A/N: I'm back with another chapter! I still haven't written the last chap of this fic but that's because I just don't want it to end. This one went by so fast compared to TBAK that I'm already having separation anxiety, lol. I am making progress on plotting the third fic, though, and I'm hoping to write some in-betweener bits at some point too! There's just so much fun to be had in this 'verse. =D
Arthur slumped over his desk, holding his head in his hands as he stared down at the pages and pages of information Ellison and Gerund had sent back in answer to his questions. Granted, there had been a lot of questions to start with, but he had not been prepared for the onslaught of magical knowledge that he had received in return. So much of it seemed to go over his head and every answer raised even more questions. Still, his knowledge base was expanding every day and no one could accuse him of not trying, he supposed.
A soft, warm hand descended on the back of his neck, nimble thumbs pressing at the base of his skull and rubbing in soothing circles. Arthur let his head fall all the way forward, chin bumping against his chest, and let out an appreciative moan.
"You should stop looking at those things," Guinevere said. "The guests will start arriving soon and we can't have you falling asleep on the front steps because you worked yourself into exhaustion before they even got here."
"I am not that tired," Arthur said, even though the beginnings of a yawn were tickling at the back of his throat. "And I need to know this stuff. Not just for the purpose of the summit, but in general. If I'm to govern magical peoples, I need to understand them, and that's what this—" The yawn finally won out, cutting him off.
"Take a break, sweetheart," Guinevere said, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Have something to eat. Tell George to polish something and let him entertain you with his brass jokes."
Arthur snorted. "You could not pay me enough to subject myself to that torture!"
He sobered quickly though, rubbing at his tired eyes; he had been reading and rereading these sheets since Mordred had delivered them early that morning, trying to be productive while simultaneously keeping his mind off of what was to come later in the day.
His wife knew his moods well. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, leaning her cheek on the top of his head.
"It's all going to be fine," she said. "You are going to talk sense into these people and they are going to listen to you because you're right."
"Just being right isn't going to be enough to get through to them," Arthur pointed out. "Especially because they don't trust me to begin with. Hell, half of them already want me dead!"
"You're doing the right thing," she insisted. "Nothing will go wrong. And even if it does, you have all your best men to watch your back."
"All but the best of them, you mean," Arthur said.
Guinevere gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Merlin would only scare them off. And I think Gwaine would resent being demoted from the top slot."
"He was never in the top slot!" Arthur cried.
"Sure I was." Gwaine sauntered into Arthur's chambers without so much as knocking on the door. "And Merlin is not a citizen of Camelot anymore and therefore does not count, which obviously makes me the best of your men."
"Hello, Gwaine, come right in," Arthur said dryly.
Gwaine gave him a bow that somehow managed to look sarcastic. "Just here to let you know that Lord Bayard and his entourage are approaching the gates as we speak," he said. "Annis and Odin have crossed the borders too; they should be here in maybe another hour."
"Wonderful." Arthur blew out a breath and heaved himself out of his chair. "Alright. Here we go."
Sarrum's guards took Kara to a small chamber in the citadel that held little more than a sleeping pallet and a bowl for washing. Food and water were brought up for her and someone kept her from eating and drinking too quickly and making herself sick with it. Her wounds were treated and she was given new clothes, simple and plain but warm enough for when the incoming winter brought chill winds with it.
She came down with a fever and lay in bed for days, shaking despite the multitude of blankets wrapped around her small frame and the fire that blazed in the hearth. Her fever dreams were plagued with dark, twisted figures that she was glad she couldn't remember when she woke.
All the knights were assembled in proper formation along the steps of the castle. Arthur took his place front and center, head held high despite the weight of the formal crown making his neck ache, and waited for Bayard to make his appearance.
The king of Mercia rode proudly at the head of his party, just as he had done the last time that he had come to Camelot approximately eleven years ago. His blue and yellow standard fluttered in the breeze as his riders fanned out behind him to fill the courtyard. Bayard dismounted and handed the reins off to a waiting stable hand before climbing the stairs to greet Arthur.
"King Arthur," he said with a nod.
"Lord Bayard," Arthur responded with the same. "It is an honor to have you here." He extended a hand, which Bayard took.
"We have been allies these last eleven years," Bayard said. "I appreciate the peace we've kept, and I would like to keep it longer. There have been some very strange happenings around these parts of late, but I will hear it all from you."
"Thank you for giving me that courtesy," Arthur said. "I hope that I will be able to put your mind at rest during these talks. But that is for later. Now there are guest chambers awaiting you and a banquet later tonight to welcome you all here. My manservant George will show you the way."
George hastened forward and gave a deep and perfectly executed bow. "If you please, my Lord, you may follow me in this direction," he said, his diction, as always, crisp and quick.
Bayard raised an eyebrow in Arthur's direction. "Are you sure this one won't accuse me of an assassination attempt?" he asked, though there was a hint of humor under his flat tone.
"Almost certain," Arthur responded, a smile tugging at his lips.
Bayard followed George into the castle, attendants trailing along in his wake, and Arthur let out a sigh of relief; one down, four more to go.
—
It was two weeks before Kara saw Sarrum again, two weeks spent mostly eating and resting, though she woke often from horrible nightmares that set her to screaming and clawing at her own skin. When first Sarrum let himself into her little chamber, Kara kept her back to the wall and waited, watching him warily.
He had a long piece of iron with him, bouncing one end of it against his palm as he watched her in return. He idled over to the fireplace and buried the last few inches of the iron rod in the coals before turning back to her.
"Hold out your arm, girl," he said.
"Why?" Kara asked, folding both arms tightly across her chest.
"Because I can make you not a Druid anymore."
Kara's eyes widened and her arms fell to her sides again. Sarrum's lips pulled up into a smile.
"Yes, that's what you want, isn't it? You say you aren't one of them because they're weak and you're not," he said, his low voice slow and measured. It was almost soothing, in a strange way. "Well, my men are the strongest and most skilled fighters in all the realms, child. And you could be one of them. All you have to do is exactly what I tell you to do."
"And why should I listen to you?" Kara said, though the protest was halfhearted. She wanted to be strong, and he could make her that. He had already taken her in, had given her food and shelter and medicine. He hated magic too, had said as much when he had decided not to kill her for what she was. They wanted all of the same things.
Sarrum just repeated, "Hold out your arm."
Kara did, knowing without having to ask that it was her Druid tattoo that he was interested in. She didn't pull away when he grasped hold of her wrist and pulled her toward the fireplace, nor when he pulled the red-hot iron from the fire. She screamed when he pressed the metal against her forearm, burning the damning mark off of her skin, but she didn't pull away then either.
Annis arrived next, clad in bronze-decorated leather, draped in tartan, and cutting a stately figure upon a warhorse with gleaming armour plates of its own. The orange of her hair glinted in the sunlight but her eyes were steely as always when she met him on the stairs, offering her hand. He clasped it like he would a man's, knowing she would accept no kiss on the knuckles like a mere lady.
"Queen Annis," Arthur said. "I am glad to see you again. It's been too long."
Annis didn't bother with the pleasantries. "You've got quite the job ahead of you, young Pendragon, if you intend to turn us all to your cause."
"You're certainly not wrong about that," Arthur conceded.
"You have taken quite a risk in inviting Odin here," Annis said bluntly. "He did orchestrate your father's death, after all."
Arthur ducked his head a moment, still feeling the sting of that particular blow, but he raised it again resolutely. "That may be true, but there is blame on both sides of that feud."
"And Alined?" Annis continued, never taking her eyes from Arthur's face. "He's a sniveling coward of a warmonger as surely as Sarrum is a ruthless murderer. It's quite a group you're welcoming into your kingdom today."
"I realize that, Annis," Arthur said, standing taller against the scrutiny in her gaze. "They will not be easy to convince of my trustworthiness or my good intentions. But I will admit, I had hoped that I might find an ally in you."
Her eyes narrowed as she took her time examining him. He let her, hiding nothing in his face.
"Do you swear to me upon my late husband's grave that you had no knowledge of Merlin Ambrosius' machinations while he resided in your kingdom?" she said.
"I swear on Caerleon's grave," Arthur said readily, "that I knew nothing of Merlin's magic, nor his birthright in Carthis, until four months ago when he disclosed them to me."
Annis didn't answer for a long moment, judging his sincerity. And finally she said, "Then an ally you have."
Sarrum gave Kara a knife first, a small one with an unadorned hilt that was still sharp enough to split hairs. Then he sent her out onto a big field of packed dirt with targets on the other side, painted rawhide stretched over bales of straw all lined up in rows at different distances. He left her there with a man named Rolf who was thin but obviously still strong because he could bury a battle axe in a target 100 meters away.
He showed her how to hold the dagger properly, how to sight the target, how to throw it without hurting the muscles she wasn't used to using. He taught her to breathe in and out before she aimed, and to hold her breath while she threw so the movement of her chest didn't make her hand unsteady.
The target was very close to start with and she tired easily, still weak and shaky from her flight through the forest and her sickness after it. Her left arm was bound in bandages and the branded skin ached and throbbed with every beat of her heart, but she embraced the pain; it only meant that she wasn't beholden to the elder's teachings anymore. She was no Druid and there was nothing holding her back.
The first time she buried the little dagger to the hilt in the center of target, she whooped for joy. Then she ran another ten meters back and threw it again, and again, and again.
King Alined arrived with his cringing jester in tow. He bowed to Arthur slightly—an ingratiating gesture that did nothing to raise Arthur's opinion of him—and thanked him heartily for his invitation to this meeting of esteemed individuals.
"We have matters to discuss of which I am sure you would appreciate knowing more," Arthur said. "You have questions, as do the others, and it seemed more efficient to answer them all at once."
"Of course, my Lord, of course," Alined said immediately. "Most wise of you."
Trickler came tripping up the stairs toward them, nearly running into his master's back. Alined turned to glower at him before simpering at Arthur once more.
"I apologize for my jester's rudeness, sire," he said. "I assure you that he will be—"
"Your magician's rudeness, you mean," Arthur interrupted.
Alined gaped at him, as did Trickler, though Trickler's expression was tinged with more fear than anything else.
"Don't worry," Arthur said. "The abilities Trickler possesses are well within the laws of Camelot now. He has nothing to fear anymore."
Trickler sagged in obvious relief.
"Unless," Arthur said, and both the visitors tensed again. "Unless, of course, he engages in the sort of spell-casting that he did upon his last visit here."
Alined paled. "I'm sure that I don't know what you mean, your Majesty," he said, not entirely convincingly.
"I'm sure you don't," Arthur said, unimpressed. "This summit is to promote and encourage peace," he told them sternly. "If either of you are suspected of attempting to sabotage that purpose, by whatever means, I will have you removed from this summit with due haste. Is that clear?"
They both nodded fervently, Trickler bowing almost low enough for his irritatingly jingly hat to sweep the floor.
Arthur smiled broadly, clapping his hands together. "Wonderful! Now that that's out of the way, you are welcome to retire to the guest chambers to prepare for tonight's banquet."
He sent them on their way with a servant to guide them and Annis appeared at his side.
"A bootlicker if ever I've seen one," she said.
"And a slippery one, at that," Arthur agreed. "But hopefully, if he knows that I have other powerful people on my side, he will see that it is, in fact, in his best interests to be on my side as well. Especially now that he knows for certain that I know that he's a snake in the grass."
"Anything and everything that goes wrong will be blamed on him," Annis said. "He'll keep his nose clean for the time being, if only to stay above suspicion.
"I'm counting on it."
"If only the others were so easily manipulated."
"Would that it were that simple," Arthur said with a shake of his head.
Rolf slammed his fist into Kara's face and she went sprawling into the dirt of the training field. She rolled to her feet and spat out a mouthful of blood. Her hands, curled into fists, came up automatically to protect her core, knowing well what the consequences would be if she left herself exposed. She blocked Rolf's next strike and dodged another, ducking behind him to deliver a kick to the back of his right knee. He went down, but lashed out with his right arm, catching her in the shoulder and knocking her off balance.
Kara stumbled, quickly moving backwards to keep out of range while she regained her footing. Rolf stood to face her again, grinning.
"Good," he said. "Stay light on your feet, child."
"I'm not a child," she said indignantly. "I'm fourteen!"
"Bah!" Rolf scoffed. "You're nothing but a mere babe!"
Kara launched herself at him, aiming a punch at his windpipe, but a new hand whipped out to grab her. She found herself thrown around until her face was pressed to the ground, her arm twisted up sharply behind her back until her shoulder screamed with pain and a knee digging into her back.
"Never let your emotions rule your head," came the fierce, gravelly voice of Sarrum. "Anger blinds you to your surroundings."
"I thought anger was fuel," Kara argued, struggling against his hold to no avail. The pain in her shoulder spiked but she bit her tongue and remained silent.
"You can let it drive you," he said. "But you must never let it control you."
He released her. Kara climbed to her feet, rubbing at her throbbing shoulder and knowing there would be a handprint of bruises around her wrist soon to match the marks all over the rest of her. Hand-to-hand combat was messy work and she never left the field unscathed.
"Yes, Sarrum," she said obediently, bowing her head. "Stay alert and don't let anger blind me."
A glint caught her attention, just a quick motion in her peripheral vision, and Kara immediately dropped to the ground. The knife flew right over her head, through the spot her heart would have been if she hadn't moved. Sarrum laughed and clapped his hands together, looking satisfied.
"Good, good!" he said. "Much better than the last time!"
Kara unconsciously reached for the spot where the last dagger had found its home in her side, now only a thick pink scar. It had taken her weeks to recover from it, but she knew now to trust her instincts when they told her to duck.
"Come now, girl," Sarrum said, beckoning her forward. "Let me see how your swordplay is coming along. If you can best Tyrien, then I may have a job for you."
"A job?" Kara asked, hopeful. He had made mention of jobs before but he had always been vague, dropping tantalizing hints without giving her a chance to follow through. "What sort of job?"
"The sort that you are uniquely suited for," Sarrum said, clapping a hand on her thin—and injured—shoulder. She held in the noise of pain that wanted to escape her throat; pain was a weakness that needed to be ignored. "I will tell you more if you win this fight."
All of the knights were on high alert when Odin's party rode into the courtyard, their hands rested not-so-casually on the hilts of their swords. Arthur shot Gwaine a quelling look but Gwaine only looked steadily back, making no promises as to his behavior if Odin so much as misspoke in Arthur's direction. Arthur appreciated the loyalty, but a show of open hostility was not the way to start this meeting.
"King Odin," he called by way of greeting as Odin dismounted his horse. The man's eyes were shifting warily, as if expecting an attack from every angle, but he reached the steps unmolested.
"Pendragon," he grunted back.
"Thank you for attending," Arthur said. "Your participation in these talks is much appreciated."
"There are strange and treacherous things in this kingdom, Pendragon," Odin said harshly. "Though I should know better than to expect anything else by now."
Arthur clenched his jaw hard, feeling his teeth grind together in a most uncomfortable manner.
"All your concerns will be addressed in due time," he said as diplomatically as possible. "I assure you, there is no treachery."
Odin barked out a laugh. "No treachery, he says!"
"I have never been anything but forthright in my dealings with you, Odin," Arthur said stiffly. "And I will continue to be so. Whether you choose to believe me is up to you. I will have someone show you to your rooms."
Arthur waved a timid-looking servant girl over and Odin spat at his feet before following her into the castle. Arthur closed his eyes and took several deep, calming breaths, consciously unclenching his hands where they had balled into fists at his sides.
"Watch your temper around that one, young king," Annis' voice came from over his shoulder.
"Easier said than done," Arthur admitted. "He accuses me of treachery when he is the one who has sent at least six assassins after me over the years, one of which succeeded in killing my father."
"And still you seek peace with him," Annis said. "Not many would have the strength to forgive such a man."
"I don't know about forgiveness, but I seek peace with everyone." Arthur shook his head, staring out over the courtyard, over the servants doing their chores and the townspeople running their errands. All of them had suffered so much, seen so much war in the past years. They didn't deserve it. "I want nothing more than an end to all the bloodshed."
"An admirable goal, but is it a feasible one?"
"I don't know," he said. "But I'll never know if I don't try."
Annis put a hand on his shoulder and said nothing.
Kara heard the pounding of the horses' hooves long before any of the Druids around her did. They were relaxed, supposedly safe in their little hideaway at the very edge of the forest on the western border of Amata. This is where all the magic users fled to, the Druids taking them in for a few days at a time and then ferrying them out of the kingdom to safer territory. The system had worked for years, no one ever able to actually find the camp with all the protective enchantments that surrounded it.
No one but Kara. She had stumbled through the woods, bruised and bloodied and crying out for help, and a Druid had come to her call. She had magic and she had shown him that. She had said that she had been caught, had been attacked, and had barely escaped being dragged before the king for execution. The man had given her his cloak and welcomed her into his camp with open arms.
It was depressingly easily for her to sneak out the next night and signal the warriors that Sarrum had sent along behind her, waiting in the woods. And now, at first light, they were coming.
Kara's magic thrummed under her skin as it always did when hoof beats resounded around her, but she pushed it down and drew the dagger from her boot instead. As soon as the first leather-clad man came screaming into the camp, she buried it in the back of the Druid who had come to fetch her from the woods. His expression of shock and horror put a satisfied smile on her face.
She snatched a crossbow off of a passing warrior's horse and fitted a bolt to it, standing back to watch the chaos. Anytime she saw a sorcerer with his hands in the air, begging for mercy instead of fighting back the way she knew that he could, she put a bolt between his eyes.
When the last of them had put down and all was quiet and still, a heavy hand came down on Kara's shoulder. She turned to see Sarrum himself, surveying the destroyed camp.
"You did well, Kara," he said and Kara wondered if there was warmth in his voice or if she was imagining it. "Thanks to you, we are one step closer to eliminating the plague of magic in this realm."
She smiled.
Arthur hastily made sure his crown was on straight, stretching his tired neck as he did, and stood as tall as he could while the delegation from Amata filed into the courtyard. They were the last to arrive and Arthur had been standing on these steps for hours on end, but this meeting was perhaps the most crucial; of all the royal guests, Sarrum was arguably the most dangerous and he would likely be the hardest for Arthur to sway to his side.
"We are most grateful that you accepted our invitation," Arthur called out as Sarrum approached, still atop his horse. "We welcome you and your warriors with friendship."
"The last time I met you, you were ten years old," Sarrum said. "Uther held a tournament in your honor."
Arthur shifted on his feet, though it didn't quite sound like Sarrum was intending to be patronizing. "I fight my own tournaments now," he said.
"So I have heard," Sarrum said.
He dismounted and came to stand before Arthur, eyeing him critically. The man wasn't particularly tall—shorter than Arthur by a decent bit—but he was wide and heavily built, a solid and sturdy presence that felt very reminiscent of a stone wall.
Arthur met Sarrum's small, dark eyes and held them steadily, refusing to be intimidated by either the man's behavior or his reputation. He could feel Annis watching them from the palace doors where she had taken up residence, wishing to get a feel for the other monarchs as much as Arthur, but he did not turn to look or buckle under the weight of her stare against his back.
After what seemed to be a very long time, when Arthur was starting to feel the burning need to blink, Sarrum's face broke into a wide grin. He clapped his hands on Arthur's arms, giving him an almost-friendly shake.
"All grown up, for sure!" he laughed. "I shall enjoy putting you to the test on the training field later!"
Arthur mouthed silently for a moment, at a loss. "I look forward to it," he stammered out eventually. He exchanged a baffled glance with Annis before turning back to the man in front of him. "There are chambers prepared for you if you would like to refresh yourself before the banquet tonight."
"Of course, of course," Sarrum said genially, or as genially as he could manage in such a rough voice. He met the servant halfway up the stairs and gestured him on, disappearing inside.
"Well, that was not what I expected," Arthur said flatly as Annis descended the stairs to meet him, both of them still staring after Sarrum's retreating form.
"Certainly not," she said.
"Perhaps he'll change his tune when talk of magic comes up," Arthur said.
"Perhaps," Annis mused. She turned to face him steadily. "Watch your back, Pendragon lest a friendly hand come to bear a hidden dagger."
Kara threw the ragged cloak from around her shoulders as she entered the throne room, tossing it aside. She stopped before Sarrum's throne and knelt, bowing her head.
"Is it done?" he asked.
"Yes, sire," Kara said. "They're dead."
"All of them?"
Kara looked up, only just resisting a self-satisfied grin. "Every last one of them, my Lord. They will not trouble us again."
"Once more you my exceed expectations, my dear," Sarrum said, pushing himself to his feet and stepping down off the dais to stand on her level. "That is seven magical enclaves you have infiltrated and destroyed. More than any of my men have managed before."
"It is necessary work, sire," Kara said, standing tall. "Someone has to do it, and as you have said before, I am uniquely suited."
She resisted the urge to touch the scar on her forearm, the skin there rough and smooth in turns from the brand that had burned off her Druid mark. She told the sorcerers she hunted that she had burned it off herself to avoid being identified and captured; they always cooed over her then, praising her bravery and her stoicism, lamenting the lengths that she had had to go to in order to protect herself. Little did they know that she treasured the scar that had stripped her of her taint.
"You are doing good work, Kara," Sarrum said. "You know as well as I do that magic is a scourge upon this land."
"I know it better than anyone," she said with a shudder. "I have felt its poison."
She still did. It surged inside her sometimes, stronger than ever before. Every time she had to use it to gain someone's trust, to convince them that she was like them, the feeling grew. It made her sick to her stomach.
"You will rise above it," Sarrum said firmly. "You are strong now, Kara. To succumb to such a temptation would be shameful weakness, but you are better than that."
"I know," she said. "I will never fall to that darkness again. My aims are yours, Sarrum, and they always will be. You can rest assured of that."
