It was dark inside Arthur's tent, which served Merlin since he was using magic. Four swords hovered in the air—Merlin held his hand out and made them dance, twisting this way and that. He turned them tip-down and plunged them into the earth, one swiftly following the other as the swords in the arena had done. He lifted them out, again one by one, and again, down into the ground. Something bothered him. With one hand, he summoned one sword up and with the other he took a kerchief from the table. He turned the sword; tossed the kerchief up—and skewered it. The sword moved fast with magic behind it, and didn't miss its target. The kerchief clung just below the hilt of the sword.
Merlin realized that music had been playing. The sword fell to the ground. A harp and a soft voice. Peeking out of the tent first, he went in search of its source.
He followed his ears toward Sir Tristan's tent and found the knight sitting outside, barefoot and dressed down. Tristan's eyes were closed, so Merlin slowed, tiptoeing, not wanting to disturb him.
"Sneak up on a man like that," Tristan said, his eyes still closed, "he might mistrust your intentions."
"I'm sorry—I didn't want to interrupt. You're really good."
Tristan stopped playing and looked at Merlin. "Okay. Thanks," he said. "You're Prince Arthur's servant, aren't you? Shouldn't you be attending him?"
"He's patrolling the city tonight."
"Searching for the sorcerer who threatened King Uther," Tristan nodded, putting away his harp.
"Not the best time to be out alone in the dark," Merlin said. "Even if you're just playing music."
"Thanks for the warning. Prince Arthur won't find the sorcerer tonight, though."
"You think she's going to wait until the middle of the day when Uther is surrounded by all the best knights in the land who came to Camelot just to prove themselves? That's pretty brazen."
"The threat was a scare tactic," Tristan said impatiently. "What do you mean 'she'?"
"Maybe," Merlin said to himself, ignoring Tristan's question.
"Anyway," Tristan said, stashing his harp inside his tent. "This sorcerer's a performer—he wants people to know what he can do. And he—or she—is just getting started."
"What if it's something else?" Merlin said.
"Like what?" Tristan asked, turning toward the castle.
"I-I don't know," Merlin hesitated. A thought, fleeting, had occurred to him, but had vanished before he could fully grasp it. Tristan was right—such an ostentatious warning was a mere spectacle. Merlin glanced around at the moonlit tents once more, feeling that they were not so deserted after all.
Lancelot watched two teenagers dash between houses, trying not to be seen, but laughing too loudly to actually succeed. There was supposed to be a curfew. They were not the only ones out—Guinevere was also hurrying along in the darkness. Lancelot stepped towards her—to escort her home—but she was already there. Lancelot realized he had meandered into her neighborhood—he was only a few houses away. She kept her eyes forward as she entered her house—quickly—shutting firm her door. Lancelot remained unnoticed—invisible in the background.
A patrol was marching nearby. Lancelot stood still, listening to their footsteps until they passed out of hearing range. He was not worried about the curfew; he considered trailing after the knights. Then a shadow moved. Instinctively, Lancelot's hand went to the pommel of his sword.
Nothing.
Lancelot slowly backed up—casually—as though continuing on his way. He looped around toward the shadow, intending to ambush whoever was there. Except that no one was there. At least, not anymore—Lancelot bent down and examined a clear set of boot-prints in the damp ground.
"Breaking curfew and cowering suspiciously in the shadows—I should definitely arrest you," Arthur said as he approached Lancelot. "What are you doing?"
Still focused on the tracks, Lancelot asked, "Were you standing here just now?"
"No. Why?" Arthur stopped right behind Lancelot's crouching form.
"It was probably nothing," Lancelot said, standing.
"Lancelot, if you saw something, you need to tell me."
"I wish I could, Arthur," Lancelot sighed. "I really wish I could."
Arthur considered Lancelot for a moment. "Did you decide to put yourself on guard duty?" he asked. "Have you been patrolling?"
"I thought I might make myself useful."
"My orders are to arrest anyone breaking curfew."
"Any chance for clemency?" Lancelot asked lightly.
Arthur smiled. "All right," he said, "you want to help—you can come with me to check in with King Mark's men."
They wound their way silently through the lower town, side by side, keeping their eyes peeled for anything suspicious. Occasionally, Lancelot stopped, convinced he had heard something, but it was always just the vacated streets. They saw no one until they were in the square outside the castle, where they spotted Merlin and Sir Tristan, talking and laughing on the steps. Arthur sighed in annoyance.
"Merlin," Arthur called. Tristan and Merlin turned around.
"I'm sorry, Sire," Tristan spoke as soon as Arthur and Lancelot were close enough. "I borrowed your servant—just for an hour."
"And I'm guessing I shouldn't punish him for your impertinence?"
Tristan bowed his head.
"Where's your servant?" Arthur asked.
"Oh—I just paid a local to help me with my armor, and he had to get home before the curfew. I don't actually travel with servants—I don't see the need. I'm a big boy."
Merlin laughed at that while Arthur glowered. Tristan, too, was surprised by Merlin's reaction.
"Speaking of curfew," Arthur said, "what time is it?"
"I don't know," Merlin answered. "Nobody's invented a tiny sundial yet that you can wear and constantly check."
"Oh, he is insolent—you can have him back," Tristan said. "And that sundial wouldn't work." This time, it was Lancelot who laughed—trying not to—he turned his head away to hide it.
"Arthur," Lancelot said soberly, pulling at Arthur's arm. Arthur followed Lancelot's gaze.
At the edge of the square a nine-foot-tall, broad-shouldered knight emerged from the shadows. Its armor was pure black, and it approached with steady steps. Arthur, Lancelot and Tristan drew their swords—almost in unison. The black knight raised its sword in turn.
"Merlin, get out of here," Arthur said, taking a step towards the knight. Tristan and Lancelot each moved to one side of Arthur—the three of them formed a tiny arc, flanking the black knight.
And from the shadows surrounding the square, another sword glinted in the moonlight—unseen by Arthur nor Tristan nor Lancelot as they faced off against the black knight.
"You are not joining them?" Malduc walked up from behind Sir Tarquin.
Tarquin clenched his jaw and squeezed his sword—and then he sheathed it. "It's not my problem," he said.
"And interfering would also be against your King's orders," Malduc said. He watched with pride as the black knight dodged an attack from both Arthur and Tristan.
"Is that your plan?" Tarquin indicated the knight. "Something's missing—like a certain king."
"Patience. Anyway, don't you want to see that commoner humiliated?"
"What?" Tarquin snapped at Malduc. In the square, Lancelot's voice cried, Arthur, look out! while Tristan examined a dark liquid on his sword.
"A peace offering," Malduc said.
Tarquin grabbed Malduc's throat, jerking him forward. "That fleabag will get what's coming to him when I smash his face in." Tarquin's hot breath smothered Malduc. Shoving Malduc off, Tarquin returned his attention to the fight in the square. The Prince's servant was nowhere to be seen, but Arthur himself was watching Lancelot and Tristan alternate against the black knight.
Is that thing actually bleeding? Arthur's voice carried over to Malduc and Tarquin. Indeed, the black knight's sword was drenched in a dark liquid, though none of its three opponents showed signs of the slightest scratch. The knight's shield also teemed with blood, and multiple spots on its armor glistened where a sword had hit. A smell of sulfur wafted on the air.
Tarquin laughed aloud. "It bleeds from its armor? Its armor? Its most vulnerable spot is its armor and weapon? Ha!"
"Yes," Malduc seethed, "I note this flaw." He watched, irate, as Arthur instructed Lancelot and Tristan to move away. Arthur squared himself in front of the black knight and threw his sword hard—it penetrated deep into the knight's chest. Already too weak from its wounds, the knight collapsed.
By this time, a dozen or so faces were peeking out of windows and one of Camelot's patrols, led by Sir Taran, had arrived, swords drawn and shields ready. From one high window, Queen Isolde and her maidservant Brangene stared. Several townspeople had even braved the curfew to come gawk. A soft cheer went up as Arthur retrieved his sword, though Arthur hardly noticed it. He and Tristan and Lancelot were bent over examining the fallen knight.
It was collapsing in on itself, melting. Every inch of its hard, chiseled form was reverting to mud—at first it retained its knight-shape, but then became merely an oblong, pungent-smelling pile of sopping dirt. Arthur poked it, then ordered Sir Taran to find Gaius.
And in the dark alley, Tarquin and Malduc separated. Each walked off, pretending to be just one more onlooker among the growing many. Merlin, who had been creeping closer and closer during the fight, saw their two figures quit the square. He squinted and jogged even closer, trying to identify them, but they had already disappeared, leaving Merlin with nothing but two shadows.
The candles had burnt down to mere nubs smoking in the bright, early morning light. A bird chirped and the door creaked—Merlin turned to see Morgana enter Gaius's chambers. She wore a pristine white dress and had her hair knotted tightly behind the nape of her neck, but her stately demeanor was belied by the bags under her red eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I was looking for Gaius." Unconsciously she rubbed her bare wrist.
"Are you hurt?" Merlin motioned to her wrist with the book in his hand. Books were strewn everywhere—results of a late night's research.
"What? No—I-I was hoping to get some more sleeping draught."
"You're using a sleeping draught?"
"Yes, Merlin. Now where's Gaius?"
"He went to the library. We're trying to figure out where the Black Knight came from." Merlin resumed returning books to the shelf. "Do you have any ideas?" he said casually. "It must have taken a powerful witch to make it—I mean, how do you make something like that?"
Morgana scoffed. "From what I hear, its armor was like fragile skin—the slightest prick and it bled like a pig. The only witches I know of are too smart to make such a pathetic thing. I know that if I actually knew how to use magic, I wouldn't bother with it."
Merlin considered this.
"But then," he said, "it's not just experienced witches who want Uther dead."
"No," Morgana sighed impatiently. "A lot of rival kings want him dead, too—that's the nature of kingship," she thumbed through one of the books still on the table. "Maybe it's really Mark someone's trying to kill."
"Or maybe an old enemy of Uther's—like one who got away—Alvarr's a sorcerer—we haven't heard from him lately, have we?"
"No. We haven't," Morgana slammed the book shut.
"So you think it's a witch, then?" Merlin reached for the book.
"What I think?" Morgana grabbed the book, pressing it against the table and forcing Merlin to meet her eye. "What I think is that it's strange how you used Alvarr's name, but can't say 'Morgause'. What I think is that Uther's Purge was not as successful as he claims, and now everyone who escaped wants revenge. I think that we're dealing with an impotent sorcerer who can't perform a spell right and plays games to compensate. I think you're too stupid to find an eagle in an aerie and the only reason no one's killed you yet is because you constantly cower behind men like Arthur. What I think, Merlin? I think that Morgause has nothing to do with what's going on and I know for a fact I don't. Now tell Gaius I expect a sleeping draught delivered to my chamber before I retire tonight. And not by you."
Gaius braced himself before the court.
Uther sat upon his throne, his fingers a pyramid in front of his face. In a slightly smaller chair on his left sat Morgana, forward and proper and pristine—a façade of perfection. Arthur stood, arms crossed, beside Morgana. On Uther's other side King Mark and Queen Isolde regarded the scene with royal dignity—Isolde was an immaculate vision, a presence that drew all eyes to her; and she stood with her right hand draped across Mark's left, while Mark enjoyed the attention diverted from Uther. Behind Isolde waited her maid, Brangene, while Merlin and Guinevere were stashed among the knights and nobility who lined the hall.
"I consulted with Geoffrey," Gaius began, glancing at Geoffrey, who stood off to the side with a book in hand, ready to verify all Gaius was about to say. "And the only incident of a knight such as last night's was in the time of Rhydderch Hael."
"That was hundreds of years ago," Arthur said.
"Yes," Gaius said.
"Rhydderch Hael was a known sorcerer," Uther said.
"And it seems he wanted to create an impenetrable defense," Gaius said.
"You mean an unstoppable army," Mark interjected.
"Rhydderch Hael was renowned for his kindness," Arthur said. "He wasn't interested in conquest."
"Rhydderch the Generous," Gaius confirmed. "But it didn't matter, as there were problems with the knights. As we saw."
"This is a fascinating history lesson—how does it help us?" Uther said.
"Unlike the druids, Rhydderch wrote things down. If one of his books survived, it could be the source of the spell that created the knight."
"Okay," Arthur said, "so who sent it?"
"I don't know," Gaius said. "Rhydderch died childless, his kingdom was divided—a book could have been picked up by anybody."
"So you don't actually know anything useful." Uther buried his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. He turned to Arthur and sighed. "Search the city—find this book."
Camelot was chaotic. Homes were torn apart as knights searched for a magic book and the sorcerer who had summoned the Black Knight. No room was safe, no matter who the guest—every corner of the city was prodded.
And Prince Arthur was overseeing it all.
"If you were a sorcerer trying to kill my father, where would you hide?" Arthur asked Lancelot as they watched knights enter a home in the lower town.
"I really don't know."
The knights exited the house, Sir Taran shaking his head at Arthur. Arthur indicated the next house, ignoring the eyes staring at him.
"C'mon, Lancelot, give me something."
Lancelot thought for a moment. "Mark said no, didn't he?"
"Mark's an idiot."
Lancelot kicked the ground. "It's all right—thank you for putting in a good word for me."
Once again, the knights of Camelot exited the house of one of Camelot's people without finding a trace of magic. They moved on. Arthur sighed with resignation, watching his men continue their search, peasants picking up the mess afterward. Lancelot also surveyed the disarray. Arthur finally called his men to halt when they came to Guinevere's house—he knocked on the door himself.
"What do you want?" Gwen peered out.
"Less insolence from people would nice," Arthur said. "What are you doing home?"
"Morgana wanted to be alone; I had sewing to do. Arthur . . ."
"I'm sorry, Gwen."
"You know I don't have any magic books."
"I know a lot of people don't have magic books. But Camelot is being threatened—the King—my father—is being threatened—I can't play favorites. Please."
Gwen sighed. "Could you at least tell them not to break anything?" she asked as she stepped outside. She tugged a shawl close around her shoulders and walked a few paces away, but she didn't really have anywhere to go. She saw Lancelot trying to blend in among the crowd of peasants. She headed towards him but when he pretended not to see her, she changed her mind and turned around— to see three of Camelot's knights filing slowly into her small house.
Lancelot approached Guinevere silently—he reached a tentative hand toward her shoulder.
"My back is turned—shouldn't you be disappearing?" Gwen said, watching three more knights enter her home.
Lancelot recoiled. He tried to form the words I'm sorry, but they wouldn't come. "Arthur has to do this, Gwen," he said, standing behind her. "He doesn't want to."
Outside her house, Arthur hesitated, briefly meeting Gwen's eyes before slipping inside.
"I know," she said.
"This isn't Morgause," Gaius said firmly.
"It has to be." Merlin paced the length of their chambers while Gaius perused his bookshelves, hoping to find something he'd missed.
"Merlin, I know how dangerous Morgause is, but it doesn't fit."
"It fits perfectly. This is exactly what Morgause does—goes after Uther in the most roundabout way possible."
"Sending a useless knight after Arthur? Yes, I'd say that has little likelihood of killing Uther." Gaius rubbed his eyes. "Merlin, consider how powerful Morgause is—wouldn't she have more skill—and cunning—than this?"
"She likes to show off—I mean, c'mon—she forced her way into the city and killed every guard in her path before challenging Arthur to the death. That display of flying swords—"
"Didn't kill anyone. But you're right, Merlin, Morgause did force her way into Camelot—in person—for all to see. And the second time, she rode in at the head—"
"—of magical knights?"
"For all to see. Morgause doesn't hide."
"Would we know if she did?"
"Merlin, just—as a thought exercise—consider the possibility that more than one person in this world wants Uther dead. I don't believe you'd mourn his passing." Gaius shoved a book back onto the shelf and pulled out another one.
"What if it's two people?" Merlin's tone softened and he stopped pacing to watch Gaius.
"Why do you say that?"
"I saw two people—I don't know who—I didn't get a good look—watching Arthur fighting the Black Knight. They ran off once it was destroyed."
Gaius sighed. "But you think it was Morgana and Morgause."
"Like I said, I didn't get a good look. Gaius, I don't know, but . . . Morgana's destiny . . ."
Gaius squeezed his eyes shut. "I know, Merlin. I know. But everything about this situation tells me we're dealing with someone new. Please just keep your eyes open."
Gwen was brushing Morgana's hair when a knock sounded at the door. Morgana, picking through her jewelry, seemed not to hear it—she selected a necklace and held it up to her neck, examining herself in the mirror before her. Gwen opened the door.
"May I intrude?" Isolde asked.
Morgana turned around. "Gwen, leave us for a moment, please."
Gwen curtsied to Queen Isolde and shut the door behind her.
"I wanted to give you this," Isolde held out a small vial. "I didn't think I'd have a chance after the banquet. It will help you sleep."
"How did you know I was having trouble sleeping?"
"My lady hears things."
"Your lady? Oh—you mean your maid."
"Maidservant, Lady-in-Waiting—Brangene does everything. I don't normally indulge in gossip, but it wasn't out of my way to make it—and it really will help."
"You made it?" Morgana stared at Isolde in disbelief; Isolde stared back, suppressing her pride.
"You really shouldn't have tr—" Morgana started.
"It was no trouble," Isolde said succinctly.
"If Arthur had caught you during his rampage, it might've looked suspicious. Even if you are a queen."
"Prince Arthur did catch me making it. I told him it was for myself. He very politely offered the services of your court physician."
"Phfff—you're safer trusting yourself," Morgana mumbled.
Isolde looked at her curiously, and Morgana changed the subject.
"Did Arthur behave? It's not often he gets to rummage through a lady's wardrobe."
"And he didn't today—I think he was intimidated by it. No—your Prince was very considerate and respectful under the circumstances."
"I hear Mark didn't see it that way."
"King Mark is offended by the search, by the suggestion that he or his men would pose a threat to King Uther. To be honest, I was surprised by Prince Arthur's temerity. It's rude to treat guests with suspicion."
"There's a threat to his father's life—Arthur's not going to be hindered by niceties. Besides, it's only fair after he tore apart the homes of his own people."
"I suppose," Isolde said, and as she did, the door of Morgana's chambers cracked open.
"Morgana?" Arthur said plaintively.
"Arthur," Morgana hurried to the door, trying to shut it. "I'm barely dressed."
Isolde raised her eyebrow—Morgana's hair was still loose about her shoulders and she was without jewelry, but she was hardly naked.
"Do you want to go to the banquet tonight?" Arthur entered the room despite Morgana's protest. He seemed not to notice Isolde. "Do you even want to be here?"
Arthur started pacing, the mantle of his dress-clothes twisting in the air behind him.
"Of course—what kind of question is that?" Morgana turned her back to him. She picked up a ring and put it on a finger, then discarded it—she dug through her jewelry as if there were a particular piece she was desperate to find.
"Do you think it matters?" Arthur continued.
"Think what matters?" Isolde chimed in, but Arthur pretended Morgana had asked the question.
"The tournament—what's the point?" Arthur's tone grew in urgency.
"To win the adulation of other men, last time I checked," Morgana glanced at Arthur's reflection in her mirror.
"What if I didn't win," Arthur said, his voice falling to a whisper. "What if I'm not good enough?"
"What?" Morgana turned around to face him.
"What do you think my father would do if I threw the fight tomorrow?" Arthur said, staring at Morgana. "Just this once, if somebody else won, what do you think he'd do? Would he disown me? Declare me unfit to rule after him—all because of one tournament? Is that what I'm doing—what this is—reminding him year after year that I can succeed—that I can succeed him—that I'm strong enough to take the crown? I must be, right? I keep winning all these sword fights. I'm the toughest one!—I can be king, right? But what if I lost one—by choice—just one tournament—what would it mean?"
"Arthur, what's gotten into you?" Morgana asked.
"All these years," Arthur grew more animated, "it's just one contest after the next—one test after the next—and I can't ever prove myself. But I have to—I have to keep on fighting—what else is there?—organize the tournament—hah!—I've never had to do that. Is that what a king does, after all the fighting, just throws banquets? I mean somebody has to organize them. Is that why some kings fight constant wars," Arthur turned on Isolde, "conquering other little lands, just so he doesn't have to turn into a woman throwing parties? There has to be more. There's more," Arthur fell to his knees in front of Morgana, burying his head in her skirts. "There's so much more—too much—more than this—that I don't know—I just don't—" he peered up at Morgana, his eyes wet and desperate.
"Arthur," Morgana tried to pry him off, "it's just a tournament. You win these every year."
"Just. A. Tournament," Arthur whispered, the words heavy in his mouth. Morgana looked at Isolde awkwardly as she tried to get Arthur to stand up, but he continued to cling to her. Someone knocked on the door.
"Enter!" Morgana said.
Merlin stepped inside. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said.
"But you've misplaced Arthur," Morgana said, unpeeling Arthur's hands, finger by finger.
"No . . . no," Arthur simpered as Merlin tried to lift him up to standing.
"I don't know what's gotten into him," Merlin said.
"No . . . no . . . I can't," Arthur slumped his weight into Merlin's arms; Merlin pushed him forward; Arthur fell back further, pushing away from the door. "Please. . . . Morgana . . ."
"Don't give me that look, Merlin," Morgana said.
"I didn't give you a look—I'm worried about him and I don't know what to do."
"Well don't let Uther find out, for one," Morgana said.
"You think?" He turned desperate eyes to Arthur. "He's never like this."
"Never?" Isolde asked, putting her hand to Arthur's forehead. "He's sweating, but not feverish. Prince Arthur, look at me," Isolde cupped his face in her hands as she examined his eyes.
"Get him to his chambers and send for Gaius," Morgana said. "I'll tell Uther . . . something."
The corridor to the great hall was bright with torches and lined with the banners of every knight still competing in the tournament. Those who had lost had had their banners removed with no due ceremony. King Mark and Queen Isolde glided down the corridor flanked on four sides by Mark's knights. Far behind them—an honorable, proper distance behind—strode Uther, and as he passed, the guards stationed along the wall rose up subtly—an observer might think that Uther made men grow tall.
"I hope you're not feasting without me," Morgana scurried to Uther's side, Gwen rushing behind her.
"You're late," Uther said. "And where is Arthur?"
"Arthur's maintaining a solitary vigil—through the night. For me," she smiled up at Uther.
"Why would you ask him to do that?"
"Because I want him to. You're not worried he'll be too tired to win tomorrow?"
"Arthur will win this tournament just fine. He doesn't disappoint me."
Mark and Isolde had paused at the closed doors leading into the banquet hall. As Uther and Morgana caught up, knights on either side opened the doors, timing it perfectly so that Uther did not have to stop, or even slow his pace—the two kings entered the hall side by side—by design.
The half-full hall fell silent, and the handful of knights that were in attendance rose from their chairs—at least, most of them did—and they all kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact. Servants along the edges glanced warily at each other.
"What is going on?" Uther said to the assembly.
"Your fabulous tournament," Sir Tristan shouted from the table where he sat staring into his wine. He was wearing just his shirt and trousers.
"Maybe they all feel ill," Morgana offered, gripping Uther's arm—a gesture meant to soothe—and seeking confirmation from Gaius who had just entered behind them.
But Gaius merely stared in astonishment. "What's the matter with everyone?" he said.
"The matter?" Tristan pushed back his chair and glared at the royal party. The knight next to him recoiled in fear.
"A grand fight, of course—it's your matter," Tristan stepped towards them, bare feet slapping the floor. "Your beloved fight—that's all that matters to you. Isn't it. What other worth could a man have but fighting? What else could there be?" Tristan stood before Uther. "The only man worth being called a man is a man who can kill another man, is that not right, Sire?"
"Don't you dare call me a coward!" Sir Lamorack shrieked as he ran at Tristan. Without looking behind him Tristan dodged Lamorack and laughed; Lamorack tackled Uther instead, and when the guards pulled him off the King, Lamorack lunged at one of them.
"I am not a coward," Lamorack cried as he punched the knight. "I am not a coward!" Lamorack turned toward another knight who yelled out no—you can't have it! and threw himself back at Lamorack. And the whole table erupted. Some knights fought and others cowered. The guards of Camelot filed into the hall en masse, which only exacerbated the situation.
"This is the sorcerer's doing," Uther fumed.
Malduc scratched beneath Tarquin's armor—it was ill-fitting and unwashed, stained from Tarquin's sweat. But Malduc didn't need the armor to fit; he just needed the disguise. Tarquin would probably be executed, but that was not Malduc's concern—his job would be done, that was what mattered.
The King's chambers were unguarded, which was strange in these troubling times and because Mark was rumored to be paranoid. But Mark's men were probably helping Uther tear Camelot apart—searching for the sorcerer—searching for him. Malduc smiled as he entered King Mark's empty chambers.
They were guest chambers, but lavishly furnished—fit for a king, as was to be expected. A lush bed was draped with deep blue blankets and curtains—no accident, since that was Mark's chosen color. Near the bed an ornate wooden stand held a bowl and a ewer of water. Malduc gripped the ewer—it was cold against the palms of his hands—the water was fresh, which meant that some servant had recently been in the room and was likely nearby. Malduc exhaled with satisfaction.
Malduc drew a small vial from around his neck and pulled the stopper out. He carefully counted five drops as they fell into the ewer. As he tucked the vial back under his clothes he closed his eyes, listening for footsteps—but the only sound he heard was the distant stomping of knights in the streets. So when he exited, he slammed Mark's door behind him. The door of the adjacent chambers—those of beautiful Queen Isolde—cracked open—Isolde's maid, presumably.
Malduc rushed down the hallway, smiling, and ran out of the castle.
Lancelot flicked grapes around on his plate. Arthur's plate, really, but Merlin had insisted Lancelot eat—it wasn't like Arthur would notice. Merlin also thought that Arthur wouldn't actually mind if he did notice. Still, Lancelot felt in dereliction of duty by dining while he was supposed to be protecting Arthur. You can do both, Merlin had dismissed the concern. And anyway, Arthur mostly needed protection from himself—whatever was wrong, Arthur had become . . . unpredictable.
Lancelot had only finished half the meal and now sat in the darkness of Arthur's chambers, watching Arthur sleep. A heavy, stone-solid sleep—Arthur hadn't moved since Lancelot got there.
The door creaked slowly open; Lancelot jumped up and drew his sword. Gwen tiptoed through and gasped, nearly dropping the jug in her hands.
"Lancelot! You scared me."
"Likewise."
They each smiled in relief—almost laughed—as the tension dissipated. Gwen leaned against the door to shut it.
"I-I didn't want to disturb him," she said. "I brought water." She set the jug down on the table.
They stared at each other.
"How is he?" Gwen finally asked.
"Good," Lancelot said. "I think—Gaius gave him something and he's sleeping—peacefully, I hope." He took a few steps toward Arthur's bed, as though Arthur might have disappeared or woken or otherwise done something to prove Lancelot a liar. But Arthur was still there, curled beneath his blankets.
"He'll be glad to know you're here—we all are," Gwen placed a hand gently on Lancelot's shoulder. Lancelot closed his eyes and inhaled.
"Why did you come?" Lancelot said, keeping his eyes closed.
"I'm worried. Why are you here? Surely not because you think Arthur will reward you handsomely." The tone of Gwen's voice made Lancelot turn to face her.
"Merlin asked me to watch over Arthur."
"So you'll stay if Merlin asks you to," Gwen said sharply, but then softened. "Merlin didn't ask—you offered. You want to be here."
"I can't have what I want."
"What about what other people want? Does that matter, or do you not even care? You certainly don't bother to ask." Gwen spun around and began cleaning up Lancelot's dinner.
"Gwen . . ."
"You didn't even say goodbye," she whispered.
"I thought it was better that way. If I spoke to you . . ." Lancelot turned around and stared at Arthur.
"Then what?" Gwen said over her shoulder.
"I want to do good in this world, to stand for what's right. I don't want to cause good people pain."
Gwen moved next to Lancelot, and for a moment she, too, watched Arthur. "Then stay," she looked up at Lancelot's face, her fingers brushing against his.
"You never answered my question," Lancelot said, still looking at Arthur. "Why did you come—you didn't know anyone else was here."
"I told you. I'm worried. No one knows what's going on."
"You came to watch over him."
"Lancelot . . ."
"You should be here."
"Don't go," she grabbed his arm. "Please."
Lancelot brought his fingers to her cheek. "It's funny," he said, "Camelot always seems brighter than every other place I've ever been, even when it's under attack."
Gwen smiled—a small, sad smile—and leaned her face into Lancelot's hand.
"This sorcerer will avoid knights," Lancelot said. "One advantage to being a peasant—he won't notice me. I can do more out there." Lancelot lifted her hand to his lips. "Take care of him," he said.
And left.
Outside, the humid night air promised rain, though the sky was clear and the ground dry. Camelot was deserted except for the distant tumping of boots as patrols toured the city. Lancelot gripped the pommel of his sword as he walked, wondering where a sorcerer might hide—with so many people in Camelot for the tournament, it would be easy to blend in.
"Louse!"
Lancelot pivoted, drawing his sword—Sir Tarquin rushed forward—he was closer than Lancelot anticipated. Tarquin pointed the tip of his sword at Lancelot.
"You think you're good enough to lick my shoes? You're not good enough to lick my horse's shoes!"
"Right," Lancelot said, securing his grip on his sword.
"How is it that vermin like you keep showing up?—you're animals compared to the lords and ladies of a proper court. A real court. Where everybody knows his place." Tarquin circled Lancelot, and Lancelot rotated to keep Tarquin in front of him. "You're not taught," Tarquin pointed his sword again. "That's the problem—and now you think you can steal from nobility," Tarquin lunged at Lancelot, a burst of shaking rage—Lancelot dodged it, but Tarquin kept coming at him. "You. Do. Not. Belong!" Tarquin's technique was lost; no pretense of skill—only the wild, unpredictable thrusts of a berserker. "You have no right to knighthood," Tarquin continued. "You can't fight!—just like that rat Malduc can't win a king's favor—his tricks will only ever make him the court jester—and that's more than he deserves. You will learn—all of you will learn to bow down before your betters—you are nothing compared to us!"
Lancelot was still defending himself when a patrol rounded the corner. There were a dozen onlookers as well, concealed in the shadows—braving the curfew to see the commotion.
Malduc was one of them.
Feeling secure in a narrow alleyway, he was removing Tarquin's armor as he watched the patrol separate Lancelot and Tarquin. Lancelot yielded gladly, but Tarquin refused to give up—he threatened to turn the scene into a one-man riot. Self-satisfied, Malduc lifted a cloak from behind a barrel, and walked away, the hood pulled low over his face.
And as he rounded one corner out of the ally, Brangene rounded the corner behind him into the alley. She wore a dark-grey cloak over her white dress and wielded a dagger in her right hand. She scanned the alley. Tarquin's armor was discarded on the ground—no attempt to hide it. Brangene slipped her dagger into her boot, and bent down to examine the armor. Recognizing the crest, she glanced at the corner where Malduc had disappeared; she looked to the mob of knights and recognized Tarquin—trying desperately to get at a peasant, but being restrained by four knights. One of them—a Sir Cadoc, one of Uther's finest—was talking to Tarquin, trying to dissuade him. But Tarquin kept struggling. Cadoc finally told the peasant to leave, and the entire patrol dragged Tarquin away. Drawing her dagger again from her boot, Brangene peeked around the corner where she had last seen Malduc.
No one was there.
A servant had already lit the numerous candles in Mark's chambers when he entered. A fire was also burning, and a window was half-open, circulating fresh air into the room. Mark removed his formal mantle—the outer-most layer of dress-wear—and one of the servants who had followed him in caught it up, brushing it off and placing it delicately in the wardrobe.
Mark turned up his sleeves and held his hands over the wash basin on the ornate wooden stand. The other servant poured water from the ewer over Mark's hands as he twisted and flipped them, wetting every inch. When the bowl was full, the servant replaced the ewer and went to attend to Mark's bed, turning down the sheets and fluffing the pillows. The first servant put bricks into the fire to warm the bed.
Mark plunged his hands into the bowl, scooping water to his face. He rubbed his chin, and with one cupped hand filled his mouth. He swished and gargled and spit back into the bowl. The servant by the fireplace rushed over with a towel. As he patted Mark's hands dry, Mark wavered, blinking his eyes as if trying to clear his vision. He stumbled, caught himself on the stand, clenched at his servant, and fell to the floor.
Lancelot, exhausted, was glad to see the window of Merlin's room some ways up the side of the building, even if it was dark.
"Did you even break a sweat?" Malduc asked behind him.
Lancelot swung around, drawing his sword. When he saw the strangely dressed man standing unarmed before him, he put his sword away. But what a man, who seemed to have stolen half his wardrobe from a nobleman—otherwise wearing peasant dress—was doing in the deserted streets kept Lancelot wary.
"I saw you fighting Tarquin," Malduc noticed Lancelot's unease. "I'm sorry, Sir Tarquin," Malduc rolled his eyes. "Are you even out of breath?"
"I'm sorry—who are you?" Lancelot's hand stayed glued to his sword.
"A fellow traveler."
"I've never traveled any road with you."
"As in a kindred spirit—don't be obtuse."
"I see." Lancelot eyed Malduc, memorizing every single feature that he could in the moonlight.
"We're both poor folk trying to forge a better life through wit and skill of hand. But arrogant twits keep judging us by the smell of our parents rather than what we can do."
"Maybe we just have to work harder," Lancelot suggested flatly.
"Pshaw!"
Lancelot stared at Malduc, who stepped closer—confidentially—to Lancelot.
"Maybe you're right," Malduc said. "We have to be better than good, don't we? And there are still so many things to master."
Lancelot remained silent.
"But what if things were different?" Again Malduc moved closer. "What if men were judged by their skills and not their births? Would you like to live in that world?"
"This world has everything I need."
"Then why do you walk around so forlorn and lost? Like you have no place to go? No place to belong to? Yes, Sir Lancelot, you and I are kindred spirits—our world is what we make it." Malduc looked up at the position of the moon. "And mine is getting a whole lot freer. What about you?"
"Like you said, I make my own way," Lancelot stepped back to leave.
"When our chores are done here, come find me," Malduc called after him. "I would love to have your services—and believe me, I will reward you."
Sir Balan squatted on the table in his room, sword brandished before him. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the ceiling, the floor, the walls. He was panting softly and a sheen of sweat brightened his face. Merlin and Gaius couldn't tell if he noticed their presence.
"Sir Balan," Gaius said, "why weren't you at the banquet tonight?"
Heavy breathing was Balan's only response. He was a visiting knight, come for the tournament, and he was outfitted in his full armor. Merlin moved to put a hand on his shoulder.
"Sir Balan," Merlin said, touching the knight lightly.
"Spiders!" Balan swung his sword wildly; Merlin jumped back, barely avoiding its tip.
"Spiders?" Gaius said. Balan started twitching, as if he itched somewhere he couldn't scratch—he tore off his armor, wailing spiders!
"He's panicking," Gaius said, trying both to calm Balan and stay out of his way.
"He's scared of spiders," Merlin said as Balan closed his eyes and took two deep breaths.
"Please don't tell," Balan whispered.
"Fear," Gaius said. "What if that's it? This curse brings out their deepest fears."
"You sure?" Merlin said. "Arthur didn't seem particularly afraid, just . . . worried, even—"
"Panicky? There are other things to fear besides monsters, Merlin. Balan fears spiders; I'd say Sir Lamorack fears losing his reputation; Sir Tristan—well I don't know what he's afraid of. But whatever their fear, it makes the men so terrified they have to act out against it."
"Maybe the curse just turns the knights into pugnacious idiots," Merlin said.
"You wouldn't have noticed anything if that was the case," Gaius said.
Merlin cocked his head, holding up a finger to quiet Gaius. "Do you hear someone running?" Merlin asked. He opened the door and Sir Cadoc fell into the room, panting.
"King Mark's been poisoned."
Queen Isolde rested the back of her hand against her husband's sweating forehead. Behind her Brangene stoppered a small vial, which she placed on the table, and picked up the basin—filled with vomit instead of water. Brangene gave it to one of Mark's waiting servants and instructed him to dispose of it, and to get fresh water.
Merlin and Gaius passed the servant as they entered the room.
"We believe the poison was added to the water," Brangene said to Gaius, indicating the ewer. "Can you determine exactly what kind of poison was used?"
Gaius watched as Isolde examined Mark's fingernails.
"How much did he get?" Gaius asked.
Isolde nodded to Mark's other servant. "I-it's not the king's h-habit to drink w-water before bed," the servant said. "H-he likes b-brandy—he w-washes his face . . . the water was already here!—it was supposed to be—I got it from the well—it wasn't—"
"Mark rinses his mouth out," Brangene interrupted.
"Any poison he swallowed would have been incidental and minute," Isolde said.
"I see," Gaius said as the door burst open and Uther marched in followed by Sir Cadoc and two of Mark's knights.
"How is he?" Uther demanded.
"He'll recover," Isolde said. Uther looked to Gaius.
"I believe his chances are good," Gaius confirmed.
Uther sighed with relief. "Do we know who did this?"
"It could have been anybody," one of Mark's knights answered. "We were too busy chasing your murderous sorcerer to protect our own king."
"Maybe it was the sorcerer," Cadoc said. "He couldn't get to Uther, so he went after Mark."
"He's deliberately trying to divide us," Uther said.
"I did see a man in the corridor," Isolde stood up, silencing the room. "He was dressed in full armor—the crest belonged to Sir Tarquin."
"Dumnonian slime," the other of Mark's knights snarled.
"That can't be," Cadoc said. "We apprehended Sir Tarquin in the streets tonight—he was fighting Lancelot—and he had no armor on, only his sword. We escorted him to his chambers—he's there now, under guard."
"Perhaps I should examine the poison, before we jump to conclusions," Gaius said.
"Yes, of course," Uther said.
"Sire, I will need some privacy with the patient—Queen Isolde may stay," Gaius said before Mark's men could object. Uther nodded, and they left the room. Merlin and Brangene also stayed.
"You didn't see Sir Tarquin," Gaius said to Isolde.
"I never said I did—I said the crest of the armor belonged to Sir Tarquin."
"You don't believe it was him?" Gaius said. Merlin stared at Brangene—she was watching Isolde carefully.
"I have reason not to—as your knight said—"
"It was you," Merlin said to Brangene. "You were the one who saw Tarquin. I mean, if someone poisoned the water, they'd have done it while Mark was at the banquet—with Isolde. She couldn't have seen Mark's assassin."
"Would your king have taken my word?" Brangene asked.
"We're listening," Merlin said.
"You know what's weird," Merlin said once they'd left Mark's chambers. "The sword flew at Mark. 'Death to Uther', but then the sorcerer tries to hit Mark."
"And you think it's connected to this attempt?" Gaius said quietly, nodding to Mark's knights in the corridor.
"I don't know," Merlin said. He glanced around, making sure they were alone. "Do you think we can lift the curse on Arthur and the others?"
"Maybe—fear spells used to be very popular," Gaius said. "But how this sorcerer cursed so many so quickly—and only knights in the tournament . . ."
"I hate admitting this," Merlin sighed, "but I wish the dragon was still chained up—he always had the answer."
"Not that he always gave it freely," Gaius said.
Yeah, Merlin nodded. "Maybe I could try to summon him—I know he might not come."
"He'd have to come, Merlin, you're a dragonlord—he must do as you command. But if someone saw you . . ."
"I'd lose my head."
They'd arrived at the door of Gaius's chambers—inside Lancelot was waiting.
"I think I know who the sorcerer is," Lancelot said.
Tarquin had been moved to the dungeons—as a precaution. Uther flew through the subterranean corridor to Tarquin's cell, Gaius and Merlin on his heels. They arrived to find the spell still in full effect.
"No—no—Sire," Tarquin said to Uther. "You can't take that peasant's word over mine—he's a peasant—I am a nobleman of Dumnonia—you can't upset the natural order!"
"Of course we can't" Merlin muttered. Gaius scowled.
"I want Malduc," Uther said.
"That rat—he's beneath you."
"I want him apprehended," Uther snarled.
"What is he after?" Gaius said. "How do we lift his curse?"
"You wish to capture him?" Tarquin said, glancing from Uther to Gaius. "I know nothing of Malduc's purposes—he is a fishmonger—stained—I would never choose to associate with him."
"But you do know him?" Gaius said.
"He was thrust upon me," Tarquin spat. "'Watch him'. 'Make sure he doesn't run'."
"You were supposed to guard him?" Uther said. "You've made a poor showing of it."
"You dare treat me like a disgrace?" Tarquin jumped at the bars of the cell. "I followed my orders! I watched that putrid slime-catcher fail again and again."
Gaius tried to ask fail what but Uther stopped him, preferring to let Tarquin rant.
"I have exemplified Dumnonian nobility—only to watch lesser men cringe from a fight and piss away their dignity. Hire a filthy fishmonger . . . I'd have finished Mark off long ago and saved my kingdom. But Ricatus fears Mark and consorts with insects. And so do you," Tarquin sneered as his eyes caught Merlin. "So you know what—you can tell your beloved peasant that when I get out of here, I will drink from his skull!"
Uther pulled Gaius aside. "Are you sure he's cursed—I'd say that invective had more hate in it than fear."
"Fear is often the root of hatred," Gaius said. "And he doesn't know where Malduc is."
"But he did tell us one thing," Uther said. "Ricatus is behind this."
Lancelot glanced at the moon's position and thought it seemed less bright. He hadn't slept. He closed his eyes and breathed in the deserted streets and felt by the air that dawn was approaching though it was still dark. He slowly made his way toward the gates of Camelot, wondering how close he would get—maybe he would even exit the city—before Malduc accosted him again.
"Leaving already? The fun's just beginning," Malduc said, the gates looming a few yards away.
"Everyone is looking for you. Maybe you should leave too. Especially if the rumor is true."
"What rumor?"
"That King Mark is dead. They'll be arresting everyone even remotely suspicious."
"That's why you're leaving?" Malduc chuckled. "And here I thought you had Prince Arthur's favor."
"Undo whatever you did and I will."
Malduc was silent for a moment, a relishing smile upon his face. "You know," he said, "everything I have and everything I am, I carry—just like you. If one were to search me, well . . . . But," Malduc sniffed himself, "they mistake me for a fishmonger and, strangely, no one's touched me. So thank you for your concern, but I'll be just fine."
"Will you now," one of Mark's knights said. Two dozen knights appeared from the shadows, half Mark's men, half Camelot's.
"Really?" Malduc said to Lancelot.
The knights circled tighter, until they formed a double-rowed wall around Malduc and Lancelot. Sir Cadoc and Sir Taran approached Malduc cautiously. Taran pressed the tip of his sword to Malduc's throat and Cadoc reached beneath Malduc's cloak—Malduc had a satchel, slung across his body from one shoulder to the opposite hip, cached against his backside. In this satchel he kept his magic book, as well as the official list of entrants in the tournament.