"Will the Lady Drusilla be joining us for Samhain, then?"

Arthur glanced down at Guinevere, a brow cocked at the coy question she was not supposed to have known to ask. "I don't know. The courier only left yesterday. It's three day's hard ride to Blackheath. And how did you even know to ask about that?"

Guinevere shifted the basket of lavender flowers from one arm to the other, an innocent look on her face, "A little bird told me."

"If Merlin's been running his mouth again-"

"Merlin didn't tell me anything," she cut Arthur off with a laugh, "But we servants have our ways. And no, I'm not going to tell you how I found out. It's not as though it's going to be a secret for long. If she does decide to come here, we'll all be preparing for her arrival for weeks."

"True," he conceded the point and then let it go. It was not a major secret, anyway, and the imminent departure of two-thousand soldiers was hardly an event that could be kept quiet. The message of the troop movements and Drusilla's invitation had gone hand in hand. He shook his head and turned his thoughts to other matters. "Elyan doesn't mind being sent back into the forge again, does he?"

"No. And even if it does, he hides it well. Besides," she raised her voice as they turned the corner to head down a different street, "It's a way to remind him of where he comes from, when he's not off playing boy-hero with you."

"We're not playing at being heroes, Guinevere. The defense of the realm depends on the knights of Camelot being- you-" he sputtered to a halt at her laughter. "Sometimes I don't know which is worse, you or Merlin. In any other kingdom, you'd spend an afternoon in the stocks for mocking me." Despite the mild threat, there was no heat in Arthur's voice, only a vague amusement.

"In any other kingdom, would a prince be able to walk down a market street unarmed and unarmored, knowing full well that his people would defend him if anything happened?" Guinevere asked archly.

"I never can win with you, can I?" Arthur huffed, knowing Guinevere was right. If he lived anywhere else, he would not be able to walk down any street like this, with only a dagger at his hip, and a serving girl at his side. In any other kingdom, he would not be able to love said serving girl. Despite Guinevere's gentle mockery, Camelot had many advantages. He shook his head and failed to smother his grin as he turned his gaze down the street.

Ring Street, it was called, though not because of the jewelers that plied their trade at the end closest to the main markets. No, it was named for the ringing of hammers against anvils in the forges that lined the street's north side. Guinevere's father had plied his trade here once, as did Elyan now and then. He was at the forge now, hammering away at a glowing piece of metal. Percival and Lancelot were there, too, pumping the bellows and doing whatever small task needed doing to keep the work going. Stripped of their knightly accoutrements and covered in soot and sweat, none of them looked like the noble knights of Camelot they normally appeared to be.

In the week since he had decided to send men north to fortify Blackheath, every blacksmith had been working day and night to prepare, from the finest bladesmiths and armourers to the smiths who made little but nails and horseshoes. All of it was needed. Other tradesmen were working at full tilt, as well; he had hardly seen Merlin in the past week, for all that Gaius had him preparing all the various potions and salves the surgeons would need after a battle.

"No, Arthur, you never have the upper hand in an argument with me. You should be used to it by now," Guinevere interrupted his woolgathering and gave him a smile that would melt ice.

"Perhaps I should find myself a servant who actually respects my title at Prince of Camelot."

"You already have one. George. He never argues or talks back, and you're always complaining about how dull he is. Face it, Arthur," she said, "You're happier when everyone isn't always saying 'Yes, Your Highness' to everything you say. And having Merlin around is good for you. Before he came around, you were hardly tolerable."

Arthur scowled, "And now?"

"Now I feel free to like you again," Guinevere tried and failed to hold back her laughter at the face he made. The prince could not stay irate in the face of that laughter, and simply shook his head before looking back at the forge.

Elyan had finished his hammering. The metal looked more like a sword now than a random piece of metal as the smith-turned-knight prepared to quench it in the water trough. With a single swift move and a fine plume of steam, Elyan held the blade in the water for the proper amount of time before drawing it back out, examining the length for any visible cracks or flaws. "A good blade?" Arthur called out as he and Guinevere crossed the street.

"If I temper it properly, I think it'll be a good one, yes," Elyan glanced up, a smile shining in his dark eyes before he turned back to his work. That was all Arthur needed to see to know that Elyan had done a good job on the blade. Soon enough, some knight would have a fine sword in his hand.

"Any word on who is going north?" Lancelot asked, now that his task of tending the coals for the tempering was done for at least a few minutes.

"Not Gwaine, that's for sure. He'd get into an argument right away and the Five Kingdoms would all go to war," Arthur said, prompting a laugh from the others. It was not too far from the truth. "And not you, Elyan," he raised his voice so he would be able to hear him, "If you're half the smith your father was, I may have to chain you to your forge." He earned a mock-glare from Elyan and a whack on the arm from Guinevere for that one. "And you two," Arthur gave Lancelot and Percival pointed looks, "Are hopeless on your own, so you'll just have to stay here. But seriously," the prince's smile faded, and his tone grew sober, "Lord Ector and Sir Kay are capable commanders. I trust them to know how to defend their own keep. Unless something drastic happens, I am confident that they'll be able to hold their own against Amata with the additional forces. The main body of the army will only ride north if Blackheath falls."

They accepted that readily enough. Arthur had buried his worries deeply enough, it seemed, that only he and Merlin knew just how anxious the prince truly was regarding the growing tensions with Amata. Once the decision had been made to send the soldiers north, he had tried to take Merlin's parting advice to heart- "You have enough worries for today. Let tomorrow's troubles take care of themselves." The idea was sound enough. Practicing it was more difficult.

"I'll just keep making swords until you tell us to go then, Arthur," Elyan's smile was bright. Arthur wished he could set his worries aside as easily at Elyan seemed to. "Speaking of which, Percival, you're not doing your job right now. Those coals cool off too much, and this blade won't be useful for anything except chasing chickens." The big knight ducked his head sheepishly and returned to the bellows.

"Give a man a little authority, and he turns into a slave driver," Lancelot's words had little bite to them, but he earned a rude gesture from Elyan regardless.

"Sire!" The call was muffled amongst the ringing of the hammers, and it took a moment for Arthur to realize that someone was calling to him, and another to find who it was.

Leon was out of breath when he caught up to them, his shoulders hunched and eyes wide, a look of underlying dread on his face. "Sire," he said between breaths, "Your father bids me summon you to attend upon him."

"In his chambers?" Arthur asked, an uneasy knot growing in the back of his throat. Uther had been growing restless of late, his voice stronger than it had been in months, though his questions still wandered from one thing to the next without an apparent line of thought. When Gaius had last looked in on the king, he had not foreseen a return to sense. It seemed the physician might have been mistaken.

"No," Leon shook his head, "The great hall. He ordered me to find you and bring you there, and Arthur," he took a shaky breath, "He ordered the guardsmen to find Merlin and bring him there as well."

All eyes were suddenly on them, flicking back and forth between Arthur and the knight. Arthur swallowed against the dryness in his throat and fought to calm his nerves, "Does he know?"

None of them had to ask what. "I don't know. But I don't know why he would summon Merlin specifically if he didn't. Arthur," Leon's eyes, usually so full of surety, were uncertain- even afraid, "What do we do?"

Arthur looked at each of them in turn, measuring each expression and noting the fear in their eyes, how Guinevere's fingers clutched the handle of her basket, how Elyan had forgotten the sword he had been so intent upon moments before. There was fear there, but determination, as well. "Elyan, take Guinevere home and stay with her. Don't answer unless it's one of us." The knight shared a brief glance with his sister before nodding sharply. Guinevere reached out and squeezed Arthur's hand. He gave her a tight smile before continuing, "Lancelot, Percival- find Merlin. Get him out of the city before my father's men find him. He probably knows a dozen ways to get past the walls. Go. Now. If my father knows. . . He won't hesitate to have Merlin killed on sight."

With grim expressions, they splashed water on their faces to get rid of most of the soot before hastily donning cleaner shirts. Percival and Lancelot hurried off toward the citadel. Guinevere squeezed Arthur's hand, "Be careful, she said, her voice low, before Elyan took her arm and ushered her away.

The prince turned and faced Leon, "Merlin may not be the only one who will need to get out of the city. My father banished Gwaine once, and he will not appreciate that I've knighted commoners. If things turn sour. . . "

"I'll do my best to keep them safe, Arthur. I'm sure Lucan would be more than willing to help."

"Thank you," Arthur breathed, letting the rest of his breath out slowly, "Let's not delay, then. My father does not like to be kept waiting."

The court was resplendent with the hastily donned finery the nobles had put on for a king they had never expected to see in public again, save for his funeral. Arthur strode through the midst of them, his head held high. In a plain linen shirt, leather trousers, and long brown coat, he looked more like a merchant's son than the prince of Camelot. But he was the only one in the room who dared meet the king's gaze. "Father," he dropped the proper bow to the king.

Uther sat the throne like a vulture, his bony fingers locked onto its arms. He glared balefully at his son, his eyes sunken and shadowed, and the heavy golden crown seeming to weigh him down. The king looked more like a man half-dead than the proud warrior the prince had admired as a child. "Arthur," he rasped, "I have heard a rumor that I hope with all my heart is false. It has come to my attention that you have allowed sorcery to take root in Camelot again. That you have allowed its poison to seep into the very heart of this kingdom. This kingdom which- for nearly thirty years I kept clean of the evil that is magic. And now I hear that you are allowing my work to be undone. Is this true?"

Arthur's back straightened as he looked his father in the eye. Here and now, there was no better answer than the truth. "It is true, Father, that I have ceased to persecute the Druids and those who practice benign magics. I have come to believe that they are not, and never have been our enemies. There are those who practice blacker arts, certainly, and those who have plotted against Camelot for their own gain and they are our enemies." He took a breath to calm his racing heart. He had said similar words to his father months ago, but Uther had been insensible then, and the whole of the court of Camelot had not been looking on. Arthur wished, suddenly, that Guinevere, Lancelot, or any of the others could stand with Leon to support him. "But we cannot dismiss an entire people for the simple fact of their use of magic. As not every man who carries a sword is a bandit, so not every man who wields magic is evil. We have let fear rule our actions for too long, Father."

Uther pressed back against the throne, his eyes narrowing with every word. "It is true, then. You have been bewitched. I cannot believe that my own son would seek to destroy my legacy while I yet live. Nor can I believe, that after all I taught you and after so many attempts on our lives have been made by sorcerers," he fairly spat the word out as thought it were poison on his tongue, "That you would so readily believe such lies. One witch murdered your mother, and another twisted Morgana's mind. Yet you would have me believe that sorcery is nor more evil than a child's toy. I can see plainly that you have succumbed to some sort of spell. There can be no other explanation."

"Father-"

"Be silent, Arthur." Uther's hand made a slashing gesture. His voice rang through the great hall, though he had not raised it. The silence was palpable as the eyes of the court flicked between father and son. "I know who has laid this bewitchment upon you, and I curse the day I placed him into your service. I should have known from the first, should have seen the hold he had over you. No prince- and no son of mine- would have such regard for a mere serving boy. When the guards bring him here, I will give my judgment, and this spell will be lifted from you."

Long experience helped Arthur school his expression to keep the roiling fear from his face. He knew where this was leading, and he knew he would be hard pressed to move them from their course. "It sounds as though you have determined a verdict already, Majesty, and yet you always told me that even the most depraved criminals deserve a trial. Such is the course of justice in Camelot."

"Do you deny that your manservant is a sorcerer?" Uther asked. Unable to answer truly without condemning Merlin, Arthur held his tongue. "Your silence tells me all I need to know, Arthur. What need is there of a trial when guilt is known? Be calm. By nightfall, the sorcerer's head will be on a spike as a reminder of the price for practicing magic in Camelot. You think it will hurt, but like lancing an infection, it will sting for a moment and then you will heal. Think no more of it, Arthur, my decision is final."

Arthur clenched his jaw to keep his outburst behind his teeth. Anything he might saw now would only help to confirm the king's declaration in the court's eyes. History was repeating itself. As Guinevere had once been convicted of bewitching Arthur, now Merlin was, too. Only this time there would be no crazed old man to save the day. Once Camelot's guards found Merlin, they would execute him. Or they would try. The prince had no idea what Merlin would do- or could do.

He had seen his servant kill seven men with a gesture, then turn and ward off Morgana's attacks with a handful of words. And then he had told Arthur that he would rather die than live in a world where his prince wanted him dead. 'Surely he knows I don't want that.' But if it were a thing that needed saying aloud, it was too late. All he could do now was pray that Lancelot and Percival found Merlin before the guards did.

The great doors opened behind him. The thunder of their closing echoed through the hall, and instinct spun Arthur around before he realized he was not under attack. His heart skipped a beat at the sight that greeted him.

Merlin stood amidst four guards, two with their hands clamped around Merlin's arms, two with blades nearly digging into his back. His hands were shackled in front of him. 'Too late,' his mind screamed as he met Merlin's terrified eyes, 'We're all too late.'