Arthur slowly became aware of his surroundings. The smell of fresh bread—part of his breakfast—and the scent of sweat—the man standing next to him hadn't bathed in some time. But it wasn't Merlin. Arthur tried to blink his eyes open, but they were glued shut—he reached up a hand to rub them and realized there was a weight next to him on the bed's edge.
"Good morning," Gwen said as Arthur squinted against the brightness of his room.
"How do you feel?" Merlin said. He was standing at the end of the bed next to Gaius. Lancelot stood near Arthur's pillow.
"Something happened . . . wrong," Arthur said.
"That's one way to put it," Merlin said.
"The tournament!" Arthur jolted upright, nearly tossing Gwen off the bedside. Lancelot put a reassuring hand on Arthur's shoulder as Gwen steadied herself.
"The tournament will resume today," Gaius said. "All the entrants were affected."
"We were cursed?" Arthur said.
"Yes," Gaius said.
"But we lifted the curse, apprehended the sorcerer, saved Camelot—all in a day's work," Merlin said. "No need to thank me—you never do."
"You lifted the curse?" Arthur said to Merlin.
"Well," Gaius said, "the sorcerer had made some adjustments to the spell that—basically it was a poorly-cast spell and it undid itself."
"Oh." Arthur plopped back onto his pillow. "Who caught the sorcerer?"
"Lancelot did," Gwen said, smiling up at Lancelot. Arthur turned his head.
"His name is Malduc," Lancelot said. "And it was actually your knights who caught him—I just helped."
"'Just helped'? It was your idea how to catch him," Merlin said. "You laid the trap."
"It was a long shot," Lancelot said. "I can't believe it worked. We were lucky."
"Don't be like that, Lancelot," Gwen said, reaching out to take his hand. "Nobody else came up with anything."
Lancelot noticed Arthur staring at Gwen's hand and pulled away. "It was nothing, Sire."
"Lancelot," Arthur sat up again. "As strange as it sounds, I think I believe Merlin."
"Thank you, Arthur," Lancelot said softly.
"Now everybody out," Arthur said. "Now."
And as they turned around to leave, Gaius mouthed good job to Merlin.
With the spell on the contestants undone and the sorcerer in custody, the people of Camelot were happy to forget them both and enjoy the last rounds of the tournament. The excitement grew as knights were defeated one by one—and then there were two.
Sir Balan was the final challenger against Arthur, and he was putting up a good fight.
"I cannot believe Sir Tristan lost to this guy," Mark said, lounging next to Uther.
"Sir Balan is a fine knight," Uther replied, not taking his eyes off the fight. "You just hate to admit that Arthur will win."
Isolde, on the other side of Mark, reached her hand up to touch Mark's forehead. Mark took her hand, briefly pressed it to his cheek, and then interlaced his fingers in hers upon his thigh. He leaned over to kiss her, landing his lips just on the edge of hers. Morgana, sitting beside Isolde, patted her arm; Isolde smiled wanly back.
In the entrance to the arena where hopeful contestants had strode confidently in, Merlin, Lancelot, Gwen, Tristan and Brangene regarded the fight as best they could without blocking the opening. Lancelot stood closest to the arena ground, enthralled by the fight; Gwen behind him stood on tiptoe to peek over his shoulder, equally consumed by Arthur's fight with Sir Balan; Brangene ignored both fighters, watching only Isolde, ready to run at the slightest provocation; Tristan lounged against the wall, concerned more with the audience than with the match; Merlin alone was not shy about moving around, and while he enjoyed a tournament, Arthur in a fight was nothing new—Brangene's sad, attentive face was far more interesting.
"You look after her, don't you?" he asked her.
"Somebody has to," Brangene said.
"I know exactly how that is."
"Arthur is a Prince—no you don't."
"I know she's your friend," he said.
"So why aren't you sitting up there with Queen Isolde now," Tristan asked, startling both Merlin and Brangene with his proximity—neither had heard him approach. "The champions' entrance is no place for ladies to lurk."
"Champions?" Brangene said. "I've seen more losers pass through here."
Merlin laughed and Gwen suppressed a smile, pretending she was still immersed in the fight. Tristan slapped Lancelot with the back of his hand.
"Hey," Tristan said, "she thinks she's insulting us. I'll have you know," he said to Brangene, "that Lancelot here hasn't lost a single match."
"I'm not in the tournament," Lancelot said, returning his attention to Arthur.
"Details," Tristan waved him off. "But you didn't answer my question."
"You didn't ask why Guinevere here isn't sitting next to Lady Morgana," Brangene replied.
"Guinevere didn't claim to be Morgana's friend and protector."
"Gwen is Morgana's friend," Merlin said. "Just because you keep people at arm's distance—oh right, you're a big boy, that's why you travel alone."
Gwen turned around. "Morgana and Isolde wanted to sit together during the last fight, and I wanted—" her eyes darted briefly to Lancelot, "to give other people a chance at a good seat. Not everyone gets to watch the final fight of a tournament."
Tristan eyed Gwen up and down, then stared at the crowd. "The arena certainly is packed. Too packed for a queen's friend it would seem."
"It's not a big deal," Gwen said. "We're just servants."
"I am not 'just' anything," Brangene said curtly. "And a politica—Queen Isolde's situation—is none of your business," she stared down Tristan, her cheeks flushed and her upper lip quivering slightly, almost unnoticeably, but enough to give the impression of a snarling wolf.
"I'm sorry," Tristan said quietly. "You're right."
In the middle of the arena, Balan knocked Arthur over and the crowd gasped; when Arthur rolled back on his feet, the crowd cheered.
"They're happy to see men fight," Tristan said, to nobody in particular. "Do they cheer like that for anything else?"
Lancelot looked over his shoulder at Tristan. "You don't think Arthur and Balan's skills are impressive? Not everyone can fight like that—it's years of training—"
"For a steady hand and a strong mind and a stout heart. Yeah, I know."
A great, triumphant cheer broke the air as people rose to their feet. Before the kings lay Balan's unconscious form, his sword still gripped in his right hand. Standing over him, Arthur removed his helmet and turned around in a circle, surveying the crowd, acknowledging them, letting them see their Prince victorious. Arthur was panting, sweating and red. He finally stopped to face the kings—he bowed humbly to King Mark and Queen Isolde, and then nodded to his father; Uther nodded back, regally, properly, no overt pride in his expression, only the acknowledgement of the King for the winning knight of a tournament.
Arthur walked casually toward the exit, the crowd still cheering. Lancelot, Gwen and Merlin were giddy in Arthur's win, and they grew more jubilant as he approached.
"Congratulation, Prince Arthur," Brangene said as he passed, but whether he heard her . . .
"You fight well," Tristan said. Arthur had stopped right in front of him.
"You owe me," Arthur said.
"Sire?"
"You threw your fight with Balan—that should have been you in there. You owe me." He walked on, bumping against Tristan's shoulder as he passed. "Merlin!"
"Duty calls," Merlin said to Gwen and ran to catch up with Arthur.
"Why'd you throw your fight?" Lancelot asked.
"It's only a tournament," Tristan said.
A servant Arthur didn't recognize answered his knock. She curtsied as she held open the door, shutting it behind him once he'd entered Isolde's chambers. Then she rejoined another servant in cleaning up Isolde's bath. A third servant was stoking the fire, and a fourth attended Isolde's wardrobe. Isolde was sitting on a chair in front of a mirror while Brangene put the finishing touches to her hair. She wore a purple silk gown and simple jewelry, which enhanced her natural beauty.
"Prince Arthur," she said, speaking sideways so as not to disrupt Brangene. "You're early—I assume the banquet won't start without us."
"No," Arthur said, hands unconsciously playing with the edges of his mantle. "I was wondering if I could have a moment."
"Of course," Isolde said. Brangene regarded Isolde in the mirror, making sure every hair was in place, and then snapped her fingers. The four other girls stopped what they were doing and filed out of the room. Brangene followed them, shutting the door quietly behind her. Isolde stood from her seat and folded her hands delicately before her. She stared at Arthur.
"I wanted to thank you," Arthur said. "For before. In Morgana's chambers. For your discretion."
"Prince Arthur, I am a princess—was a princess. Now I am a queen. I am a child of discretion."
"Thank you," Arthur said relieved. He held out his left arm. "Shall we?"
Isolde hooked her arm around his. "You're people await."
They walked silently down the torchlit corridors to the great hall where the last feast of the tournament was held. But this celebration, unlike the others, had no long table presided over by Uther—this feast held a few tables piled with food of which any man or woman might partake, as well as servants ambling amongst the celebrants with ale, wine and more food. And somewhere, tucked away in a corner, minstrels played music.
The room fell silent as Prince Arthur and Queen Isolde entered the room. The crowd parted, leaving a clear path from the door to King Uther and King Mark on the opposite side. Slowly Arthur escorted Isolde. Arthur nodded to Sir Balan who stood high on a bench against the wall; Balan raised a gilded cup with a bruised hand in salute.
"It seems Sir Balan is your new bodyguard," Arthur said quietly.
"So it seems," Isolde whispered. They'd arrived before the kings.
"My love," Mark said to Isolde.
"My lord," Isolde bowed. Arthur passed her hand to Mark and the celebration began anew, the hall filled with raucous laughter, cheers, continued conversations, and the aroma of boar, rabbit, chicken and bread.
Amid the noise, Uther patted Arthur on the shoulder. Well done.
Malduc stared through the bars of his cell down the tunnel to where the two guards, one of Camelot, the other Mark's knight, sat immersed in a chess game.
"Try it and this sword is going in your gut," Mark's man yelled, not looking up from the board. Malduc's mouth twitched. He stepped back to the middle of his cell. He reached to his lower back and pulled folded parchment from beneath his clothes—one of the three pieces was slightly damp from sweat. He slowly unfolded them, careful not to let the guards hear the crinkling. He scowled. He folded the parchment up and tucked them back into his trousers, beneath his shirt. He bent down and reached into his boot, up his trouser leg and pulled out another set of folded parchment, but these also did not contain what he sought. So he turned to his other leg.
As he read the spells on one of those two sheets of parchment, he smiled.
With Arthur and Isolde's grand entrance already forgotten, the celebration commenced in full—eating, drinking, company—music and wine—all the accoutrements of revelry a person could want. Jeweled ladies flirted with knights; Merlin and Gwen, as servants, wandered the party keeping cups brimming with wine; Uther, Mark, Gaius, and several of Camelot's elders discussed King Ricatus and territory disputes; Arthur chatted with Sir Balan; and Isolde and Brangene were laughing with Morgana.
"Sir Tristan," Morgana said to Tristan's back as he was talking to other knights. He turned around to face the ladies, as his companions muttered lucky dog and resumed their conversation.
"I hear you don't think Camelot's tournaments are worth winning," Morgana continued.
"Not at all, my lady," Tristan said, staring afar at Gwen as she filled Lancelot's cup with a warm smile. "But your maid misunderstood me."
"Arthur says you threw your match," Morgana said.
"Yes," Tristan reluctantly admitted. "There's more to life than tournaments. It doesn't mean I don't respect you or your king."
"Is there?" Isolde said quietly, mostly to herself.
"Is there what?" Tristan turned to her.
"More in life," Isolde replied. "I thought all knights wanted the glory of the win."
"So I've been told," Tristan said. "But haven't you ever wondered if you could be something else? If you could have a say in your own destiny?"
"I did have a say," Isolde said defiantly.
"You're lucky," Tristan said, then stared into his cup. "From the moment I was born, I had people telling me what I had to be—a knight—I was a nobleman, after all. You're going to be the greatest, they all said. It was decided. But that sorcerer's spell—that we're all supposed to hate—made me think. Is fighting really the epitome of manhood?"
Tristan looked up from his cup, deep into Isolde's eyes.
"I realized," he continued, "that I wanted to be what I made myself, not what my birth said I had to be."
"It's a nice wish," Isolde said after a moment. With a sympathetic hand on her arm, Brangene escorted her away.
"You're right," Morgana said. "It is just a tournament." Then she followed Isolde and Brangene to another corner of the hall. Tristan stared back into his cup.
From across the room, Arthur watched Morgana rejoin Isolde and Brangene. Morgana said something and Isolde smiled sadly. Morgana said something else and Isolde smiled broadly, almost laughing—she perked up proudly, regaining her composure.
"More wine, Sire?" Gwen said at Arthur's ear.
"Morgana's avoiding me," Arthur said as Gwen filled his cup.
"Don't be silly."
"She's barely spoken to me since we got her back from Morgause."
"She's barely spoken to anyone," Gwen said. "She's just trying to cope with what happened to her. Being cursed and kidnapped by a witch can't have been easy."
Arthur was silent, watching Morgana and Isolde talk. It seemed as though they were immersed in their own secret little world. "You're right," he said to Gwen. "I shouldn't worry—Isolde managed to draw her out. Everything's going back to normal."
"Whatever that is," Gwen said.
Yeah, Arthur laughed. He stared hard at Gwen. "Do you think she's happy with Mark? Queen Isolde, I mean."
"I-I really don't know. Mark is a powerful king, isn't he?"
"Is that what a woman wants? Power?"
"Of course not. I mean—I wouldn't, anyway—but I'm not Queen Isolde."
"So what do you want?" Arthur asked.
"It doesn't matter. I have duties to attend to. My lord," Gwen curtsied and melded into the crowd. She wound her way over to where Merlin stood, decanter in hand, watching Lancelot. Lancelot, clean and freshly dressed—not in formal knightly attire, but in a shirt borrowed from Arthur—was chatting comfortably with Sirs Lamorack, Cadoc and Taran.
"He belongs in Camelot," Merlin said proudly.
"Yes he does," Gwen said.
Lancelot, meanwhile, had no idea he was being observed—by Arthur as well.
"Next time, just kill the guy," Sir Taran was saying, sitting beside Lancelot.
"That wouldn't look good," Lamorack said, standing next to Taran.
"It's self-defense," Taran protested.
"It's a peasant killing a knight," Lancelot said.
"In self-defense," Taran said. "Peasants don't have to just lie down if some high-born asshole decides he wants to slaughter them."
"A real nobleman would never consider such an action," Cadoc said.
"Well there you have it," Taran said, raising his cup. "Tarquin's not a real nobleman—you're free and clear. Because trust us," he looked to Cadoc, "Tarquin thinks peasants are less than cattle."
"You won't have to worry about any of this," Lamorack said to Lancelot. "King Mark will probably execute him."
"Uther's letting Mark take him?" Lancelot asked.
"Since Tarquin was plotting against Mark, I guess Uther felt it was just and fitting that Mark decide his fate," Cadoc said.
"Mark is taking the sorcerer, too," Lamorack said.
"That one surprised us," Taran said, then added as he took another drink, "I wonder what Camelot got in return."
Taran, Cadoc muttered under his breath.
"What happens if they escape?" Lancelot asked.
"Then Mark better watch his back," Taran said.
"And you yours," Cadoc added. "Tarquin seems the type to hold a grudge."
"Welcome to the party!" Taran said, slapping Lancelot on the back.
"Cheers," Lancelot said, as they all drank.
Uther stared into the fire. A soft, chill breeze wafted in through an open window of his chambers—also, a slight retreat in the darkness, indicating that dawn was near. Uther was stone sober. He watched the flame lick the edges of the book, but the book was proving stubborn.
"Why not burn it publicly, with his execution?" Arthur asked, standing at attention beside his father. It was just the two of them in the vague darkness, staring at the cleansing, private fire.
"Because the extermination of magic is not actually a spectacle, Arthur," Uther said as the book finally caught. "It is a hard lesson." Uther glanced quickly at his son. "If magic wins, we all pay the price."
The sun was well above the horizon, but still below the castle towers when Gwen burst into Gaius's chambers. Gaius, Merlin and Lancelot looked up from breakfast.
"They've escaped," Gwen said, her voice strained. Lancelot stood up.
"Malduc and Tarquin, I assume," Gaius said. Gwen nodded.
"Of course they have," Merlin muttered as Lancelot demanded, "When?"
"Sometime last night."
"Gaius!" Sir Cadoc called, peering through the open doorway. "The King needs you."
In the great hall, a heated debate: Uther stood in front of his throne, with Mark circling him. Arthur and Gaius stood in front of Uther, as if awaiting an audience with him. Several of Camelot's guards were at their stations along the wall, and Sir Cadoc stood back a ways, closer to the door. Merlin and Lancelot had stashed themselves along the wall, between two of the guards, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
"How could you let this happen?" Mark demanded. Uther rolled his eyes at the predictable query.
"Your knight didn't exactly prove useful," Uther said. "And blaming me doesn't help."
"King Mark," Arthur stepped forward, "Camelot won't rest until Malduc and Tarquin are brought to justice."
"Don't bother," Mark said, adjusting his sleeves. "No disrespect," he added upon seeing the fire in Uther's face. "But this is politics as usual—you know that, Uther. Frankly, I was surprised Ricatus didn't try something sooner."
"He's likely to try again," Uther said.
"And the only thing he'll give me is permission to bring my army into Dumnonia. A man has a right to protect himself from assassins, after all."
"Why not reach out to Ricatus with a peace offering?" Arthur asked.
"Arthur . . ." Uther said quietly.
"Excuse me?" Mark said.
"Ricatus doesn't want a war, and he doesn't want to lose his kingdom. Meet with him."
"Prince Arthur," Mark sneered, "when you grow up and learn the ways of the world, then you can give me advice. Until that day—"
"Enough!" Uther said. "Our immediate problem is the sorcerer and his accomplice."
"My immediate problem," Mark said. "This is one sorcerer who is not concerned with you, Uther."
"He threatened us," Arthur said. "'Death to Uther', remember?"
"A feint—to conceal his true intentions," Mark said. "This is my problem, Uther, and I will deal with it. Ricatus's assassins will pursue me—you won't have to worry about them once I leave for Tintagel."
"And if next time they succeed?" Uther asked.
"Also my problem."
"What about Isolde?" Arthur asked. "She'll be in danger, too."
"She'll have a personal bodyguard," Mark said. "I do not need your help."
"Fine," Uther said. "But Camelot will come to your aid when you need it."
"Don't worry, Uther," Mark said as he turned to leave. "There's plenty more sorcerers out there hungry for your hide."
Merlin carried a tray of food into Gaius's chambers—lunch for himself and Lancelot. Lancelot, however, was not interested. He came out of Merlin's room in the same dirty travel wear he'd arrived in—dusty boots, chainmail that had a few bloodstains concealed in its rings, his sword, a dagger, a knife. He glanced at Merlin sheepishly.
"Lancelot . . ." Merlin said, setting the food down on the table. "You're going after Malduc and Tarquin, aren't you."
"I have to," Lancelot said, walking past Merlin and out the door.
"You heard Mark," Merlin called as he ran after him, "they're his problem."
Lancelot continued walking—out onto the street where the sunlight shifted with the passing clouds. "Tarquin wants me dead," he said when Merlin had caught up. "I'd say that could be a problem for me."
Merlin tried to find a response, but couldn't. He trailed after Lancelot through Camelot until they neared the gate and saw Arthur standing beside a black horse, as though waiting.
"Arthur," Merlin said, "tell Lancelot to stay. You need him."
Arthur offered the reins to Lancelot. "Here," he said. "And try not to lose it this time."
Merlin glared at Arthur, defeated. Lancelot glanced at the reins; then accepted them. He patted the horse's nose.
"How'd you know?" Lancelot asked quietly.
"It's what I would do," Arthur replied.
"Thank you, Sire," Lancelot said. He nodded at Merlin and then led the horse away.
"He has to do this, Merlin," Arthur said.
"He'll be back," Merlin said.
Lancelot continued on, out of Camelot, down the road, walking beside the horse—until, ahead, he saw Gwen watching him. She stood in the shade at the edge of the forest, wrapped in a shawl, hugging herself, even though the day was warm and mild. Lancelot glanced behind him, at Camelot—he could even hear the echoes of the market—but he and Gwen were alone.
"Am I that obvious?" he said once he was close enough to her.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. . . . Gwen . . ."
"Don't go." In her hand, she clutched a small note—when Lancelot saw it, he sighed. "Is this how you say goodbye?" she demanded.
"I—didn't know how . . . to say—everything—"
Gwen leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him gently. "I don't need everything," she said.
Hands upon her face, Lancelot kissed her back, a soft, lingering kiss.
"I have to go," he said, his hand still caressing her cheek. "I have to find Tarquin before he finds me. I have to make sure Malduc isn't out for revenge. I didn't ask for this, but I'm involved—I have to do something."
Gwen nodded. "Come back," she said softly.
Slowly releasing her, Lancelot mounted his horse. "Always."
Mark had decided to depart early, which for a royal cortege meant mid-morning. The sun was bright and the clouds full and white as servants ran between castle and carts with supplies and trunks. Mark's knights adjusted their saddles and cooed to their horses—some were already mounted. On two sides of the square before the castle, Camelot's knights formed a ceremonial line—a stationary processional through which Mark and his retinue—currently bustling in the middle—would pass. On to the ruins of Tintagel.
Close to the steps of the castle, Sir Tristan lifted Brangene into her saddle while Isolde said goodbye to Morgana. The ladies kissed each other on each cheek, and then Morgana moved away, ascending halfway up the steps to stand behind Arthur, who surveyed the scene with detachment.
Uther and Mark emerged from the castle just as Tristan was lifting Isolde up onto her horse. Both Isolde and Brangene wore dark, woolen dresses, and rode side-saddle. Isolde waved one last time to Morgana and then turned toward the castle to await her husband as he descended the steps with Uther. Tristan mounted his horse.
"I see your queen has her champion," Uther said.
"She insisted on Sir Tristan," Mark said proudly. "My queen has a good eye for form."
"Tristan would rather earn a coin for a tune, you know."
"Then he can entertain us, too," Mark said. "Are you jealous, Uther?"
"Hah! You wanted him anyway— so don't blame your queen if Tristan son of Talloch gives you trouble. Perhaps you should have gone with Balan—after all, there was an understanding—"
"No—there was a rumor. I specifically said I would choose whoever impressed me. I never said anything about second-placers. You just don't want to admit Tristan can beat Arthur."
"Anytime you want to find out," Uther turned to Mark, offering his arm. Mark clasped it, hand to elbow. Both kings smiled broadly.
"It was good to see you, Uther—even if you have gotten slow."
"It was good to see you, Mark—even if you are still a fool. You can always count on Camelot, don't forget that."
"You worry too much, Uther," Mark said as he mounted his horse, his vanguard already riding away. "It's making you old."
Mark quickly squeezed Isolde's hand and shouted the order to go. He trotted away—his wife and her maid and her bodyguard close behind. Uther, Arthur and Morgana watched until the entire company was out of sight—then Uther took Morgana's arm and escorted her inside while Arthur dismissed his men. The knights marched off in disciplined lines.
Merlin came out from the castle doorway. He descended the steps until he stood beside Arthur, but the prince seemed lost in thought.
"Can I ask a stupid question?" Merlin eventually said.
"Do you ask any other kind?"
"Why is Mark right?"
"What do you mean?" Arthur turned to Merlin.
"Everybody's acting like Mark is just some poor victim."
"Somebody tried to assassinate him, Merlin."
"Which is politics as usual, apparently," Merlin said.
Arthur turned and slowly ascended the stairs. Merlin matched him step for step.
"Mark's going to conquer Dumnonia, isn't he?" Merlin asked.
"Ricatus gave him a reason." Arthur's tone was neutral.
"Yeah—but . . . Mark was going to do it anyway, wasn't he?"
Arthur said nothing, but paused and looked back out over the mostly-deserted square.
"Your idea was the best," Merlin said.
"For all the good it did."
"Mark is stupid."
"Mark is a king."
"So he gets to do whatever he wants?"
"It's not that simple, Merlin," Arthur turned back up the steps.
"Even a king should have to answer to somebody. Or do they not think there's any law above their own?" Merlin raced to keep up.
"Merlin," Arthur said. "Shut up."
Merlin waited a moment until they entered the castle. "So what happens to Dumnonia?"
"Would it really kill you to do what I say? Just once? And don't you have duties?—I do," Arthur said as he left Merlin standing alone in the shadowy corridor.
In his throne room, Ricatus of Dumnonia spoke with several of his knights. War was looming, and they knew it. From outside the room, a crash resounded, then a shout. Each of the knights ran out, sword in hand. Ricatus heard the sounds of a fight, and he glanced toward the hidden door behind the throne. Then a voice from the corridor: Protect the King! The great doors slammed shut before his eyes, the wind from the impact hitting his face. Ricatus was alone.
All the torches simultaneously flamed out.
Ricatus sighed, with relief and impatience. "Malduc, if you've come to explain your failure—"
"Please," Malduc's voice echoed in the dark—then the torches flared alight—Malduc stood eye-to-eye with Ricatus, startling the king.
"I came to say," Malduc continued, "that I've considered your offer of serving openly at your side—"
"An offer contingent upon Mark's death. You are and have nothing here."
" . . . and I've decided to pursue other options."
Something hit the great doors—as though invaders had a battering ram. Ricatus glanced toward the noise, and in that second Malduc stabbed him. Ricatus gazed first at his abdomen, where Malduc's blade was deeply buried—Malduc twisted it—then to Malduc's face, which stared back at Ricatus, a concentrated singularity of hate. Ricatus's weight began to crumble forward; Malduc swiftly pulled out the knife.
Ricatus fell to the ground in the fetal position. Malduc bent down and withdrew a kerchief from the king's sleeve and wiped the blood from his hands and knife.
"H-he-elp . . ." Ricatus gasped feebly. But the only response was the voice of one of his knights yelling keep slicing—get these demon bastards. Malduc sighed.
"They look so impressive," he said, once again pretending. He took a sheet of parchment from his lower back. He shook his head as he stared at it. "I guess Rhydderch recorded a faulty spell—unfortunate." He held the parchment up and his eyes flashed. A flame burst alight on one corner of the parchment. Malduc dropped it to the floor. "But I am learning," he said, taking a last look at Ricatus dying on the floor.
Ricatus stared back at Malduc, the sounds of combat still seeping into the room. Malduc's eyes flashed gold and the torches went out—the last glowing scraps of parchment the only light or warmth.
Merlin stared at a candle in his room. He moved his thumb and index finger together as though slowly pinching the air in front of his face. As his finger and thumb came closer, the flame shrank, getting dimmer and dimmer until he released his fingers and the flame sprang back to its full height.
"I brought you something," Gaius said, entering the room. "I managed to exchange it." He placed a book on Merlin's bed.
Merlin said nothing, just gazed at the candle.
"I thought you'd be happy to have another magic book," Gaius said. "Merlin?"
"I was just thinking about Morgana," he said. "She was right about Mark being the real target. Do you think she dreamed it?" Merlin turned around toward Gaius.
"I think she was angry and trying to deflect suspicion—that's not the same thing as prophecy."
"Do you think—She had nothing to do with this sorcerer—Maybe her destiny hasn't arrived yet. Maybe it won't come—"
"It will, Merlin. And you need to be ready."
Two candles burned on Morgana's table as she dipped a quill into an inkwell. They provided the only light. Before her lay a small strip of parchment; in her left hand she clutched Morgause's crumpled note, and on her wrist, the candlelight threw gilded reflections into the darkness from the bracelet Morgause had given her.
-end-