Gaius's patient died that evening.

The physician hadn't intended for Merlin to be there when it happened, but the man had actually been showing signs of improvement, and certainly hadn't seemed that close to the end. Sometimes it happened like that – completely unexpectedly, like that final burst of energy had in fact been their downfall. The man had opened his eyes, stammered out a request for water – Gaius had asked Merlin to go and fetch a cup – by the time Merlin had returned to his bedside, the poor knight had collapsed backwards and slipped into a wild delirium. Quickly Gaius had sent Merlin up to his room, but not quickly enough. The boy saw everything, the wide eyes, the gasping mouth, the final shuddering gulp.

Merlin was no stranger to death. He hadn't seen his mother die – he had been spared that, at least – but he had seen another man claimed by the same illness, the first in the village to contract it; his ill health was such a foreign condition, out in the country, that the villagers had been morbidly fascinated by it. And a number of youngsters whom he had known had fallen prey to those sicknesses that carry off children with a wicked abandon. But this one left him shivering and afraid, and he knew precisely why.

I could have stopped it.

He had seen Valiant use magic yesterday. He shouldn't have hesitated to tell Gaius. What had stopped him? Uncertainty? But Gaius didn't mind uncertainty: it was always better to be on the safe side. No: it was the very fact that magic was involved, that the consequences of anything involving magic were so terrible.

He shouldn't have hesitated, though. Gaius would have understood.

Wouldn't he?

Well, he would have to tell him now. Uther would want to know what had happened, and this couldn't be explained away by an internal injury, or whatever unconvincing lie Gaius was concocting. Merlin had, on being sent to his room, sat on the bed in deep contemplation; but at last he stood, and made to re-enter the main room.

Gaius had sent for the king and a number of other figures, and was bustling about in preparation for whatever last rite ceremony this man might have received in his native country. He had drawn the covers over his face, so that he appeared as but a crease in the white sheets, unreal almost. Merlin stared at the thing for a moment more, and then said:

'He was killed by magic.'

The physician turned. The child was standing in the shadow of the doorway, his face absolutely serious. The voice had scarcely been his.

'What?'

'The man... yesterday, in the fight... I saw Valiant do... something... He did magic. I saw his eyes. I think he killed him by magic.'

Merlin misinterpreted Gaius's astonishment as anger, and hung his head a little. But the physician did not scold his audacity, but instead came over, and, kneeling to his level, said insistently:

'Merlin, what did you see? What happened?'

And so Merlin tried to recall the exact progression of events, and told it to Gaius in fragments, which the latter listened to intently, before straightening, frowning, and going to think it over. He did not have much time, however, because a few moments later there was a knock at the door, and King Uther appeared.

Merlin bowed low, and pattered off up to his room. He wondered if Gaius would tell the King about the incident with Valiant. He wondered if he would mention the boy's name in connexion with the knowledge. At the moment he was too baffled by everything to be particularly bothered. Now that he had left everything in the capable hands of his adoptive father, he wondered whether to renounce the whole business altogether. He was far too young to be bothering himself with this sort of thing. And it wasn't all that long since he had defeated a witch, after all.

It was just as he was turning his attention to a book that Gaius had lent him – all about identifying useful plants, with the most wondrous painted illustrations that held his attention more than the accompanying science – that he recalled the incident with the dragon.

The dreamlike nature of the memory had influenced the way he treated it: it did not seem much as if it had happened, and kept flickering in and out of his mind, in bizarre snapshots. But the message that the creature had had for him stayed with him. He was in charge of the destiny of Prince Arthur, and, by association, of that of Camelot. In short, it all meant that he had to keep at least half an eye on the situation: whatever Valiant was intending could very well end up affecting Arthur, even though the prince was not participating directly in the tournament. He had to know what his intentions were – who his targets were – whether he was acting alone.

Merlin sat up suddenly, but a sudden fatigue halted his eagerness. Saving Camelot was extremely tiring. Was he expected to do everything in this? Or did this particular incident have no import on his supposed destiny?

The responsibility was overwhelming; the questions buzzed in his mind; and he made up his mind to go and see the dragon again as soon as was earthly possible.