Chapter XIII: The Last Returnee

"I missed you, Dad. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Gwen, Elyan." Tom squeezed his children tighter.

For a few wonderful moments, all the stress of the last few days evaporated. Elyan forgot, if only briefly, about the simmering unrest, about the missing artifacts, about the quick but unproductive meeting they'd had to warn the others about the lion-headed man, about the people who wanted him and his family and their friends all dead. For a handful of heartbeats, he was safe in his dad's arms.

Then, of course, he had to withdraw back into the stress-filled world of adults. Still, his shoulders were looser than they'd been five minutes ago, and he thanked the gods that his father had returned safely, that they'd reconciled after what Gwen swore up and down was a huge misunderstanding. Elyan believed her, mostly, but there was still a little niggling voice in the back of his head that told him not to talk about Leon.

He and Gwen hadn't planned on doing this, but they avoided discussing current events for as long as they could. Over delicious food and quality wine, the little family caught up on what they'd done over the autumn, the winter, the very earliest parts of spring. Gwen made them all laugh with descriptions of her time at Bors's court. Tom went into great detail about the strangest things he'd crafted for spellbinders and the most bizarre magic he'd witnessed. Elyan talked about training as a knight and his slow uphill battle for the respect automatically offered to his highborn peers.

But they couldn't avoid the present forever. After dessert, when they were all pleasantly stuffed and sipping their wine, the topic loomed above them like that enormous dragon friend of Merlin's. Conversation dimmed, died. Elyan considered starting the dishes to put the discussion off further, but he was warm and physically comfortable and didn't want to move.

Tom broached the subject before his son could decide. "I've heard that there have… been some problems recently here in Camelot."

"You could say that," Gwen sighed. Elyan just groaned.

"What happened?"

Gwen did most of the talking, with Elyan jumping in with details or incidents she hadn't been present for. Tom had always been a good listener, and tonight was no exception. He let them speak, asking no questions except when he needed clarification, wincing or nodding when appropriate.

"The guards are trying to find more names," she finished, "but it's a slow process, and Arthur is worried that they might have been given false leads. I asked Tristan and Isolde to ask around after we found that picture, but they haven't gotten back to me yet. They will soon, though, and then we'll have more information than 'the people who hate magic have a figurehead.'"

"And Merlin still hasn't been able to scry the main rebels?"

"No. They're very careful to stay within the wards while they gather their strength. We'll have to wait until they make a mistake, but when they do, we'll be ready."

"There's some comfort in that," Tom sighed. "It must be exhausting, being on your guard all the time. It almost makes me feel guilty for spending so much time in a place where I didn't have to worry about all this, at least not as urgently. As good as it is to be home, I'll miss that about Listeneise."

"I certainly did," Gwen agreed. She'd told her brother and their friends all about how Listeneise had been a refuge, a sanctuary. She'd been safer there than she'd been since realizing that Morgana's dreams weren't just dreams. "But in a way, that's what helped keep me going when things seemed hopeless. I want everywhere to feel like that."

Tom raised his goblet. His son and daughter clinked their cups against his, and together they drank to a brighter future.

Morgana had few memories of her mother, but Gorlois had been fond of telling stories about her. He'd spoken of her charm, her wit, her ceaseless desire to better the world, which she had done through acts of charity. The girl had taken her father's words to heart. After Gorlois died and Morgana was sent to Camelot, she made a point of learning about the city's poorhouse and orphanage, about opportunities to make a targeted impact with a bit of largesse. While her duties as de facto lady of the keep had occupied most of her time, she'd tried to at least keep her fingers in a large number of charitable pies.

However, she hadn't been able to continue her work once Uther renewed his Purge. While she had managed one or two small acts, her rebellion and short-lived regency had kept her busy. Of course, those very actions could count as charity depending on one's perspective, but the point was, she hadn't been able to do proper work with charities for the better part of a year.

Last time she'd been to this orphanage—an idea of Uther's mother, who thought that funding an orphanage was better than hundreds more pickpockets in the streets—the children had crowded around her, their caretakers had joked with her, and a few former residents had come by to pay their respects. Now, however, Lady Morgana was a known witch, and her reception was very different. The children remained on the periphery of her awareness, peeking around corners but never approaching. The two caretakers who'd met her at the door were stiff and formal and distant. No visitors had come to see her.

Morgana told herself that she didn't care, then grimaced. The lie sounded unconvincing even in her own head, and she knew that she couldn't make herself believe it. Well, she reminded herself, she shouldn't care because it didn't matter. She'd known that the people of Camelot, including the ones she'd befriended, were wary of magic. Even the ones who supported spellbinders in the abstract might find it difficult to deal with the presence of a powerful witch.

Their reactions didn't matter because she was here to change that.

The orphanage had escaped damage from last year's riots, fires, and attempts by undead warlocks to destroy the city. However, the building was an older one, filled with chinks that let in the cold and hosting unpleasant growths in its dark corners. During the summer especially, they had problems with rats and bugs. It was inevitable; any building with that many children in it would inevitably have scraps of food lying about, a tempting treat for vermin.

Morgana went through each room. First, she cast spells against pests on the threshold and shutters, then she inspected the chamber to see if it needed more work, which it usually did. She killed molds and mildews, stoppered holes against the distant winter. Between incantations, she kept up a steady stream of narrative. The witch explained what each spell did, what they didn't do, how long the effects would last. The matron, a plump blonde woman named Hilda, nodded along uncomfortably.

Hilda did not ask questions. Morgana remembered the older woman's old garrulousness and tried not to mind. She failed miserably, but she tried.

A side benefit of her chatter was that it let the children who were 'sneakily' following them around know when she was about to exit a room. Every time Morgana approached a door, she heard the soft pitter-patter of retreating footsteps.

So Morgana was quite surprised when she stepped into the hallway only to discover that one child, a girl of eight or nine, hadn't fled. The child stared at her with great hazel eyes, then blurted, "How come there's so many spells for keeping away bugs?"

"Because there are so many different types of bug," Morgana answered.

"But they're all bugs," the girl protested. "So there should be a spell to get rid of all the bugs."

"If there is, I haven't learned it yet."

"Oh. How come? I'm Winnie, by the way. I don't like bugs."

"Good to meet you, Winnie." Morgana gave a shallow curtsey, to which the girl responded with a huge grin. "I only started learning magic a year ago, and it was a very busy year for me, so I don't know all the spells yet. It's also possible that the spell doesn't exist yet. I imagine that if it did, people would just use that one instead of learning all these more specific incantations."

The girl mulled this over for a few moments. "Is that what the Court Mage is for? Making new spells?"

"That's part of the Court Mage's job, but they're also responsible for making sure that people with and without magic all get along."

Winnie's eyes lit with comprehension. "So when we didn't have a Court Mage, that's why we weren't friends. But now there's a Court Mage again so we can be friends?"

"Now that there's a Court Mage again, we can start building friendships," Morgana clarified. "Friendships take time to grow." It would be a lot easier if everyone immediately liked them, though.

"You should tell the Court Mage to make a spell that will get rid of all the bugs," Winnie declared. "Then everybody will like you."

"I'll tell him at dinner," Morgana promised. It would be better than more speculation about the lion-headed man. "For now, though, I have to finish up with my magic. Did you want to watch?"

"Nope," Winnie answered, popping the P. "Bye!" She scurried away.

"Sorry about her," said Hilda. "She's a bit… rambunctious."

"I noticed." Morgana smiled. "Don't worry about her. It was nice to have one of the children ask questions."

"I… imagine it would be when you're trying to recruit more."

Morgana's smile faded. "If Winnie is a witch born or wants to become a sorceress one day, I'll gladly help her, but I didn't come here to convert anyone."

"Of course, my lady," Hilda acquiesced.

"Do you know the difference between a witch and a sorceress?" Morgana inquired, raising her voice ever so slightly. She wanted their hidden audience to hear this.

Hilda blinked. "I… thought they were the same thing."

"Not really. People who don't know the difference use them interchangeably, but the words have very different meanings. Witches and warlocks are born with magic; it comes to us whether we want it or not, and we must learn to control it so that it doesn't act out on its own. Sorcerers and sorceresses aren't born with the gift, but they can learn to channel magic. Gaius is a sorcerer. When the Purge came, he could give up his magic like a knight giving up his sword. Merlin, the Court Mage, is a warlock, and I'm a witch. We can't give magic up. If we don't use our magic when we're awake, it seeps out in our sleep."

The matron's eyes were very wide. She said nothing.

Down the hall, the children whispered and muttered to each other. Morgana pretended not to hear them. She stared Hilda down, waiting, but the older woman held her silence.

As much as Morgana wanted to push, she knew that giving into her impulse would be counterproductive. "There's still three or four rooms left, right?"

"…Yes, my lady."

"Excellent. It's been so long since I've been here, you'll have to show me which ones I still have to do."

"Of course."

The hidden children fell silent. No sound echoed down the corridor save for footsteps and the quiet swish of skirts.

The next chamber was yet another bedroom. Hilda closed the door behind them, then half-whispered, "Witches really have no choice?"

Morgana took the hint and answered in a low murmur. "Not really."

"So you and Lord Merlin have no choice."

"Not in this. All we can choose is how to use our magic."

A nod. Hilda's forehead furrowed, a deep line appearing between her eyebrows. "So you and he are…. You're absolutely certain? About the king?"

"What about the king?"

"That… this is genuine. I remember—I was just a girl at the time, but King Uther apologized for the Day of Pyres, offered reparations, but it was only a ruse to lure your kind out of hiding. Sympathizers, too."

"I don't think Arthur is that good of an actor," Morgana assured the older woman.

As the witch cast her familiar spells, she mulled over the implications of Hilda's concerns. How much of Camelot's reticence was due to fear of a trap? Once people realized that Arthur and his fellow monarchs weren't just luring spellbinders out of hiding, how much trepidation would evaporate? How much would remain? If she was reading Hilda right, the matron's nervousness wasn't just because she feared being exposed as a sympathizer. She'd thought that Morgana's actions were a silent recruitment drive. While Hilda was correct in assuming that the lady's actions weren't entirely altruistic—she wanted people to see magic being used as a force for good—Morgana had done enough for the orphanage in the past that Hilda should reasonably have assumed that this trip wasn't entirely selfish.

It was a mess, she concluded. The individual people of Camelot had entire bouquets of reasons for wariness. Even if Morgana alleviated one concern, the others would remain.

But they'd known from the beginning that this wouldn't be easy. The big successes—legalizing magic, Merlin taking his rightful place as Court Mage—were just the beginning. Every successive victory would be smaller, though still hard-won. And that was without the rebels gathering their strength….

One step at a time, she told herself. Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was Camelot, despite what certain legends implied.

She stepped into the next room.

"They call themselves what?"

"The Sons of Uther," Tristan repeated.

"Yes, that's what I thought you said." Gwen shook her head in disbelief at the audacity of the rebel group. Their very name was a slap in the face to Arthur. "Did your informant have any other information?"

"Afraid not," Isolde sighed. "It's one thing to do a bit of harmless trade facilitation, but messing around with the king's sworn enemies? She's not going to risk getting involved."

"Drat," muttered Gwen. "I can hardly blame her, but it's still inconvenient." She looked at the other men and women gathered around her. "Does anyone else have new information?"

They didn't.

"Oh. Well, no surprise there, as we've only just gotten started. Still, knowing the name could help us immensely, act as a sort of secret password to let us into their secrets. Yes, Sefa?"

"It's about the name," the druid girl began. She squirmed as every eye turned to her but carried on gamely. "And… that art you saw, with the lion-headed man. What if this name is more than an insult to the king?"

"What do you mean?" asked Blanchefleur.

"In the graffiti, the lion-headed man ended up on the throne. He hung Uther's banners beside the Pendragon sigil. Now that his men are called the Sons of Uther, well, I think that this person might be pretending he's Uther's bastard in order to rally the opposition."

A low murmur filled the room as people turned to their neighbors, softly asking if they thought this could be true. They settled quickly on a consensus, reasoning that this stratagem was far too likely.

"Well deduced, Sefa," Gwen said quietly.

"Thank you, my lady," she mumbled.

Gwen raised her voice to cut through the conversation. "This seems like the most likely explanation, so I'll alert King Arthur immediately after his meeting is over. Can any of you think of likely candidates? I mean, which nobles hate magic and are of a reasonable age to make this claim?"

Attention turned to Blanchefleur, Marrok, and Leon. Of the twelve people present, they were the only ones who'd been born to Camelot's noble class. (Morgana and Arthur were otherwise occupied.)

By the meeting's end, Gwen had a list of six names, men who bore a passing resemblance to the old king and weren't too old to have been his secret offspring. Arthur wouldn't be available for a while, so she decided to bring the names to Merlin. Perhaps he could scry them.

She strode through the castle, smiling as she passed her old coworkers. Most of them did not smile back, though many started whispering once she was gone. It was a relief to reach her friend's door.

"Come in," Merlin called in answer to Gwen's knock.

She had only been in the Court Mage's chambers once, before Merlin officially moved in. The place had been plain and dreary and cold, somehow, despite the warmth of the day. Although the rooms hadn't changed much in appearance, the chill had vanished, pushed away by the new resident's bright presence.

Merlin was sitting at his desk with a scrying bowl. When he saw who had come to visit, the tiredness and frustration vanished from his face, chased away by his usual brilliant smile. Gwen grinned back.

They were hugging before they knew it. This was the first time they'd been alone together for far too long, and Gwen wished she'd thought to visit before business brought her here. She would come back tomorrow, she decided, and drag Merlin away from his anxieties long enough to decorate—not too much, but enough to claim the space.

"What brings you here?"

Gwen hated to wipe the smile from Merlin's face, but in the long run, he'd be more upset with her if she delayed. She explained as succinctly as possible, watching her friend's expression change from cheery to pensive to angry and back to pensive again. "That makes sense," was all he said. "These are the names?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll scry them now. If they really are using one of these men as their figurehead, taking him down could hamstring them."

"That would be wonderful," Gwen said.

"Too bad it's not going to happen. Nothing is ever that simple, especially for us."

The first candidate was sitting at his desk, finishing his paperwork as a candle remnant flickered pitifully. The second was sitting on the side of his bed drinking from a goblet. The third was talking to a frightened child about how she shouldn't be afraid of the dark. The sixth was fast asleep.

The fourth and fifth men could not be scried.

Merlin's smile was a tight, frustrated thing. "I hate those anti-scrying wards," he declared. "I really, really hate them. Still, at least we know that these two are somehow involved."

"There has to be some way to bypass the wards," Gwen said. "Some way to—I don't know, to get some information about our enemies, even if you can't spy on them directly."

Merlin nodded slowly. "You're right," he realized. "Gods, I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not," Gwen automatically corrected him.

He chuckled softly. "Thanks. But I've been going about this all wrong. Instead of trying to brute force my way through the wards or catch the conspirators when they're out of range, I should be looking for people and, more importantly, places that I can't scry. Once I've found them, I can spirit-walk for more information."

"They might be moving, though," Gwen pointed out. "They probably are, especially since we think they're still in the recruiting phase."

A grimace. "Then I'll have to move fast. I had to anyways, but this is just extra incentive. Gods, I almost wish they'd done something after lighting those fires. Then I'd at least have a place to start."

"Ask Morgana about that," Gwen advised. "She'll know their territories better than I do. But for now, Merlin, go to bed. You're exhausted."

The warlock bowed with a playful flourish. "As my queen commands."

The not-yet-queen huffed, fighting back an unladylike snort of laughter. "Oh, shut up, Merlin."

"You sound like royalty already!"

They laughed together, and for those few precious moments, all was right in the world.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Gwen is Basically the Queen Already, Which We Already Knew"

Next chapter: January 13, yay. Continued investigations and some more ominousness.

Happy holidays to all, and to all a good night!