while he was talking." Her words were serious, but Morgana could swear that Gwen was trying to hold back laughter.
"It's because I'm the Royal Sister that I should do precisely that. Someone needs to show him blatant disrespect at regular intervals. It keeps him humble." Her title as King's Sister was a minor miracle of statecraft, a major miracle if one considered that it was Arthur who was responsible for it. There was no precedent for the title, but Arthur finally managed to convince enough of the Lords that Uther had always treated Morgana as a daughter and that Arthur wished only to continue his father's work. Morgana privately thought that the Lords weren't convinced but were so annoyed at Arthur's persistence they eventually gave in, but she was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. A King can never be forced to marry his Sister, and only a King may command his Sister to marry, which was Arthur's and her primary reasoning to push for the measure.
It took her about three minutes to get to Arthur's office rather than her usual five. She almost always dawdled to keep Arthur from thinking too much of himself, but an escaped Dragon was a very serious matter, especially if she officially had no idea how it escaped. Come to think of it, she didn't actually know how it had escaped except that Merlin had almost certainly helped (she had to say almost because there was the slight chance that the Dragon had eaten him before he could do anything, though she rather hoped that wasn't the case). At least here was a situation in which she didn't have to pretend she knew nothing. Her ignorance would, for once, be genuine.
Arthur and Sir Leon alone were in the study along with a man who smelled terribly of sheep. The shepherd (as she guessed him to be) was clutching a worn woolen hat that looked like it had seen far better days and was wearing what were obviously work clothes. He had come straight from his work, she surmised, and hadn't stopped to put on his best clothes or wash his hands before coming to see the King. The shepherd obviously thought this was a dire threat to the safety of the realm. Hopefully Arthur wouldn't.
Sir Leon and the man both bowed as she entered, but Arthur's eyes seemed to bug out and take in her casual dress. It's good to shock him once in a while too, she reasoned to herself, and hopefully he'll learn to stop calling me two minutes before he wants me unless it really is an emergency. Holding her head as high as she would were she in regal regalia, she stalked over towards Arthur's desk and "her" chair.
"What are you wearing?" he hissed quietly as soon as she did the ritual sisterly kiss on the cheek that they both hated but the Council had determined was the appropriate ceremonial greeting for the King for her position, and it was a small price to pay for not having people talking about their marriage half the time.
"My whites needed to be mended," she hissed back. "You called for me to come immediately, so I came. Be grateful I have clothes on."
"As long as you're properly attired for the reception," he muttered under his breath as she took a seat to his right. Raising his head to look at the shepherd, he spoke clearly. "Good sir, if you would please repeat what you have seen now that everyone is here."
"We went in with the sheep like every first of the month, me and me eldest boy. When we get in there, we see…" the man gulped. "We see this huge, heavy chain with a manacle on it, lying on the floor like a stocking. It weren't there last month, or the month before that. There weren't no blood or sound or anything, so I came to you straightaway to tell you."
"Have you ever seen the Dragon while delivering its meals?"
"No, your Majesty. I never even saw the chain until this morning. All I did is take in the five sheep at the beginning of the month, and when I come again the next month they was gone."
"So there was absolutely no evidence that the Dragon was there until this morning when you saw the chain."
"That's what I said, your Majesty. That is," the shepherd corrected hastily, "exactly as you said, your Majesty."
Arthur sat quietly for a few minutes while everyone else in the room stewed with tension. Finally, the King turned to his aide.
"Sir Leon, inform the proper people that the Dragon is no more." Arthur turned to the shepherd. "Thank you for your promptness in delivering the message. Go to the kitchen to get a good meal. We will continue your contract though a dead Dragon no longer needs feeding."
"The Dragon dead, your Majesty? Wouldn't there be a corpse?" the man blurted out.
Arthur turned slowly to face the shepherd. Uther might have had a hand cut off for speaking out of turn, and that would be on a day he was in a good mood, but Arthur was far more kindly. "Dragons are made entirely of magic. When they die, they simply disappear. You may leave now."
"Thank you, sire." The man bowed hastily and left, taking with him most of the sheep-stench; a few whiffs still hung in the air, seemingly just to bother her. You can't get rid of the smell of sheep, Morgana thought with disgust. Why'd we have to see him in here instead of somewhere where the smell wouldn't stay until summer? She was so wrapped up trying to remember if she'd read a spell that would vanquish bad smells that she was startled by voices breaking into her thoughts.
"Continue the contract, your Majesty?"
"The last thing we need is a shepherd panicking over how he's going to be able to feed his family when he is privy to information that is best kept quiet. And Leon," Arthur walked past the knight out the door, "don't send out the proclamations just yet. We have a dragon cave to inspect."
"Wouldn't this be more of Gaius's expertise?" Morgana pointed out, having to jog to keep up with the two far longer-legged men. No matter how she saw the scenario playing out, it would be better if Gaius were there. Gaius was far from stupid, and she was sure that if there was some kind of clue specific enough to tie the Dragon's disappearance to Merlin, Gaius would stay quiet on the matter. Gaius had been willing to lie for Merlin in the past. Sir Leon would say what he saw exactly as he saw it.
"The stairs down to the cave are steep and long, and Gaius isn't getting any younger. If there's something that he needs to see we'll bring him down later. We don't have time for much more than a quick look as someone needs to change clothes." Arthur threw a glare at her over his shoulder.
"This wouldn't be a problem if you hadn't called me in the first place," she huffed. "It's not like you needed me to listen to that man."
"I need you now, though. You sometimes see things others miss."
Morgana shut up as they passed a squad of servants setting up for the reception, but spoke up once she could hear no footsteps but their own. "You were lying to the farmer about the Dragon dying, weren't you?"
"Father took me with him when the last Dragon but one was killed; I was just old enough to remember it. They do disappear when they die, but the catch is that they don't just die. They have to be killed, and killing a Dragon isn't easy even when it's cornered and can't get in the air. So either someone snuck down there to kill a helpless Dragon or the Dragon managed to get its leg out of the manacle," Arthur said as they rushed down the stairs leading to the uncharacteristically-empty dungeon. "I don't know which one I hope it is, because we either have a Dragon on the loose or we have someone who had the means and motive to kill a Dragon on the loose."
"Or this may turn out that the shepherd just saw a puddle of water that leaked down from the latest thaw," Sir Leon said practically as he grabbed a torch and passed a second to Arthur. "We cannot know until we see it."
A labyrinthine passage, a flight of stairs, a moldy hallway (that smelled worse than sheep), and two more flights of stairs finally led the small group down to the Dragon's cavern.
The cavern itself was very, very large and very, very cold, even for February. Though it was underground it seemed to have its own winds which only served to enhance the chill that permeated her skin right to her bones. Morgana silently wished she could warm up the immediate vicinity, but there was no way she could hide a spell like that with Arthur around and in his right mind. At least the air down here was mercifully sheep-free considering how the only two kinds of living creatures who had been down here for any length of time were sheep and a Dragon, and she didn't know what Dragons smelled like. Well, and one human, though she was probably the only person who knew about that.
"Looks like your theory is false, Leon. I can see it at the bottom." Arthur gestured grandly to a hard-gleaming ring and chain lying slack on the ground.
The trio made their way down the steep, rough steps. Morgana decided at once she hated those steps and felt sorry that Merlin had to climb down them at least once, or so she presumed. She wondered if she could instinctively develop a spell to stop falling while in the act. It might save her life if she could, but she'd far rather not put it to the test. Morgana made a mental note to look through her book and see if there was a recorded incantation for hovering; it was the ultimately safer route.
"No tracks in the dust this way," Arthur called from the front of the line, "and there's always a guard posted by the other entrance. Looks like it was Dragon alone."
Morgana would have sighed with relief were she not afraid the motion would make her slip and fall twenty feet (or fewer if she could figure out the spell, but she'd rather not chance failing and dying, or worse, succeeding and having to explain). As it was, she carefully toed her way after Leon and allowed herself the sigh at the joint relief of making it to the bottom alive and Merlin's luck or wisdom, whichever it was that eliminated the tracks.
"It hasn't been opened," Morgana said immediately as she saw the metal ring up close for the first time. If this is the size of its ankle, she thought with a shudder, I'd hate to see the actual beast.
"That means it's dead or it found some way to take off the chain."
"Why would it die? You just said that they have to be killed, and it doubt it would all of a sudden kill itself," Morgana pointed out. "Besides, how could it kill itself?"
"True, but it's also very unlikely that it took off the cuff without damaging it whatsoever. What do you think, Leon?"
Sir Leon got a nervous expression on his face, his eyes darting back and forth between Arthur and Morgana. "If my Lady will pardon me for the indelicacy—"
"I will," Morgana interrupted.
Sir Leon coughed politely, and Morgana would have sworn that, though it was difficult to see in the torchlight, that the knight was blushing. "It just occurred to me that a lizard which loses its leg will regrow it. Could not a Dragon…ah, remove its own limb in desperation, knowing it would grow back?"
"That makes…sense," Morgana said slowly as she looked to Arthur, who was nodding pensively. She couldn't imagine being desperate enough to even cut off her hair to free herself from bondage, and cutting hair didn't hurt. She hoped she never got in such dire straits to have to make that kind of decision. She also hoped that limb removal wasn't Merlin's plan for helping the Dragon escape, because she was fairly sure any creature would want to kill something that amputated its foot, regrowth or no regrowth.
"It's strange that the Dragon would leave now." Arthur walked around the manacle, crouching to peer at its unblemished circumference, then walking around it again. "If it could have bitten its own foot off, why didn't it do it earlier?"
"Uther would have sent out people to search for it and hang the chance that it would cause national panic. I don't know how it could know that, though," Morgana added. You know nothing. This is entirely new to you, and while you're pointing out the fact that will reveal some sort of external involvement, not saying it would be more suspicious. "It hasn't left this cave for nearly twenty years."
"They're creatures of magic and prophecy. Who knows what they know?" Sir Leon responded with a shrug. "It may have sensed the mood of the castle and decided it was time."
"Right. I think we've gotten all we'll find here," Arthur said finally. "No word of this is to leak out to anybody until the reception and talks are over and we can come up with an official explanation. Leon, go make sure the shepherd and his son know that we are depending on their discretion for the time being even if it means keeping them in the castle for the next two days by whatever pretense you can come up with." Arthur's aide bowed respectfully before hurrying up the steps at a rate that made Morgana hold her breath in fear for his life.
Once the knight was gone, Morgana glanced sidelong her foster-brother. His expression was still that of a man deep in thought, though now it was that of a man who had thoughts he didn't like. "Your skill at dissembling has improved, you know. You're acting as if this is no worse than a mouse on the loose."
Arthur's left hand shot for her shoulder, forcing her with a bruising grip to face him, the mask of thought fallen to reveal something bordering on panic. "Of course it's worse than how I'm acting! But if I were to make a fuss about it I'd cause unnecessary uproar, and that's the last thing we need. I haven't been King for a month yet, and there are more than enough people already who doubt I can do the job." He sighed and released her shoulder. "I'm sorry. For now we'll have to place hope in the fact that the Dragon hasn't done anything yet and therefore probably never will."
"You're doing an excellent job," she said soothingly, resisting the temptation to rub the sore muscle on her arm and make Arthur feel guilty. "Now is the time to worry about the reception and the Druids."
"You're right. Druids. And you need to change." Arthur evidently hadn't forgotten her state of dress in his distress.
"Lead the way, then, my King," she said, resigned to having to climb those steps one more (and hopefully last) time.
It didn't take nearly as long to climb up the stairs and go through the passages as it did to go down them, and for that Morgana was grateful. After parting from Arthur at the dungeon entrance, Morgana raced back to her room at a speed that would have made her old governess wring her hands and wail. Gwen, bless her, was waiting with every layer, every accessory laid out on the bed with a bowl of water (still warm) and soap on the vanity for washing.
"How much time do we have?" Morgana asked as Gwen's nimble fingers started attacking her laces.
"Thirty minutes at most." The laces undone, Gwen slid the rough wool off Morgana's shoulders. "Wash your face and hands; I'll get the gown and surcoat ready."
For the full thirty minutes, the room was in well-organized frenzy as Morgana dressed and had hair and cosmetics done. Once she was finished, she allowed herself a fifteen-second look in the mirror. Her "newly-mended" dress looked lovely with the new white surcoat she'd had commissioned; if one was limited to one color for six months, one needed something to create the illusion of variety for one's sanity. Gwen had pinned up her hair expertly and had attached the organza veil over it flawlessly. Morgana had an interesting relationship with that veil. As per proper mourning she had to wear it for formal public occasions, and thus she hated it. But the veil had been invaluable at the funeral when she had to pretend to cry; no one could see the lack of tears behind the fabric. Today it would be invaluable because she would be meeting with representatives of a people she had gravely wronged their people in the past, and she didn't quite trust her face to not betray any emotions that might or might not crop up.
Druids.
Officially, the only magic-users that were still alive were the Druids—admitting that the art was still practiced within Camelot itself would be to admit law enforcement was less than perfect—so with the ban repealed and no one within the City to help define malicious magic from harmless, it was naturally the Druids the Council had wanted to see. Finding them in the first place turned out to be incredibly difficult. Only when Arthur set out completely unarmed and unaccompanied (to the great displeasure of the Council) to wander in the forest for two days were they even located. Getting them to agree to send representatives to Camelot was even more difficult, though Arthur did manage that as well. But the representatives themselves would be a surprise; the Druids did not say who they would send as messengers, only that they would be arriving this day as the Camelot bells tolled three in the afternoon. Would they send Alglain? Mordred? One of the few others at the camp that she had met? No, she thought, a knot of strange, terrible emotion forming in her belly, they wouldn't have been allowed to live. They would have been killed without ceremony as speedily as the army could dispose of them.
All that was left to do was to wait and hope that whoever it was wouldn't be or do anything that would make her reveal her secrets.
Ding dong ding dong, ding dong ding dong, ding dong ding dong, ding dong ding dong. DONG. DONG. DONG.
It was three o'clock, colder than freezing, and no sign of Druids as Morgana, Arthur, and Sir Leon waited just inside the castle doors.
Morgana whispered. "What's the chance they bluffed you just to satisfy you at the moment?"
"They'll come," Arthur replied with conviction. "They're Druids. They don't lie. The messengers might have been slowed by the snow melts. Druids they might be, but they're still human."
"I still doubt that Druids can't get around the difficulties of ground travel," Morgana grumbled, wrapping her old fur stole (thank the Gods it was white!) more tightly around her shoulders.
Arthur rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'll be sure to clarify that point in the talks. Magic can't do everything."
At that point the heavy castle door creaked open, allowing a blast of frigid air to force its way in to hit Morgana in the face. The guard on the other side looked both anxious and excited—or as excited as a person could be with a cold-stiffened face and cherry-red nose. "Your Majesties, Sir Knight, they're here."
"Told you," Arthur smirked as he led the trio out onto the front steps.
Down in the courtyard stood two people, one tall and one short, wearing long hooded cloaks against the cold. They were as still as trees, and if it weren't for the wind playing with the corners of the cloaks she would have thought they were statues. She stared at the Druids; they stared back. No one moved for a very long moment until four pale hands reached up to push back hoods.
As the two Druids lowered their hoods, Morgana was relieved to see that she recognized neither the girl with the bramble-brown curls nor the raven-sleek young man. Both of the representatives looked very young considering their purpose in Camelot—the girl looked to be no more than fifteen, and the man looked to be about Arthur's age—but then again, the Druids probably sent people who volunteered and would not be of too great a loss should things turn out badly. They were a good people overall, but that didn't mean they thought that everyone in the world was like them.
"We welcome you to Camelot," Sir Leon's voice boomed throughout the courtyard, "and those whom you represent."
"We accept your welcome on behalf of our people," the raven-man replied, also raising his voice to echo against the stone walls.
It was as if those words had been a summoning incantation. Immediately after the exchange, Morgana noticed well-dressed men, the Council members, skulking out of their own warm cubbyholes onto the steps to form what she could only call a reception line with her and Arthur approximately in the middle.
"Why didn't you tell me about this part?" Morgana schooled her expression into one of haughtiness, but inside she was seething. "I thought we were just going to go inside."
"You know as well as I do that you would have gotten a sudden cold if you knew you had to be out here for more than the initial greeting," he muttered back, his lips barely moving. "You've got to stop being a baby about these things."
"Hmph."
More than anything else in the world, Morgana hated just standing and waiting. Correction: Morgana hated just standing and waiting in the cold. She hated not being able to do anything, she hated not being able to cast the warmth spell that she knew like she knew her name, she hated that she couldn't reach up to adjust her veil so that loose thread would stop tickling her right beneath her ear because that would make her hands cold, she hated that she couldn't wear gloves or mittens because there hadn't been time to commission a white set, she hated that she had to wear white at all because she would swear that it was the coldest color, she hated—
Arthur elbowed her hard in the side. "Incoming."
The first Druid, the man, was walking towards her. Schooling her features, Morgana managed a half-smile as the Druid bowed deeply before her. "I am Faolan, my Lady. For you I bear greetings from my kinsman Mordred, who is now travelling to Eire."
"Mordred?" Morgana could not hide her surprise and joy. The boy had lived—what a miracle! And here she had been thinking not half an hour ago that he had to be dead. "He is well?"
"Quite well. He would have liked to come in my stead had the Elders allowed it, though he would have most likely been too enthralled by 'his' Lady's beauty to carry out his duty." Faolan's eyes twinkled.
"You exaggerate most cruelly," she replied modestly, "on both my charms' extent and Mordred's focus."
"Perhaps I exaggerate the latter, but the former stands true. What Mordred told us of you painted a pretty portrait, but the original puts it to shame." Faolan smiled genuinely at her, though only half was offered in friendship. The other half was a grin she knew well—that of a male who was very, very pleased with what he saw. She was glad to have the cause to wear the veil, for she did not know what she would have preferred him to think of her face if he saw it entirely uncovered.
Morgana bowed her head. "Then instead you are too kind."
"We Druids do not lie. Nor do I think any kindness spoken about you could be based in falsehood."
A silver tongue such as yours will go far in the Council even if you are bold, Morgana thought as the young man moved on to speak with Arthur.
The girl came next, curtseying deeply and neatly as if she'd been doing it all her life.
"My Lady," she said, her voice pitched low and sweet.
"Welcome to Camelot." Morgana extended a hand to signal that the Druidess was allowed to stand upright. "What is your name?"
"I am called Brigid. Your generosity to our people is genuinely appreciated."
Morgana stifled the urge to wince. Her personal form of generosity to the Druids had been a Camelot-grade assault on one of their camps. "The wisdom of our King belies his years," she replied neutrally.
"And yet the wisdom of those closest to him will have much influence on the future of the realm and the wider world," Brigid insisted gently. "You have not led him astray thus far, and I cannot believe you would ever do so willingly. May you counsel our King wisely until the end of your days." She took Morgana's freezing hands in her pleasantly warm ones and squeezed lightly.
There was something in Brigid's hand.
Morgana felt her eyes widen as the Druidess pulled back her hands, leaving the small, soft object in Morgana's palm. She opened her mouth to ask about it, but Brigid shook her head almost imperceptibly. "He left us yesterday, you know. I think he would have liked to stay, but he needed to go abroad and learn more. There's only so much one can learn from a people long persecuted when one has great gifts." And with that, Brigid moved on to present herself before Arthur.
Morgana was practically hopping with anticipation by the time she managed to withdraw to her rooms to prepare for dinner, half from the knowledge that she'd be able to finally warm herself up and half from wanting to know what was in her hand. She didn't dare look at it when anyone else was around, not even Gwen. But now she was entirely alone—well, at least for the next three or so minutes before Gwen came in to adjust the veil to allow for eating.
With a glance towards the table candle she had enough light by which to see. Settling down on the chair and looking over her shoulder once, twice, she finally opened her palm.
Inside was a balled-up scrap of finely-woven cloth, well-worn and well-loved if she were any judge. Curious—why would someone send her a piece of cloth? Perhaps there was something in it. Delicately so as not to crush any fragile kind of cargo, she opened up the fabric to reveal not an item, but some kind of writing. The handwriting was sharp, thin, nearly illegible over the weave of the fabric, and incredibly similar to some margin notes in her book of magic. The note itself was short and simple:
Just heard the news. Congratulations, King's sister. May you have good health and fair fortune always. Your most humble servant, M.
I fully admit that the part about Dragons dying was in some way intended to spite the Merlin writers. The Dragon is dead, says Merlin, and everyone is celebrating despite the fact there is no corpse or other evidence that the Dragon is even wounded. I was also very surprised to find out that there were lizards in Great Britain at the time I'm trying to fit this (square peg in round hole, square peg in round hole), but there are apparently a couple species. Learn something new every day.
Oh, and I tried on the spell for genuine Old English; it's supposed to be the plural imperative of lafian, which means to wash or to bathe, referring to both Morgana's body and her clothes. If it turns out that lafian is a strong verb…oh well. Not like most of you care if I conjugate Old English verbs correctly. And speaking of English, I'm holding a contest for whoever can tell me which British television mystery series I referenced (as in I tried to quote, but my memory may be slightly faulty) in the study scene. As a hint, the series is based on a series of mystery novels. The prize will be an early look at one of the last (but most important) chapters in this series of one-shots.