Chapter XVII: Hunting for Truth

The day dawned bright and sunny, with only a few drops of dew on the grass. It was a bit cool, but the air would inevitably heat up over the next few hours. A slight breeze stirred curtains and leaves.

Merlin woke Arthur just as the sun crested the horizon. "Rise and shine, sire," he chirped.

Arthur groaned, flopping onto his stomach and burying his face in his pillow so he wouldn't have to get up. "Go away."

The words were somewhat blurred by the pillow, but Merlin knew his prince well enough to interpret them. "Oh no," he said, a hint of warning entering his tone, "you're not getting away quite that easily. You're the one who insisted on getting an early start, Arthur. I dragged myself out of my nice warm bed because you wanted to get out as soon as possible, so now I'm going to drag you out of yours."

Arthur grabbed onto the bedposts. "Try."

Merlin grabbed his prince's feet and pulled as hard as he could. Arthur tightened his grip. Merlin couldn't budge him.

The manservant, apparently reaching the same conclusion, huffed. "Very well," he sniffed, "we'll do this your way." And before Arthur's sleepy brain could comprehend that 'doing this your way' was not a good thing, Merlin pulled himself onto the bed and started jumping. "Up!" he bellowed. "Up, you lazy lump!"

Arthur got up, if only because he didn't want Merlin to jump on him. "Why did I want you to get me up again?" he grumbled.

"You wanted to go look for clues in the woods," Merlin reminded him.

He might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water over his master's head. That was right—they were going to retrace his footsteps today, look for clues about what had happened with him and Sophia and Aulfric.

And, he thought, breath quickening, with his spellbinder.

"Well, then, what are you waiting for? Help me get dressed!"

"I still think it's very sad that a grown man can't dress himself," Merlin grumbled, but he obeyed.

Within the hour, they arrived at Arthur's trail. His tracks were hardly fresh, but it hadn't rained for the last couple of days and Arthur was a good huntsman.

Arthur had been retracing his steps for half an hour when he stopped. Merlin frowned. "What happened?"

"There's another path," Arthur declared. He dropped to his hands and knees, peered intently at the ground. "Someone else was here." The prince squinted. The markings were very faint, but they were defined enough that he knew they didn't belong to him. "It looks like… someone running, but he wasn't following me."

"How can you tell?"

"Because he was going the opposite way." Arthur examined what little remained of the prints. "The tracks are too far apart for a walker unless the walker was very tall. It seems more likely that he was running. I'd guess that he was about our height, maybe a bit shorter or taller but in the same general range."

"Aulfric?" Merlin suggested.

"No." Arthur was in his element. "Aulfric was traveling with Sophia and me. This person was alone."

The runner's tracks and Arthur's followed the same path. The longer they coincided, the more certain Arthur became that his spellbinder had made the footsteps. He could imagine the situation: his spellbinder hears that the prince is missing. Somehow, either through magic or good old-fashioned investigation, he knew where Aulfric and Sophia were going, so he ran to catch up with them. Then they'd had a battle. Arthur's spellbinder won. He used the light to lead Arthur back along the same path that he'd taken to confront the other spellbinders. Then, when Arthur was closer to Camelot, he had used his knowledge of the woods to chart an alternate path for the prince to follow. But why? Had he simply been covering his tracks, gambling that no one would follow Arthur's footsteps long enough to see his own prints?

Hopefully he could get some answers.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Is there some reason that you've stopped?"

Arthur blinked and realized that he had indeed stopped. How strange. "I was inspecting the trail, Merlin."

"Um, no, you just stood there staring at nothing for about two minutes. It was kind of weird."

"I was thinking," Arthur defended.

"Did it hurt?"

The prince glared. "Careful, Merlin, or you'll be mucking the stables when we get back. Now come on."

"Um, Arthur?"

"What is it this time, Merlin?"

Merlin pointed in the direction Arthur was not going. "The tracks go that way. You just turned around."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous. See for yourself."

Arthur decided to humor him. He squatted, squinted at the tracks. Sure enough, Merlin was right.

The prince frowned. How had that happened? Had he really been so distracted that he'd gotten completely turned around?

Arthur turned so he was facing the right direction. He gazed off into the trees, blinking rapidly. It was hard to focus on the place ahead. The landscape turned oddly blurry, as though he were looking at it through a clouded window.

That must mean they were getting close. He recalled that the place he'd woken up was hard to focus on, its outlines smudged together. That was all he could remember of the area. He couldn't even recall if it was a grove or a clearing or a lake or a giant stone circle. Fortunately, he didn't need to remember. The tracks would lead him back.

He followed the footprints into the blurred part of the world. Dizziness assaulted him. He had to look ahead or risk falling over.

"You turned around again, Arthur."

The prince dropped to his hands and knees, glared at the tracks. Merlin was right once again. He had turned around.

"It's this place, I think," Arthur growled. "It's been enchanted to repel people."

"Then why doesn't it affect me?"

"I don't know. Maybe it only works on higher life-forms."

Merlin frowned, but there was no real heat to his glare. "Maybe I should lead."

"You can't hunt."

"I don't like to hunt," the servant corrected him. "That doesn't mean I can't track. This trail might be old, but it's still pretty clear."

Arthur weighed his options. Merlin really didn't seem affected by whatever was driving him away. Why that may be, he had absolutely idea. All he knew was that it was so. He could either let Merlin lead or turn back.

"Then lead on, oh great tracker."

"I never said I was gr—Arthur, we're going this way." For Arthur had somehow turned aside and was walking to a place somewhere to Merlin's left. The prince froze. When he turned his head, his servant was wearing a worried expression. "What, do I have to hold your hand or something?"

"You don't seem to be as affected," Arthur said, aiming for expressionlessness and missing terribly. "Are you dizzy?"

"No."

"No urges to just turn aside?"

"None whatsoever."

"It might get worse as we get closer. It might even affect you then."

Merlin untied his neckerchief and knotted it around a branch. The bright red stood out among the dark green leaves like a flag in a battlefield. "If we see this, we'll know we've turned around."

"I suppose," Arthur admitted. Then, "I'm not holding your hand, though."

"Good, because I'm not holding yours."

"Do you think it would work if I just held the back of your shirt?"

"Probably," Merlin guessed.

Arthur knew what was happening, of course. His spellbinder didn't want him to follow this trail, so he'd enchanted the land so it would keep Arthur away. Good thing his spellbinder hadn't counted on Merlin's distinctly un-servant-like tendency to tell his master off.

The prince grabbed hold of his servant's shirt. The blue fabric was coarser than he was used to, woven of wool instead of linen. It was warm from its proximity to Merlin and felt comfortingly real in the increasingly fuzzy world.

Merlin walked slowly, keeping up a constant stream of chatter to help Arthur focus. Twice he had to grab the prince's arm to keep him from wandering off. Arthur closed his eyes, but the world still spun around him.

"Stop."

The command came out almost as a whine. Arthur would have been embarrassed if his head wasn't spinning so. He collapsed onto the ground.

"Are you all right?" Merlin demanded, alarmed. His hand pressed against Arthur's forehead, searching for a fever.

And suddenly the dizziness and nausea and vertigo were gone. Arthur opened his eyes. The world was still blurry, but not sickeningly so. He grinned.

Merlin took that as his cue to remove his hand. Nausea boiled in Arthur's stomach, so sudden and strong that he retched.

"You need to be touching me."

"I'm sorry?"

"The sickness," Arthur ground out from behind clenched teeth. "It's better if we're making physical contact."

"So we really do have to hold hands," Merlin grumbled, slipping his hand into his master's. Arthur's stomach settled, his head stopped spinning, and he dared to open his eyes.

"Just so you know, Merlin, we aren't telling anyone this part of the story."

"I wasn't planning on it, Arthur. Better?"

"Yes. Just don't let go or I really will throw up."

"Noted."

Merlin led him through the trees. Arthur held onto him like the lifeline he was. Fortunately, they didn't have far to go.

The spellbinder's tracks separated from Arthur's. "Which should we follow?" Merlin asked.

"Mine."

An indentation in the ground revealed the place where Arthur had awakened. Judging from its depth, he thought that he'd been there for a while. Arthur filed that away for later reference. Perhaps he'd had to be healed and his spellbinder had done it here.

There was another indent nearby, bent grass and broken twigs revealing where someone else had fallen. From there, a set of tracks and some drag marks led from Arthur's indent to the shore of a lake. It was a beautiful body of water, clear as crystal in the morning sunlight, but looking at it, even with Merlin's help, made a strong sense of foreboding well up in Arthur's chest. He had the awful, awful feeling that he wasn't supposed to be here. Whatever this lake was, it wasn't meant for mortal eyes.

Somehow, he held himself together long enough to find a trio of footprints. Himself, Aulfric, and Sophia, he thought. They had definitely brought him here. For some reason, two of the tracks (Sophia and Aulfric? No, he had to have been one of the people going into the lake. His spellbinder had dragged him out of it, so he had to get in there somehow) entered the lake. So did his spellbinder's. He had apparently run into the lake. To fight? No, to rescue Arthur.

Then he couldn't handle it anymore. "We're leaving, Merlin," he ground out. "Come on."

He didn't quite run away, but it was a close thing. He walked rather quickly until they reached the tree with Merlin's neckerchief. "Can we stop holding hands now?" the servant asked.

"Yes."

"Good."

"Just remember, Merlin: this never happened."

"What never happened?" the servant asked innocently.

"Exactly."

"How's your head?"

"Better. I think it's because we're leaving."

"The magic didn't you want you there," Merlin murmured.

"But you didn't feel anything?"

"Um…."

"Like I said, it only works on higher life-forms."

Merlin huffed.

When they reached the area that Arthur's track's separated from his spellbinder's, Merlin continued towards the city. Arthur paused, got down on his hands and knees to examine the ground.

"Didn't we already do this?" Merlin demanded.

"I'm following the other tracks, you dolt."

Arthur didn't know what he expected to find when he retraced his spellbinder's steps. A cottage in the forest, perhaps, or a cave filled with crystals and magical who-knows-what. But the tracks just led to the road, where they blended together with other peoples' footprints. Not even Arthur could follow them then.

The prince scowled. "Merlin."

"What now?"

"These tracks don't exist."

"What?"

"We only found my footsteps. No one ran after me."

Merlin frowned. Then, oddly, he smiled. "All right."

Arthur nevertheless felt compelled to justify his decision. "If that person wanted a reward, he would have stepped forward already."

"Why do you think he didn't?"

Because he has magic, Arthur didn't say. Because even though it looks like he lives in Camelot, no spellbinder would want to explain to Uther how he'd saved Arthur from two sorcerers. Because I owe him my life twice over now and betraying him to my father would be poor thanks indeed.

But he didn't—couldn't—say any of that. Instead he shrugged. "He probably thought that no one would believe him."

Merlin stared at him with an oddly searching expression. Then his face lit up in a happy smile. "Okay, then. I won't say a thing."

Sometimes, Arthur envied his manservant. His was a simple, uncomplicated life completely bereft of sorcerers and intrigue and assassins. The most he had to worry about was waking up on time to fetch his master's breakfast.

"Let's go back," Arthur said. "I'm hungry."

"I am too," Merlin agreed.

"How fascinating."

Arthur spent most of the rest of the day practicing his swordplay and trying to make Merlin demonstrate the almost-competence he'd revealed when tackling Edwin Muirden. The boy insisted that he was only good at hand-to-hand and with whacking people with big sticks (his words, not Arthur's), but the prince remained convinced that his manservant could, if he applied himself, one day become a half-decent swordsman. Well, okay, maybe just a quarter-decent swordsman—this was Merlin, after all.

The prince was so focused on his training that he forgot all about his spellbinder. Then, as Merlin blew out the candles and Arthur lay on his bed, he remembered that strange, fey light and all its implications. There was a spellbinder looking out for him, an individual with magic who apparently lived in Camelot. He didn't know if that person was young or old, male or female, native or foreign, just that he (yes, he. Arthur could hardly refer to his helper as an i t, now, could he? And thinking of someone as he/she got tiresome very quickly) had magic and some reason to keep Arthur alive. The prince wasn't complaining—he liked living, thank you very much—but it raised dozens, hundreds of questions.

Arthur didn't fall asleep for a long, long time.

Merlin didn't wait for the dragon to land before he made his announcement. "I have good news, Kilgharrah," he exclaimed. "I'm making progress with Arthur. He actually went and asked Uther for permission to learn more about magic."

"And did the tyrant give his leave?"

"Yes! So now Gaius is teaching Arthur and Sir Leon—he's one of the knights, probably the next head knight—and me about magical theory. We have lessons each Monday evening for the foreseeable future."

"That is good news indeed, young warlock," Kilgharrah stated, folding his wings and tilting his great head to the side. "How did that come about?"

Merlin launched into the story of the Sidhe and the lake and the light. "He's trying to protect me, too, I think," the warlock concluded. "He doesn't know it's me, of course, but he doesn't want me to tell anyone about my tracks. Um, did that make any sense?"

"I understood you."

"Good."

"I have news of my own, young warlock. It took much longer than I expected, but I have finally managed to make contact with Nimueh."

"Nimueh?" Merlin asked blankly.

Kilgharrah's mouth curved. "I believe she called herself Cara when you encountered her last."

Merlin's eyes went wide. "The sorceress."

"Yes," Kilgharrah confirmed, "Nimueh of Armorica, High Priestess of the Old Religion, self-proclaimed champion of magic."

"And is she going to stop attacking Camelot?" Merlin asked.

"Perhaps."

"I thought you could be persuasive when you wanted to be?"

"I can."

"Then why—"

"She desires to meet you before making her choice."

Merlin froze, his belly turning to ice. "Meet me?"

"I would act as arbiter, of course."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"I would supervise your meeting, and if Nimueh attempts to harm or enchant you, I would stop her."

"You mean that you'd set her on fire."

"Perhaps," the dragon replied, which, coming from him, was as good as a confirmation.

"But why does she want to meet me?"

"Only Nimueh knows her own mind."

Merlin scowled. "Can't you guess?"

"I could, as could you."

"Blasted cryptic reptile," Merlin grumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. He leaned against a tree to think. "Is it because she wants to hear my reasons for defending Camelot?"

"A bit of thought destroys the need for most questions," Kilgharrah solemnly proclaimed.

"You know what?" Merlin complained. "I think you deliberately do this just to drive me nuts."

"Would I truly do such a thing, young warlock?" the dragon asked.

"I don't know," Merlin retorted. "Only you know your own mind."

Kilgharrah laughed. "You're learning."

"Or am I?"

"You are," the dragon declared.

"If you say so," Merlin murmured, but he was smiling. Then the smile faded from his face. "So when is this meeting?"

"Right now," said a woman's voice.

Merlin jumped. He tried to turn around in midair, his head jerking to the source of the noise, but that just made him trip when he landed. He stumbled, flinging out his arms to catch himself on a tree, and only narrowly avoided falling face-first into the dirt.

The sorceress—Cara—Nimueh—smiled. She was just as lovely as Merlin remembered, but now there was a sinister cast to her prettiness. Her full lips were blood red, her hair dark like night and shadow. Even her blue, blue eyes reminded Merlin of the lake where Arthur had almost drowned. Her tattered dress would be bright crimson in the daylight; like some poisonous animal, she clothed herself in brilliance to warn the world that she was dangerous.

"This is not part of the agreement," Kilgharrah rumbled.

"The agreement was very basic," Nimueh replied. She was smiling, and that smile made the hairs on Merlin's neck stand straight up. "You said that you would try to broker a meeting between us, one that you would supervise. In return, I was to come alone and in peace, and I vowed to listen with an open mind."

"You were scrying us," Kilgharrah accused.

"Of course. I get so few visitors, but I must keep up with the world somehow." Still smiling, Nimueh turned her blue gaze to Merlin. "And here he is." The sorceress tilted her head. "You look very much like your father."

The warlock jerked. "Wha—you know my father?"

"Of course," Nimueh replied. "Balinor and I were friends once, before Uther began his killing spree. Tell me, does he still live?"

Merlin remained silent. His head spun. Nimueh knew his father, had been friends with him.

Balinor. His father's name was Balinor.

"He lives," Kilgharrah said shortly. "But we are not here to discuss Balinor Caledonensis."

Caledonensis? Balinor Caledonensis. His father had a surname. He had a surname. Merlin Caledonensis. The warlock had to stop himself from grinning like an absolute lunatic. Tense negotiations with a known enemy was not a good time for crazy smiles, no matter how tempted he was.

"True," Nimueh acknowledged, dipping her head.

"Camelot," Merlin choked out. "You've been attacking it. I know why you're doing it, but innocent people are getting hurt. That afanc—it would have killed dozens of people, not just eight. And the griffin. Did you send the griffin?"

"I may have helped guide it in this general direction," Nimueh admitted. There was no shame in her voice, no regret.

Anger surged in Merlin's breast. "It was eating people!" he cried.

"It was only meant to eat Uther."

"But it didn't," Merlin snarled. He forgot that this woman had decades of experience, a mental encyclopedia of spells, and abilities that he couldn't even imagine. He strode forward. "Your attacks hurt everyone except Uther. They're only peasants, they didn't cause the Purge and you're just making them suffer more! It's Uther you hate, not them. Leave everyone else out of it!"

"Is that your request, Merlin? Stay away from the smallfolk and carry my vendetta to Uther directly?"

"Yes! Wait, no. Just—I want him dead too. The world would be a better place. But I want magic to be free too, and if a spellbinder kills Uther, Arthur will either wait for years before ending the ban or he'll never end it at all. What's more important, Nimueh? Is it revenge? Or is it stopping the deaths and the hate and the war? Because those just aren't compatible."

The sorceress's gaze softened slightly. "You truly believe yourself," she murmured. "Oh, you foolish, naïve child, you truly think that Uther's son won't follow his footsteps."

"He won't," Merlin growled.

"We have the same goal, Merlin," Nimueh continued, ignoring the warlock's interjection. "We both want freedom, safety, peace. Why not work together to achieve it?"

"How?" the warlock demanded. "By killing and killing until we finally get Uther?"

"They aren't innocents, Merlin. They support him, enable him."

"Because they're terrified," Merlin hissed. "Maybe you don't understand that kind of fear, but I do. I grew up knowing that just one toe out of line could see me and my mother both killed. It's paralyzing, crippling, that sort of fear."

"Fear is the only reason we have courage," Nimueh replied quietly.

That pulled Merlin up short. Nimueh had sounded downright wise there, and wisdom wasn't exactly the sort of thing he expected from a person who would sacrifice every living human being in Camelot just for a shot at Uther.

When he regained his ability to speak, he said, "But they're not just afraid for themselves. Uther's been known to go after entire families if just one member has magic or supports it. You know that. These people just want their children to live."

"And I want the same for our people!" Nimueh cried.

"You think I don't?" Merlin demanded. "But you can't achieve peace by killing everyone who disagrees with you. That's what Uther does, it's why so many people want to kill him. If you keep sending afancs and man-eating griffins to Camelot, you'll be no better than he is."

He'd gone too far with that. He knew it the instant his mouth closed.

Nimueh's pretty face twisted with rage. "Never," she snarled, "compare me to that monster."

"Then don't act like him."

The sorceress's nostrils flared. Her mouth parted, a spell bubbling to her lips.

Then Kilgharrah was there, fangs bared, fire in his golden eyes. "Would you face us both, Nimueh?"

The priestess hesitated. She took in the crouching, watchful dragon, the inexperienced but powerful young warlock. Her eyes narrowed. "Is this over, then?"

"I do believe it is," Kilgharrah growled.

Nimueh nodded, her lips pursed. "Very well then. Until we meet again, Merlin Caledonensis."

And then she was gone.

Yay, there was actual plot development this chapter! The long-anticipated meeting with Nimueh went about as well as can be expected, and Arthur appears to be making progress.

The 'mortals can't see the Lake of Avalon' thing was never really explained (at least not that I remember). I figure that it might have had some defenses that kind of deflect anyone heading towards it (except Merlin, of course).

About Merlin's surname: Back in the fifth/sixth centuries, European didn't really have surnames unless they were royalty or high nobility. I figure that Balinor can have one, what with him coming from a family of dragonlords.As to the origin of the name, some of the legends say that Merlin went mad once and lived for years as a wild man in the Celyddon Woods, an old boreal forest in Scotland. People started calling him Myrdden Wyllt (Merlin the Wild, who is one of the historical figures on whom Geoffrey of Monmouth based his Merlin) and Merlin Caledonensis, which is Latin for "Merlin of the Celyddon." I wanted to include more of Merlin's names/titles than just Emrys, and this seemed like the best way to incorporate "Caledonensis" because I'm not sure if he's ever going anywhere near Celyddon. It also gives me a bit of a stepping-stone for his family history.

Next chapter: January 15. Merlin learns more about his father. Then Mordred shows up.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin and Arthur Hold Hands"