Chapter 18: Merlin

All day and all the sleepless night before, Merlin had been tearing apart inside – slowly, helplessly, painfully – and cursing himself for the fool Arthur once thought him.

Because it was his fault. He should have known better. Didn't terrible things happen when he left his king?

If only he'd stayed in Camelot, this wouldn't have happened. Arthur wouldn't have gone to fight raiders without Merlin, he wouldn't have been captured – without Merlin – and he wouldn't have remained hostage. It had been selfish to go to Nemeth, and to stay. He should've just denied the proposal and let Arthur's pact with Nemeth be assured by someone else's marriage and not.

And not…

A whirl of air stirred by a break in the trees and a bare miserable promontory overlooking more trees with dripping, dying leaves, brought him a snatch of voices. Her voice. Cultured and lively, clever and amused – raised in frustration, softly cooing over her baby nephew.

He knew what he felt for her. But he refused even to think the word. He should have known, dammit.

Freya had been a beautiful surprise. A rose in the muck of a well-traveled road. Someone who needed him desperately and completely and knew it, whose eyes shone with gratitude, and awe to see his magic, whose height of happiness was his company. To talk of small simple things like home, to lean on each other and rest her head on his shoulder. Finally to kiss, sweetly.

Mithian was so different. A rose in a garden of roses, but she'd asked for him. Confident and intelligent and possessed of authority in her own right, and somehow she'd seen something worthwhile in him, too. She'd marveled at his magic – but then suggested and challenged and even provided precious resources. They'd talked of simple things like home and love and family – but those things carried complicated associations for both of them, too. When he'd arrived a month ago, he would have said she didn't need him at all – but if he wasn't flattering himself, he might guess that her need for him now was subtle and patient. Emotional… while she was now, braving weather and danger to aid him in his need.

And their kiss. More than one, actually.

He knew Mithian better – Freya had kept her secrets, after all, though she'd tried to hint – he'd known her longer. Their marriage could be a sure thing, in comparison to the wild wisps he'd conjured with Freya. Her kiss had been sad and hopeless, though he hadn't understood it at the time. Mithian's kiss was… rich with promise, uplifting, freely offered passion that made him tremble to remember. Dangerous temptation.

I'm not a princess, I'm a woman, and I want to be yours.

Damn him twice. He'd believed it possible, he'd allowed himself to accept and desire – even to start seeing how Mithian as a wife for him in Camelot, would be inexpressibly beneficial. A gift for all of them – Gwen and Ally, Arthur and the council, even Gaius and Geoffrey – the opposite of a burden on his time and conscience.

But obviously, he wasn't supposed to find love and personal happiness. Destiny seemed offended once again, with his allowance of distraction.

Fine, then. He'd forget about everything else – the feelings of all three of them huddled around the cookfire in the dismal gray twilight, chewing tasteless stew as just another duty. And focus on Arthur.

There must be some way. Gwaine and Mithian both seemed content that Arthur's life was in no danger. Merlin couldn't be so sure – that only held if Caerleon was an intelligent, logical king who cared about the things he should care about. And Merlin knew by now, he had no sixth sense alerting him to Arthur's danger – hadn't he been fooling around, laughing and lounging and courting, while Arthur had been enduring… He wouldn't allow himself to imagine.

His heart clenched in his chest like a fist. I'm sorry… if only there was a way for him to say it to his friend, his king. If only he could tell him, Hold on, we're on the way. If he could…

Memory sparked. Iseldir and a double handful of druids, appearing to warn Merlin of the thief and the tomb, there but not there, and he'd almost grasped the magic they'd used, before they'd been interrupted by Sir Arrok. He'd recently read a variation on scrying spells – one that showed the path between the caster and his objective, rather than just the objective.

Well, he didn't anticipate a restful night, anyway. And he wasn't interested in putting more stew into a stomach pinched with guilt. And happily-married Gwaine was a perfect companion for… someone who shouldn't be here. Someone Merlin shouldn't think about.

Merlin focused his will, and looked.

Through the trees – through more trees – speeding away on either side like his spirit rode the wind. Over hills, shooting off cliffs and gliding down, faster and faster – a river – more trees – lots of jagged rocky outcroppings – scattered attempts at farming or livestock herding –

A castle.

A fleeting impression of great height and gray stone – into the castle. Evidently this form of sight couldn't pass through walls or doors, and Merlin was too dizzy from flying through halls and around corners and down stairs to remember anything of the route. Dark, damp stone – warriors' coarse laughter – servants flitting past –

Down. Torchlight flickered over moisture and filth, rusted crusted bars of iron, great moldering wood-plank doors. Rough dirty guards with furtive sneers and shifty eyes seated on a pair of stools, throwing dice from a cup onto the tilted bottom of an overturned barrel.

Down to the end of the chamber, where even the light was murky – and neither Merlin's sense of touch nor smell was engaged for this magic – and though the cell seemed empty, there was his focus.

Something on the ground in the far corner. Someone.

Motionless. Naked save for trousers that were nearly indistinguishable from stone floor and skin and hair – all filthy gray.

Merlin drifted through the bars to enter the cell incorporeal. His pulse pounded through his whole body, making his fingers tremble as he approached the man on the floor.

Ribs showing. Barely breathing. Padded chains at wrists and ankles, shackled to the wall. Wisps of straw scattered on the floor and piled in the corner, puddles caught uneven in the stone floor. Nothing else. Nothing else.

Sick with fear, Merlin ventured, "Arthur?"

No response.

Behind him, voices closed with them abruptly. The key clanged in the lock, confusing his nerves like a tossed handful of coins – mixed, lost, ricocheting off each other.

He turned to see the two guards shuffling into the cell. Between them they carried a wooden wash-tub full of water and sloshing over the rim between their two rope handles. Behind them another shadowy figure loitered.

"Wake up, Majesty," he heard, and never the title in such a sneer. "Time to discuss our treaty, again."

The man on the floor shifted, rolling to his back, turning his face further. Eyes dull – ignoring the guards – focused on the speaker outside the cell.

He whispered, he tried to swallow, he rasped, "No."

It was Arthur. It was Arthur.

Merlin voiced his immediate rage – and guilt – crouching and loosing his magic forward like a great gust of wind to nail all three men to the first vertical surface their bodies collided with.

Nothing happened.

Because he wasn't actually there, and it seemed none of them could see him. Maybe because none of them had magic.

The guards worked together, rudely and dispassionately lifting Arthur's body and positioning him on his knees. His arms swung behind him, still connected to the wall by the chains – Merlin stared at the spreading contusions on his chest and belly, ranging from sour yellow-brown to deep blue-purple.

"The parchment is ready. It lacks only your signature. Such a simple, easy thing – you've been writing your own name since childhood, haven't you?" the third man drawled, from outside the cell. He looked to have taken a seat – maybe on one of the low stools the guards used. Making himself marginally comfortable. Settling in to spend not a little time. "The terms are not untenable. Majesty."

The guards snickered, as their king intended them to.

Arthur's body struggled to breathe, his chin to remain level. His defiance faltered, and Merlin's spirit knelt at his side in a rush, flinging his arms around his king.

"We are coming!" he promised vehemently. "We are coming – only hold on a little while longer! I'm here, Arthur, you can–"

The body sagged against him – not really, since he was not really there – sharp bones and loose skin and trembling. He muttered, "No."

"Are you very sure you wouldn't like to read the treaty before you decline again? Perhaps we can negotiate some of the language?" Persuasive. Reasonable. Sarcastic.

Arthur sobbed, and it ripped Merlin's tearing heart still further. "No," he repeated, in a mumble, "No, no, no…"

The guards had been waiting for a signal. They moved suddenly to either side of Merlin's king, wrenching him through Merlin's spectral grasp, bending him over the tub, pushing his face into the water, submerging his head.

Holding him down.

"No! no!" Merlin repeated his king's word frantically, clawing at Arthur's shoulders, at the guards' hands – but he was helpless. No magic, no body.

Gray-blonde hair floated on the water's roiling surface, still dry around the guards' dirty fingers. Arthur's body bucked – once, twice – they didn't let up and Merlin panicked also as his king began to kick at the floor, bare feet and chains and his arms stretched shaking behind him.

"He has the Pendragon stubbornness, at least," the third man observed, as if bored. "As always, men, not a word to Her Majesty about tonight… okay, let him up."

Merlin gasped as Arthur did – choking, wet hair stringy and clinging to his face as he collapsed back, careless of every part of him but nose and mouth and lungs. He reached, but –

Instead of moving forward, he was pulled back, out of the cell, down the length of the chamber – Arthur a suffering figure grown far-away tiny in a second, then gone.

The enemy castle grown far-away tiny in a second, then gone.

Merlin was back in the trees on a log by the fire, shuddering though he sensed neither cold nor heat, only oppressive darkness. His spirit felt unfastened inside his body, still.

There was alarm on Gwaine's face as he knelt before him, close enough to touch. And Merlin's hands were in Mithian's, warm and gentle, her body unbearably soft beside his. Heaven help him, he wanted nothing more than to let her supple strength envelop his heartache, and seek oblivion.

He blurted, "They've got him locked in a cell. They're not feeding him properly, he's lost weight. He's cold and miserable and chained and – they're torturing him."

Gwaine said something he couldn't hear past the thunder of his blood and the rush of air in his ears. Be careful, he saw on his friend's lips and in his eyes.

And Mithian's murmur, Too much magic, as the rest of him surrendered to the complete exhaustion of body and magic.

Well, it was one way of getting a full night's uninterrupted sleep. He managed, "I'll be all right, come morning."

And then he was sinking into velvet warmth and safety – the scent of horse and leather and stew and her – and he didn't deserve it, when his king had cold hard stone and enemies and torture.

But he didn't have the strength to push away. Damn him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke early, though it was mere moments before he heard Gwaine begin to stir – recognizing his friend by sound from long experience and familiarity. The vague reassurance he got from that sense – no imminent danger at their campsite, just normal routine – lulled him in half-slumber a few more moments.

His eyes stung, even closed. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and sore; he felt ill-rested and despondent, but even as he realized this, he came awake to the softness of his pillow and the warm weight and motion of another body – a female body – Mithian.

He struggled upright, not quite able to ignore her sigh, and the small sounds and movements she made in waking.

"Morning, you two," Gwaine yawned, stirring up last night's coals.

Merlin tried to disentangle himself from the blankets they'd evidently shared – not side by side, but nestled awkwardly around each other's knees. Over his shoulder, away from Gwaine, he said to her in a low voice, "I'm sorry."

She was trying to comb her hair with her fingers. Her black woolen cloak was askew at her neck, like she'd forgotten to remove it, and just used it for a pillow or cover or both, in her sleep. He was glad to see evidence that she'd truly rested, and ashamed of himself.

"For what?" she said, her voice pleasantly throaty in the early hour. "For the magic last night? You don't have anything to be sorry for."

Merlin heard Gwaine turn away from them, rummaging for some sort of breakfast. Eaten cold and swift before they packed up and took to the saddle again.

"No, I meant, I'm sorry for… all this." He did her the courtesy of meeting her eyes, though without turning his head. "My behavior since…" He paused, thinking back – since yesterday – since he'd come to Nemeth to court – before that, when he hadn't just said no.

"Merlin," she said, maybe too quickly. "I understand a bit of what you're thinking and feeling. And I think, we should wait to talk about – anything important, til Arthur is free and we're all safe."

He didn't want to keep deceiving her about what their future would be. But maybe she was right and now was not the time to think of themselves. "If you're sure you won't turn your horse and ride back home today," he said. "We haven't passed into territory where it would be dangerous for a woman to travel alone, yet."

"No," she said, settling her cloak by feel and raising her chin in challenge with a significance that he shied from. "I'll go on, with you."

The day was not much different than the one before, save that the clouds were broken and gathered together in great gray tufts that poured rain suddenly and rumbled at the horizon – then broke to weak winter sunlight that didn't warm or dry them.

Merlin did that with magic, as best he could – once before packing the old site, once after unpacking at the new camp that night, and once at midday when they fished flatbread and dried fruit and meat out of their saddlebags. The efforts tired him more than usual, and he sobered to the effects of last night's magic. Aside from how the images of his friend in pain and fear and loneliness twisted his heart and stomach, he was heading into a situation where he needed all possible energy and magic at his disposal. No wonder Iseldir had combined his strength and ability with the others, to speak to Merlin. He was probably lucky their enemies at Caerleon's castle couldn't see him, after all, and be warned they were coming.

The third day they came to sight of their destination only a couple hours after they'd eaten midday provisions.

Bare hills with stunted gray bushes, rattling naked twigs. Perhaps welcoming or even pretty in spring – green, with wildflowers – but just now it was all mud and stone.

And stone, and more stone. The castle complex was immense, rising high above the hill it was set upon – probably sinking its roots low underground, also. It was a fortress, all-encompassing. Not like Camelot's citadel – which still left the lower town vulnerable in an attack – or like Nemeth's palace, with its comfortably sprawling town surrounding it for half a league in approachable confidence.

"Last chance for anyone to change their mind," Gwaine offered with false cheer, shifting in his saddle.

It was two days back to Nemeth; Merlin knew Mithian wouldn't go alone. If she was the sort of girl to change her mind, she'd have already done it.

And he wanted to dig his heels into the flanks of his mount and arrive.

"Well, then, maybe we should change our clothes," Gwaine concluded.

Thanks to Gwen's support of Arthur's standards, Merlin's clothing, from servant to outlaw – threadbare, he'd said; rags, Arthur had countered – had been replaced with better-quality garments. Mostly subtle; he hadn't wanted to stand out, anywhere he went, or worry constantly about ruining really fine things. Arthur dressed comparatively plainly also, when he wasn't meeting the council or entertaining guests – or traveling to be the visitor, himself.

The servants in Rodor's palace had packed for him spare clothing that included trousers with a long ragged edge rather than a cuff, that effectively hid his new boots, and a rope belt. A bleached shirt, under an also-unhemmed tunic that had no laces at the open throat, and a once-black jacket worn gray at the elbows, that was missing one of its wooden toggles. If he hadn't been happy just to be dressed again after changing in the chilly air, he might have missed the warmth of better-woven wool a little more.

His fingers trembled, beginning to go numb, as he fastened the last toggle of his jacket – and he wondered how Mithian was faring. Because female clothing was so much more complicated, and Mithian had no other female to help her, since Alice had decided to go on to Camelot instead of trying to keep up with their pace.

Gwaine shouldered into carefully-packed chainmail and buckled the swordbelt that had ridden his saddle instead of his hip thus far, before wrapping his dark-blue cloak back into place. He watched Merlin as they changed, and Merlin did not know why – he could guess at too many reasons to settle on only one, and appreciated that his normally talkative friend did not speak.

And Mithian appeared through the last few trees, before they'd finished arranging the baggage around the saddle of Merlin's mount – which was as appropriate for his role as a servant, as was their change of clothing.

The princess had worn dark trousers and high boots to ride in, a thick white shirt with a high collar under her dark warm-wool cloak that hung to her knees when she was dismounted. Now she wore a full-skirted dress in a rich earth-red satin, form-fitting but unadorned. Her hair was unbraided, but bound with a criss-crossed leather string, over one shoulder. She was fastening her cloak at the base of her throat as she came, eyes on her fingers. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, and Merlin could see that she wore the bracelet he'd given her over the long cuff of the dress-sleeve.

"You two are going to have beautiful children," Gwaine remarked, more wistful than teasing.

Regret stabbed through Merlin's chest, leaving him breathless. Part of him wanted to keep her – everything she represented – so badly; it ripped a little more from the rest of him that was devoted to Arthur.

He turned away from Gwaine, and avoided Mithian's eyes in taking her bag from her to fasten at his saddle – and delayed long enough that Gwaine stood attendant as Mithian mounted. She didn't need him, but her smile of thanks was his. Another regret Merlin tried not to feel.

And then Gwaine handed her something tiny and gold. "As my wife, you'd have this," he said. "Elena gave it back to me so that I could prove my identity in Caerleon."

Mithian's cheeks were pink as she glanced over at Merlin, tucking it into her glove; he told himself it was the cold air, and didn't meet her look. "She can have it back once we're safely returned to Camelot," she told Gwaine with a smile.

Merlin swung into place on his loaded saddle and kept his eyes on his reins til they were moving again.

The fortress was well-protected. Watchmen in the towers, guards at the massive pair of doors that met in a pointed arch at the top. Their approach led along one curved wall of the stronghold; Merlin examined the structure as they rode, and noted eight manned arrow-slits. Gwaine didn't glance up, but he knew his friend was aware, also.

He wondered how much Gwaine remembered of this place. He also couldn't help an eerie awareness that Arthur was here, somewhere, hurting and alone.

"And who might you be, sir," one of the half-dozen men before the door demanded.

Not impolitely, though their look had more in common with the brigands Arthur's patrols sometimes encountered than the knights of Camelot themselves. Merlin thought it unsurprising that they would be assumed bandits, in Stonedown and the far side of the border. Their weapons were mismatched, their armor mostly worn leather rather than metal, their indigo colors tattered and piecemeal, rather than proud and whole tunics or cloaks.

"My name is Gwaine. Son and heir of Sir Geart of Caerleon, deceased for almost twenty years. This is my wife and my servant. I'd like an audience with King Caerleon."

The spokesman – someone with authority, though there were no visual cues to prove it – looked them over narrowly before deciding. "You may enter the outer courtyard and wait."

He pounded on the doors, which opened to the outside. Four of the guards accompanied them as the corners of a square of which they were the center, leaving two – probably the original and requisite two, when there weren't approaching strangers sighted – outside the doors. Merlin glanced over his shoulder as others on the inside cast a great beam into massive iron brackets to bar the stronghold's main entrance. There would be at least one other elsewhere – maybe a sally-port close by – but it amused him to think of using Ally's spell at this point as they made good their escape with their king.

Athwinan thas heard, you bastards.

The outer courtyard was little more than a seven-pace wide yard between the outer and an inner wall. Beyond the pair of doors – offset from each other – there were booths and huts of both wood and stone, people that included women and children going about the daily business of living.

Stone and mud and no children running in play and no village women laughing. Merlin wondered about flocks and fields and gardens.

"Stop gawking, boy, and get off the horse that's worth more than two of you," Gwaine said to him. "Lazy thing."

He was dismounted already, catching Mithian as she slid down from her saddle rather than swinging her leg over the horse's rump herself. She twisted in Gwaine's hands to send Merlin a shocked, worried look at his friend's casual abuse; Merlin hoped it would be the first, last, and only of its kind, before she realized how they must play their parts.

"Yes lord sorry lord," he said, scrambling down, himself, and ducking his mare's head to take the leads of Gwaine's mount and Mithian's.

Merlin kept his head down as the inner set of doors groaned open – and wondered if there was magic that would let him see through earth and stone to locate Arthur. If by chance he were directly beneath them right now.

The voice that called a brusque, perfunctory greeting, however, yanked his eyes up from the ground and straight to a man who wore a breastplate of iron rings sewn into leather over a thick chest. Not a tall man, or imposing in any way, his shaggy hair held gray but his beard was nearly white, and there was no visible mark of rank or title, though the chain of some ornament descended beneath his armor at his throat.

It was the voice he had heard two nights ago, when he'd spelled his spirit to Arthur – the man who had remained in the corridor outside the cell to direct and observe the torture of the king of Camelot.

Of Merlin's friend.

He inhaled suddenly and deeply, trying to remember Gwaine's words about brute force and hostages and what would happen if he attacked King Caerleon with magic in his own stronghold. Maybe he could kill every knight and guard here without any of them – or Arthur – getting hurt. And maybe he shouldn't.

Gwaine and Mithian turned also – toward each other, between Merlin and Caerleon – and Mithian's inside palm, down at her side, opened as her fingers spread. A clear sign that only he could see – Stop. Calm. Think.

He took another breath. His focus was saving Arthur. Not punishing Caerleon.

"So," the king drawled in a raspy voice, "you claim to be the son of one of my knights, who died nearly twenty years ago in battle."

"I do," Gwaine said cheerfully.

And it occurred to Merlin, if his friend could face this man who had also wronged him and his family and his father's memory with such control, so could Merlin. It occurred to him, this was Gwaine's Uther. And Merlin had managed to stand mostly unnoticed in Uther's presence nearly daily, for three years.

"I do have proof," Gwaine added, "more than just my word. Show him the ring, darling."

Mithian took off her gloves and slipped Gwaine's ring off her thumb – handing it to Gwaine rather than Caerleon, a move that Merlin instantly approved of. Then Gwaine handed his father's ring to his father's king.

"I would be surprised if you recognized his sword, but I have that as well." Gwaine reached for the hilt – and three of the unkempt guards loitering around them had weapons in their hands, ready to strike.

Merlin felt a tremor of tension ripple through him.

"Put your weapons away," a female voice commanded, and a woman strode through the doors to join them with an imperiousness that reminded Merlin more of Uther than Morgana. Her hair was red-gold with a few strands of gray, loose upon the wolf-pelt she wore over her shoulders, bound with a single gold band around her head as a sign of her status. Her face was lined, her mouth pinched, and the dress she wore beneath the fur was blood-purple. "Caerleon, he looks exactly like Geart did when we knew him – give him the ring back."

Caerleon grunted, dropping the ring unceremoniously into Gwaine's hand.

"Thank you, Your Majesty – and good afternoon," Gwaine said, with a courteous half-bow. "Allow me to present my wife – Darling, this is Queen Annis."

"Your Highness," Mithian murmured, spreading her skirt in a curtsy.

Annis was looking past them, at Merlin. Without expression, but the moment he realized her gaze, he dropped his own eyes.

"So why're you here now?" Caerleon demanded. "If you are Geart's boy, you'll no doubt remember what you screamed in your childish voice as my guards chased you out of here."

"It's become a little vague in memory," Gwaine said easily. "Time passes. Boys grow up and see the world differently. Men marry – and see the world a lot differently." He grabbed Mithian's hand and tucked it into his elbow; Merlin saw his grin from the side as he looked at her. "A run of good luck as a sell-sword and a good match later, I started thinking about settling down somewhere permanently and swearing loyalty. And so here I am to offer myself for your service, if you'll have me."

Caerleon glanced over his shoulder at his wife. "I don't want him," he said bluntly. "Geart was a self-righteous pain in my ass."

Merlin tensed. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Caerleon tried to turn them out of the stronghold. Or if Gwaine threw caution to the wind, himself.

Then again, a statement like that from a man like this was probably a compliment to Gwaine's father.

"Geart was an excellent fighter," Annis said neutrally. "Perhaps it would be wise to welcome them for the night – and you can test his skill tomorrow. You might change your mind."

Merlin wondered how Caerleon's other knights had reacted to his abandonment of Sir Geart's widow and family. Then again, if he could judge by the look of them, maybe they didn't care. And if Gwaine's father had been like one of these motley, dour men – perhaps his mother was someone worth meeting.

The same might be said about Merlin himself, maybe. And Arthur.

"Fine," Caerleon decided. "A room for the night and we'll see about tomorrow." He turned for the inner doors; they followed, and Merlin with the horses.

"You'll dine with us, of course," Annis added smoothly. "Both of you?"

"Yes, thank you," Gwaine said. "I hope baths in our chambers won't be a problem?"

Caerleon stalked on ahead, though not so quickly he left them behind. Annis walked half-turned to Gwaine and Mithian, accompanying and guiding them past the inner wall. It was all stony ground here – not neatly cobbled, but mostly bedrock under a thick layer of chips and flakes, seamed with thin earth growing tenacious wiry grasses and weeds – now spindly and brown with the onset of the cold season. The castle itself rose up ahead of them, past an unevenly shaped courtyard, and to either side other structures were built into the circle of the inner wall. Stables were easy to identify, and the forge and bakehouse.

"We're not pampered by servants here," Annis informed them. "If your wife needs a girl, I can spare one from the kitchens occasionally."

"That won't be necessary, Your Majesty," Mithian said. "I'm not really used to… I mean, if our servant is allowed to fetch and carry for us?" Her tone was an admirable mix of girlish confusion and pride; Merlin had to pretend to stumble to hide his reaction.

"Of course," Annis said. "He has the run of the keep. Within reason, of course – and mercenary work must pay exceptionally well, elsewhere, if you're able to afford a man, Gwaine."

"He really doesn't cost me much, Majesty," Gwaine said confidingly. "I don't fatten him, you see."

Annis made a thoughtful noise, glancing back to scrutinize Merlin briefly, head to toe. "Where did you hire him from?"

"Border town," Gwaine answered. "Just outside Camelot, up north. Contested territory – he was desperate to get out. I feed him and he follows me like a puppy."

"Outside Camelot?" Annis said, and something in her tone pricked Merlin's ears and pulled them forward. The queen was leading them to the half-dozen wide stairs that lay before and below the castle's main doors; he followed them rather than veering with the horses toward the stable – an obvious structure with doors open to allow for two lads to shovel manure and fork hay. "Have you spent much time in Camelot, these last fifteen years?"

"Not much," Gwaine answered easily. Merlin reflected that it was comparatively true. "I ran into old Uther once – sneaked my way into a tournament – and won it – and got banished for my efforts. They're awfully narrow-minded in Camelot."

"And what of Arthur?" Annis asked. Caerleon stopped on the third stair, turning just enough to look at his guests without lifting his head. "Did your path ever cross with his?"

Gwaine shrugged. "He was in the tournament, too, but it was full armor. I don't know – he's just like his father, isn't he? Stubborn and arrogant?"

"Stubborn," Caerleon grunted.

Merlin went numb with fury, remembering how Arthur – half-naked and half-starved – had begged and struggled. Not so arrogant, anymore? It made him cold to think that this man could have changed Arthur – his king, his friend, his destiny – in any lasting way.

"We don't get much news, here," Annis went on, gathering her skirts to climb. "My husband believes that spies are rats–" Caerleon grunted – "and we're too far from the routes for regular traders…" She stopped as Gwaine and Mithian began to ascend behind her. "Ah – the stables are that way?"

Merlin dropped his eyes away from the others' gaze. Gwaine said casually, "Get moving then, lazy sod. Stop daydreaming. We need our bags carried up when you're done with the horses, then a bath drawn. And if you're late…" He smacked one palm with the back of his other hand threateningly.

"Yes, m'lord," Merlin mumbled, pulling the leads of their three mounts, trying to hurry them. Tired after the long hard journey, they weren't keen to move quickly.

Honestly, he couldn't blame them.