Chapter Ten: Allies and Revelations
The trek was arduous. The farther Gwen ventured into the tunnels, the more treacherous her path became—stones sharper, the rocks jutting at odd angles, grasping to catch her feet. Her hands and knees were scraped and bloody from where she'd fallen before. She wasn't sure how far she'd gone or how long it'd been—an entire night? A day? The air was musty but cool, drying the sweat on her brow, and she was well provisioned thanks to Garrick and Abigail.
Gwen's feet ached, and she could feel the sting of blisters forming along her heels and toes. She paused only briefly to tear strips off the hem of her dress and wrap them up to reduce the friction. It helped, but only marginally. The waterskin and food she barely touched; eventually, her stomach grew tired of complaining, and she was left with only an ache.
"I have to keep up my strength," she told herself when she at last had to stop. It wasn't a waste: she was resting. With her back to the wall, she sat. The tunnel was still big enough for a dragon, she thought, though it would've been tight. She'd found a single, golden scale scraped free of its hide and knew she had to be going the right way.
Gwen devoured some of the bread and drank a third of her waterskin before wondering if she ought to sleep. She had to have gone at least a couple leagues, which would put her well out of the city proper. The forest, then. That made sense, since the dragon had come from that direction in its initial attack.
Using the blanket she was carrying the provisions in, she blew out her candle and slept, dreams filled with terror and dread. When she woke, she was stiff and smelled terribly, covered in dust and dirt. At least there wasn't the possibility of being eaten by wild animals.
She heaved herself on exhausted legs and resumed her determined trudge.
The flame cast eerie shadows on the high ceiling, and Gwen found herself wondering if this cave system was natural or magic-made. Uther had originally conquered Camelot with magic's help, hadn't he? Perhaps he had made these tunnels to lead to the castle. Or perhaps that was an outlandish idea. Still, the high rock above was oddly smooth, free of stalactites—in contrast to the main cavern, which had been nothing but spikes. The floor, though, was horribly rocky: it wouldn't have posed an issue for a dragon, though. Maybe dragons had created these tunnels. They were creatures of magic, weren't they?
Just when Gwen thought she ought to take another break, something cool hit her face. After the underground's stale air, she almost didn't recognize it—a breeze. She pushed herself faster, nearly tripping in her haste.
There above her loomed a massive hole, stars fading with glimmers of daylight: it had taken her the entire night, then. Not a bad pace, and she hadn't gotten lost—the tunnels had actually been far more straightforward than she would've anticipated, which lent more credit to the idea that they weren't natural. She had avoided any of the smaller, branching ones, figuring that since a dragon wouldn't have fit, they were a waste of time. And it seemed her intuition had steered her true.
The hole was some twenty or thirty feet up. With the approaching daylight, Gwen blew out her candle to examine the walls for a way out. They were rocky, not smooth, but she wasn't confident in her ability to climb. She searched nearby for evidence of humanity: a rope, a ladder, something. But she couldn't find anything.
"Dammit," she muttered. Could she toss her things up first and then try to climb out? She heaved her sack off of her shoulder. Should she try individually or all at once?
Although her arms were whip-thin and corded with subtle muscle from all the menial labor she did, Gwen was by no means used to chucking things as high as thirty feet in the air. She took all of her items out of her pack and began to try and throw them up.
For fear that the waterskin might break, Gwen tried to get her candles up first, feeling absolutely absurd. One of them made it close to the lip of the hole, but she couldn't make it go both high enough and move it far enough to land on the ground above. She tried using both arms, one, a variety of throwing techniques—none of it worked.
Frustrated and sweaty, she took a long swig of her water and decided she would have to try and climb up with everything on her back. Depending on how far she was from the city, being stranded in the woods with no food or water could be a death sentence.
She gathered everything up before slinging it onto her back and looking for the best way to climb up. Her hands were slick with perspiration, and she wiped them on her skirts before clawing at the rock, quickly realizing that her dress wasn't made for climbing. She should've asked for trousers; she sometimes wore her father's old ones in the forge to stop her skirts from catching on fire (she had learned to do this the hard way).
With a sigh, she ripped it at the knees so she would have more freedom before trying again.
Gwen made it up three feet the first time before she fell. Then, only two. The third, she was fifteen feet up—halfway there—before she fell, landing hard on her left ankle. She gasped, tears of pain and anger coming to her eyes. Would she have to go all the way back to wait for Garrick and Abigail to bring her a rope? And even if she had one, would it make a difference? She had nothing to tie it to, and there was no guarantee she'd even be able to throw it up as high as she needed it to go.
She'd been stupid to think she could do this, hadn't she?
"Are you really going to give up now?" she asked herself. She wasn't being held prisoner; she wasn't being tortured. Was she really going to let something like a damn wall stop her? It was said the druids could hear farther than their ears would allow—maybe calling for help would work. It might also attract bandits, but if the bandits would pull her out of here…
Gwen stood as best she could, gingerly avoiding putting weight on her ankle, and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Help! Someone, please, I'm trapped!" Or what if Wymond's guards were combing the woods? What if they found her—rendering this entire affair useless?
No. She couldn't think like that. Wymond had too many problems at the castle for him to be sending troops of knights three or four leagues into the forest.
"Help me, please! Help!"
Gwen called until her voice was hoarse, taking a drink from her waterskin and calling again. Eventually, she sat down, dozing in the morning sunlight: an hour or two must have passed since she originally found the hole. Maybe she ought to try climbing the wall again, although her ankle throbbed at the thought. She'd loosened her shoe but didn't look, too afraid to see how bad the swelling was—she didn't think it was broken, only sprained. Still, she wouldn't be able to run. She'd been so stupid.
A great gust of wind shook her from her thoughts, and she frowned, staring upward. A shadow blotted out the light for a moment, a loud thud shaking the tunnel, and all at once she knew what it was.
A huge leathery head peered at her from above, yellow eyes almost glowing. Its pupils were slitted like a cat's or a snake's, and Gwen stared back in awe. Even when it had attacked, she hadn't understood how large it was, larger than any living creature she'd ever seen. It could swallow her whole, and she smelled smoke on its breath.
"Are you going to eat me?" she asked. "Or help me out of here? I do have to warn you: I'm a friend of Merlin's, and I'm sure he'll be angry if you eat me."
It laughed—laughed, of all things, a throaty chuckle that made Gwen think of crackling logs. "The legends speak often of your kindness," it—he?—said, voice rough, "but rarely do they mention your bravery, Queen Guinevere. I would assist you, should you do something for me in return."
Gwen stood, leaning against the wall for support. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir—lord—dragon, but I'm not making a deal until I'm out of these tunnels. I haven't forgotten what you did."
"You drive a hard bargain—but you are wise for all your wariness. Consider it done."
Merlin was being dragged somewhere. The motion provoked hot bile in his throat, rising like boiling water. He tried to open his mouth so he wouldn't choke—only to find he was gagged (except, hadn't he known that?). He swallowed the vomit as best he could, huffing through his nose. The rank stench of the torture chambers was replaced by familiar castle smells: food cooking in the kitchen, smoke from torches, sweat.
He didn't know the guards dragging him—it wasn't Wymond or Maverick, as he'd learned was the other man's name—his torturer's name. When he attempted to get his feet under him, they yanked him harder. The sensitive skin on the tips of his fingers burned: all the nails on his right hand had been torn off. Merlin couldn't remember why. Had he done something bad, something wrong? Maybe he'd killed someone who hadn't deserved it, this time. Maybe they'd discovered how many people he had killed over the years. Maybe he was being punished for the dragon…
Maybe he was dead and this was what he deserved.
Merlin was led to the throne room, but there weren't as many people as there normally was for a trial day. And he didn't see Arthur—where was the king? Or the prince… Merlin couldn't seem to remember anything important: it all rushed from his head like blood from a wound, this knowledge that couldn't be staunched inside his skull. Was Arthur the prince or the king? Merlin… Wasn't Merlin here on his orders? He'd been speaking to someone, a voice that had told him—told him—
Why was it all so muddled? If he'd been hurt, shouldn't he have been more lucid by now? And where was Gaius?
The nobles—councillors—were there, and the throne room doors closed behind Merlin. Wymond stood at the far end of the spacious room. He wasn't touching or sitting on the throne, but he hovered around it the way a vulture circled a corpse. The guards let Merlin collapse in front of him.
"While I commended the late King Uther for his passion, I've never felt that torture is the best way to elicit honesty." That was Sterling, Merlin thought. He couldn't bring his head up to meet his gaze—or anyone's gaze. It lolled from side to side, and he could barely keep his eyes open against the harsh sunlight, so different from the dimness of the dungeons.
Was it still the same day as when he had last seen Arthur? That couldn't be right. He'd been kept in the torture chambers for—for—
The throne room went dark. Someone was twisting, pulling against the tip of his finger—Merlin was screaming through the gag—begging him to stop—it was all so hot, wavering before him like it wasn't real—none of it was real—
"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Lord Sterling," Wymond said, voice cutting through Merlin's thoughts—memories?
Yes, it was a memory: Merlin could remember now. Wymond, the traitor. Maverick, the torturer. Agravaine shouting, Arthur gone. Kilgharrah. Merlin tried to reach out with his mind, but even that shook like an overexerted muscle, too weak to reach.
"You're not the king, Wymond," Muriel said. "You have no right to do any of this."
"Our king is currently indisposed, thanks to this one." Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin could see Wymond gesturing to him offhandedly. "You ought to thank me for it. King Arthur certainly will, once he's well again and free from magic's influence."
"Did you truly let Uther poison you so?" Muriel demanded. Merlin wished he could move his head to see the expression on her face, but his neck wouldn't cooperate. Nothing was cooperating with Merlin. "I respected the man, but you know that he wasn't always rational, especially when it came to magic. Do you truly wish to slaughter children? Innocents? Do you actually believe this young man has done his king harm—or is this only a power ploy to you? Has no one's testimony swayed you, your mind if not your heart?"
"That trial was a sham; I have no doubt the king hired the so-called witnesses himself, under the sorcerer's orders. And you will show me—and our departed King Uther—respect, Muriel, or you will see how I tolerate traitors." Wymond still sounded cool, too cool, and Merlin wished Muriel had managed to rile him. Angry men made mistakes, and Merlin needed all the advantages he could get.
"You seem to tolerate them well, if your own betrayal offers an example."
"Muriel, please. You know Lord Wymond only wishes what's best for Camelot. The sorcerer has clearly been interfering with King Arthur's mind, molding him all these years—our ruler would be little more than a puppet, if not for the commander!" Aldwin, the sniveling coward, had finally spoken up.
"I think you are making a mistake, Lord Wymond." Eleanor, this time. "It's obvious that the king is in his right mind, and we must follow his decrees regardless of our approval. You overstep your rights, and your betrayal is unsustainable. You might control the guards and knights in the castle now, but once the others come back from the border? They will not tolerate your betrayal. Surrender now, and I'm certain King Arthur will banish you instead of executing you."
Wymond scoffed. "I don't have to listen to a woman who is only a mouthpiece for her husband. You know nothing of armies or knights." This was an insult usually whispered behind Eleanor's back, where she could not hear—her temper was quick, and she didn't tolerate disrespect.
"I know my husband has his own garrison, and he will come when he does not hear from me: Camelot is prone to trouble. You're arrogant for thinking no one can stop you." Eleanor kept her voice calm in the face of the insult. Merlin hadn't always agreed with her, but he could admit that she was level-headed and much better at politics than some gave her credit for.
"Lord Mannering will agree with me," Wymond said. "Your husband knows the dangers of the border, understands the dangers of magic—he won't tolerate a fragile puppet king.
"And that brings me to why I brought you here. Think of it as our own, private little 'trial.'" Merlin could hear his smirk as he stared at the ceiling, bound and gagged, too weak to do anything. "Public spectacle is well and good, but Camelot's true power resides in this room."
"I thought you just liked seeing the boy squirm," Muriel said. "Like a child abusing a kitten—you never outgrew your cruelty."
Wymond laughed, and it grated the air like a whetstone on steel. "Perhaps I didn't. But I do believe in using all of the resources at my disposal and being upfront with my men—which is you, in this case. I consider this to be the source of the enchantment." He must have held up Merlin's diary. "It appears to be some form of journal, although it's difficult to know what's true and false for each of the sorcerer's accounts. It was found in King Arthur's chambers."
"Then why haven't you destroyed it?" Sterling asked. "If you truly think it is the source of some great evil?"
"I fear it may not destroy the enchantment—or that it may have some adverse effect upon the king," Wymond said. "I am, of course, open to ideas. And I have yet to kill him because I am opposed to destroying such a potent weapon, although I am uncertain of one that is so sharp it cuts the wielder as easily as an enemy."
"You're delusional, Wymond," Muriel said. "And to parade the boy about—don't pretend this is anything more than proving to those who would dissent that you have everything well in hand. You took him through the most crowded hallways to get the word out. You care nothing for others' ideas, and I have yet to see why you decided to bring us all here!" It was the loudest Merlin could recall Muriel ever being; her voice echoed in his ears, in his head, and he groaned through the gag. While his entire body ached, his head and chest especially throbbed, hurting for something that wasn't there. Dry, like veins without blood trying to pump and pump through slog.
"This sorcerer released the dragon. He released the goblin. These are the crimes he admits to in this journal—the ones he deems trivial enough to include. He is a murderer. I have brought you here to show you that, and to determine whether or not you are on his side," Wymond said. "As acting regent, it's my duty to take care of traitors in the king's absence."
"King Arthur is going to kill you," Sterling replied. "And retribution will be worse with each citizen you slaughter. I have nothing further to say. You are the true farce, Wymond, and I would rather die to a dog than by your hand—because at least a dog is loyal."
"Watch yourself, Sterling," Aldwin growled. "You've clearly been brainwashed—tricked."
"By a good argument?" Muriel asked sarcastically. "Please. I agree with Lord Sterling: we're done here, Wymond. If you're going to kill us, do so. But I won't listen to any more of your drivel."
"Very well," Wymond said. "But know that you have chosen the side of evil and corruption—the side that must be purged."
"You can contact him, then?" Gwen asked. The heat from the dragon's scales stopped her from needing a fire, and she rubbed her hands against Kilgharrah's rough forearm to get the chill out of her fingers. The dragon didn't seem to mind.
"He's weak and has stopped responding to my calls," the dragon said. "I worry that he's fading."
"But he's not gone yet, is he?" Merlin had been bound, magic cut off with artifacts used in Uther's Purge—the dragon could sense this, apparently, through their bond. It was why, Gwen figured, Merlin had looked so sickly last she'd seen him.
Kilgharrah shook his great head. "No, Queen Guinevere. He is not gone."
"Don't call me that," Gwen said. She needed the dragon—she could admit that—but being so near made her skin crawl. Here was the beast that had killed her neighbors, destroyed her friends' livelihoods. She hated him as much as she needed him, and she tried to focus on that as she drank from her waterskin and rested. Besides, this was to save Camelot, wasn't it? Didn't that justify speaking with him?
And then Gwen wondered how often Merlin had used that excuse, how often Arthur had used it—putting aside their personal grudges to do what needed to be done. Gwen had always considered herself forgiving, but there were lines she had told herself she would never cross.
Now the line was so blurred she couldn't tell if it was in front or behind.
"So come with me," she said. "Help me take back the castle."
The dragon sighed, a plume of smoke rising into the sky, a silhouette of shadow against brightening blue. "Would that I could—but Merlin has used his dragonlord abilities to forbid me from entering Camelot."
"Can't you just break his orders?" Gwen asked, trying not to sound desperate. It was good to know that Merlin's word held so much weight, but this was an emergency.
"A dragonlord's orders are a physical barrier," Kilgharrah explained. "I could no more enter Camelot than I could fly through a mountain. I tried to convince him to rescind them, but he will not. He is what prevents me from aiding you further, not my own will."
Finally, Gwen could stand it no longer. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have gone on a murderous rampage. Don't try to pin this on him." She stood and brushed off what remained of her dress. Her ankle ached, and she wouldn't be jumping for a while—but it was good enough to walk on. "I don't have time for you if you can't help. Camelot needs me."
Kilgharrah's golden eyes followed her like reflections of the sun. "So it does. I regret that I cannot help you more." His tone had turned frosty, less benevolently condescending and more hostile, rising at the end. "Perhaps you should consider being locked away for years, knowing that your kin had been slaughtered and the man responsible lived just above your head, surrounded by opulence of every kind."
"You're a rational, thinking creature," Gwen said. She turned away so she wouldn't have to scold those great white teeth directly. "You know the difference between right and wrong. Uther did terrible things, but your murders are not his. Now, will you take me to someone who can help or should I start walking around aimlessly, wasting time?"
When she glanced back, the dragon's lips were raised in a snarl, eyes squinted, and Gwen knew he might kill her: he could gobble her up, burn her to a crisp. She clenched her fists so they wouldn't shake and swallowed, sweat beading down her neck. She'd gone too far, and now she was dead.
"I will show you to the druids," Kilgharrah said. His face relaxed, although his tail lashed as he rose to his own feet, thumps echoing in the clearing he had taken her to. "Though I ought to have left you in that hole."
Gwen didn't know if he wanted a response, so she said nothing.
"A clan has settled near Camelot—they await the news that the ban has been lifted. My presence would alarm them, but I will take you as near as I can. It's the best I can do; I know of no others who have both the strength and motivation to aid you."
"Anything will help," Gwen said. The druids would be better than who she had now, far better than an untrustworthy dragon. At least Merlin seemed to have Kilgharrah well in hand—perhaps the warlock would even kill him if he attacked someone innocent. Gwen wasn't sure whether or not she should be alarmed at the thought. She had never wished bad things on Uther, had she? But here she was, hoping that the dragon might die. And the late king had done terrible things, some worse than Kilgharrah. Was it because one was a dragon, the other a man?
Or perhaps she had grown weary of forgiveness.
"Very well. I will carry you," Kilgharrah said. "Stay still."
Before Gwen could say much of anything to protest, the dragon lifted onto his hind legs, his great wings creating gusts that nearly toppled her. He rose about ten feet and lunged to catch at her waist, although he was careful not to pierce her skin. Gwen yelped and struggled for a moment before realizing, as they rose above the treetops, that she would fall if she were to escape the dragon's claws.
The dragon flew for only about ten minutes, wind whipping at Gwen's torn skirt and her hair, which was already dirty from sleeping in the cave. She'd need to wash it after this whole thing was over.
The view was beautiful: the sun had risen fully, casting a golden glow across branches and needles—the trees had already shed their leaves, although the brush below was still green and full of life. It would've taken at least a half-hour if not more to walk, wasting precious time, and Gwen was at least grateful for that, if not for the dragon himself. She spotted a few deer eating the foliage and the bark of young-looking trees, eager while there was still some left. Snow would likely cover it all soon.
At last, when she could just barely see traces of smoke in the distance, Kilgharrah set her down.
"It is not far," Kilgharrah said. "But I can take you no further. The druids know of my existence, but they are wary of me."
Gwen refrained from saying, I can't imagine why. Instead, she gave a small curtsey. "Thank you, Kilgharrah. Not only for helping me—by doing this, you help Camelot."
"You will be great one day, Queen Guinevere. This is an era of greats. Do not forget that you have a destiny," the dragon said, dipping his head. Then, he took off, branches bowing in his presence.
The greats, yes. Thinking about the title the dragon had given her made Gwen dizzy, so she shook her head, lifted the hem of her skirt, and began to stumble in the direction she'd seen the smoke.
Gilli didn't visit Arthur again; instead, Wymond sent a meek boy who could barely look Arthur in the eye. With everything that had happened, though, the king couldn't help but wonder if this serving boy was also secretly defiant, secretly magical. How many of his citizens hid their illegality behind incompetence, behind shyness?
"You're not lying, are you?" he asked the boy, glaring down at his meal.
"I—I don't know what you mean, sire," the boy said, backing away. His face had blanched, and his freckles stood out like clods of mud. But was he truly afraid? Or only pretending to be?
Arthur shook his head; he was growing paranoid, his moods strange from lack of food and sleep.
"Nevermind," he muttered.
He didn't touch a single morsel on his plate.
That night, Arthur alternated between lying in bed, sitting at his table, and pacing. He debated setting his room on fire, creating some kind of distraction so he could get out of the citadel; if he could only leave, he would be able to get to the border and take his city back with his remaining knights.
But Wymond would see any type of distraction coming—his first priority would be Arthur's "safety." He would never let Arthur out of his sight in any kind of emergency. With magic, Arthur might have been able to pull something off, but…
It was pointless, now. There was nothing to be done, no kind of resistance Arthur could think of that wouldn't end in disaster. He didn't know of a way to get a message to his soldiers, didn't know if Wymond was prepared to hold the citadel against his own knights. They would come back, and they would see what had happened. Wymond could not hope to convince them all…
Still, he wouldn't make it easy. The next few meals he received were tossed into the hearth, though Arthur made sure he was bathed and clean-shaven. A hunger strike—perhaps Wymond would call in a physician, Gaius or some other, who Arthur could use to reach the outside world. But he needed to look in his right mind, presentable. There could be no doubt in the townspeople's hearts that he had never been enchanted, that Wymond was lying. Arthur couldn't give in to paranoia—couldn't give in to the madness Wymond was provoking within him.
Arthur didn't know if Wymond believed it himself, but he supposed it didn't matter. Wymond might believe it, might be deluding himself, but the results were the same either way: power in his hands—and out of Arthur's.
And Arthur would make him pay for it, one way or another.
—
Merlin would give Kilgharrah this: the dragon was persistent. All the warlock wanted to do was sleep, to nod off in a cell past the torture chambers, away from the other prisoners. He curled up on damp straw, this part of the dungeon entirely dark. He needed to sleep. His head was too cloudy to plan, and he feared when Maverick would come back. The man's questions echoed in his ears, in his head: What is the source of the enchantment?
He kept his hand lifted off the ground in the hopes that it wouldn't become infected, and it was as he began dozing that Kilgharrah tried to speak with him.
It was faint, smokey and raspy at the edge of his mind. The cuffs still weren't sure if it was magic, and Merlin didn't reach out to the dragon in case that activated them. He couldn't remember if he'd reached out last time—could barely remember what he and Kilgharrah had talked about. It all seemed so far away…
Merlin, it's urgent—you must—
Too weak, broken like a letter torn and stitched back together in the wrong order. The dragon wanted Merlin to let him into Camelot, didn't he? But Merlin… Merlin couldn't do it. So what could he do? Powerless, useless: he was nothing without his magic, wasn't he?
But there was someone with magic still in the citadel.
Contact Gilli… Merlin shoved the message from his mind the way someone might smack a horse's backside to get it moving. Go on, he willed. He couldn't tell if it had worked, couldn't tell anything in the dark, damp cell. It was like he'd been cut off from himself, severed—as though he'd never truly returned when he'd left his body to spy on Wymond. Somewhere, his soul was floating and drifting and dying…
He thought he closed his eyes. He could hear his own breaths, throbbing where his fingernails should've been—could hear the skittering of rats, faint drip-drips of water. But the dragon… Kilgharrah had stopped, or perhaps Merlin had grown so weak he could not ever hear that faintness.
I'll plan tomorrow, he thought. I'll do it all when I wake up, when this is no longer a dream. When I can feel the magic again. He pretended he was already asleep, that he was in his bed, having a nightmare.
Merlin didn't know how long it was before he actually fell asleep.
"And that's why I—we, rather—need your help, Lady Wymarc," Gwen said, clutching her drink close to her torso. It was almost too hot to hold, but at least her fingers were no longer shivering from the chill. "Please. I don't know of another way, except magic."
The druids had draped a cloak across her back and set her near the fire. One had gone to fetch her cheese and bread, while the others huddled close to hear what she had to say. Their eyes were wide, reflecting the orangish glow of the flames. Even the children had stayed silent during her tale, watching her with tiny round faces.
"It's terrible news," Wymarc said. Her voice had a strange, lilting quality, like rain plinking on cobblestone. "And I am sorry to receive it. To know that Emrys and the Once and Future King have been laid low on the cusp of such greatness… It makes me want to weep."
"So you'll help?" Gwen asked, leaning forward.
"I'm sorry, Guinevere," Wymarc said—and it struck Gwen that she had never told the woman her full name. "But I cannot go with you, and I cannot support any aid that might endanger the lives of my people. If this… Lord Wymond was able to subdue even Emrys, he has access to powerful artifacts indeed."
"But there are so many of you," Gwen whispered, heart sinking. And only one of me. "If he kills Merlin or somehow manages to convince the rest of Arthur's army that the king's been enchanted… It will be worse than Uther—for you and Camelot's citizens. Please, we must band together if we're to stop him." How could she reject Gwen knowing what was on the line?
"Look around you," Wymarc said, eyes soft.
And Gwen did as she asked—because what else was there for her to do?
The druid camp was compact, even crowded. There were no paths between the tents. There wasn't even a path between the camp and the brook where they must have gotten their water and done their washing. The grass was matted in the places they walked, but they hadn't been there long enough to grind it down to dirt. Lines of flags with symbols were strung between the tents—Gwen spotted embroidered runes, and wondered if they created some type of ward.
"I know you're not a warring people," Gwen said, turning back to the druid leader. "And I know you have a lot to lose." She wanted to say more—wanted to add a but—and she found she couldn't. A lump had crawled its way up her throat, clinging to the root of her tongue.
"You are a brave woman, Guinevere," Wymarc said. "I will not volunteer my people to fight, but should they choose to go on their own… You were right to come to us as allies."
Gwen struggled to wrap her head around the double-speak, the implications of what the woman meant (why couldn't politicians ever speak plainly?). "There are people here who will help me?" she asked. "You just won't order them to?"
"If Wymond is as dangerous as you say, we will have to prepare to move. Not all our warriors will go with you, but some are eager to bring the Golden Age closer by their own means," Wymarc said. "But first—rest. We will wake you in an hour or so. The dragon, I'm sure, will guard Emrys until then."
"How do you know about Kilgharrah?" Gwen asked, but Wymarc only smiled.
"A tent has been prepared for you—your food has been taken there, too."
Gwen knew she needed it—after a virtually sleepless night, a long trek through underground tunnels, talking to the dragon… But she still wanted to say no. What if Merlin or Elyan were killed while she slept, unaware? How could she ever forgive herself should something happen to them?
A young woman stepped forward, dipping her head toward Wymarc. "I can show her to her tent."
"Do so, Idonia," Wymarc said. There was a knowing look in her dark eyes, and Idonia shifted her gaze to the ground. "Be careful."
Perhaps she said something afterward, but if so, she said it using magic, that silent way the druids sometimes spoke. Regardless, the druids that had gathered around the fire to hear Gwen speak went to continue their morning chores. Wymarc herself stood and departed to one of the larger tents.
Idonia stood a few centimeters below Gwen, her skin tan. Although most of her body was obscured by her long druid's robe, Gwen sensed she was athletic underneath the layers of fabric.
"So what do you do, Idonia?" Gwen asked, standing. She folded her borrowed robe over the log she'd been sitting on, careful not to spill her drink.
"I defend the Clan—from knights' raids, bandits," Idonia said. "And I plan to go with you when you depart. I owe Emrys a debt for saving my little brother."
"Rowan?" Gwen followed the girl into the maze of tents—even in the sunlight, they seemed to shift with the landscape, reflecting the greens and browns of their surroundings like statues of glass. She walked gingerly on her hurt ankle.
"Yes," Idonia said. "Emrys made quite the impression on him—wouldn't stop talking about it for days." There was a fondness in her tone Gwen knew well, and it made her ache all over to hear it. What she wouldn't give to be able to tease Elyan right now… "I'm not yet a full warrior; I don't know how much use I might be to you. But I've magic, and that's more than you have now."
"I know you said you owe Merlin—Emrys, I mean—but I… You don't have to risk your life for him. He would say the same, and so I—I appreciate it. It means more than you know. I was afraid…" Gwen trailed off as Idonia stopped. The tent was smaller than many of the others—maybe it was only used for guests?
"Here we are. I'll wake you in two hours' time," Idonia said. She moved to leave, but Gwen put a hand on her shoulder.
"Do you know of anyone else who might join me? It's much to ask, but hundreds of lives are at stake."
"Florian might—or Aldusa. They report back to Lady Wymarc directly, and she'll want to know what's going on from someone she trusts," Idonia said. "But everyone else… We have already seen too much fighting. This trial was supposed to be an end to it, not the beginning of another battle." She was younger than Gwen, but she sounded centuries old—exhausted, as though beneath her smooth skin was an ancient skeleton, withering away.
"I understand," Gwen said. "I don't mean to ask for more than you can give."
Idonia's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a frown, her eyes distant. "I think you'll make a good queen one day, Guinevere. I can only hope you and the others will live up to your legends."
"I—" But before Gwen could ask what the absolute hell Idonia meant by that comment, the young woman was gone, disappearing into the maze of shimmering tents.
Between her and the dragon, I'm beginning to think I'm going to be more a part of this than I ever realized.
Gwen entered the tent feeling too sick to her stomach to eat. She curled up on the warm bedroll in the center and closed her eyes, praying sleep would take her quickly.
The next morning, Arthur was shocked to see Gilli again, bringing him sausages and porridge. The king had barely slept, and he thought he was seeing things—but no, the belligerent sorcerer was solid, firm at the edges, and had a bewildered expression Arthur knew his subconscious could never have created.
"What the hell are you doing here again?" Arthur demanded. He remembered how low he'd felt, begging the man to help him—and how Gilli had turned away, retreated, left his own people to suffer and die at Wymond's hands. Left Merlin to suffer and die. "I thought you wanted nothing to do with me."
"I don't," Gilli said. He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair and shirt rumpled. "But the dragon won't leave me be."
"Kilgharrah?" Arthur asked. "The dragon that attacked the citadel?"
"Do you know of another one, sire?" Gilli's tone was caustic and bitter, and he slammed the plate of food down on the table with a clatter. It smelled divine: the sausages seasoned and cooked to perfection, the porridge drizzled with honey. Arthur's stomach rumbled, but he stayed standing.
"I don't," he said. "Why has the dragon spoken to you? How has the dragon spoken to you?"
"In here," Gilli said, tapping his temple. "As for why—apparently the dragon's been in contact with a woman called Gwen. She's come up with a plan, and the dragon's the only one who can give us messages—through me." His expression soured. "He said he spoke to Merlin, too."
"Merlin?" Arthur resisted the urge to grip Gilli's shoulders and shake him until all the answers Arthur needed fell out. "The dragon's spoken with Merlin? And how in God's name did Gwen get out of the citadel?"
"How should I know? The dragon only told me she has a plan, and you're a part of it. And so am I. The bloody beast wouldn't take no for an answer; I haven't slept in what feels like months, and my ears are ringing because he won't shut up!" Gilli threw his hands up, though he'd remembered to keep his voice quiet enough so that the guards outside the door wouldn't hear.
"You changed your mind because the dragon wouldn't stop pestering you? Not because you felt that, perhaps, you owed it to yourself—and to Merlin and all the others—to fight for your own freedom and dignity?" Arthur couldn't help but feel a little put-out; he would've thought his speech might've moved Gilli, that his frustration and helplessness might've inspired some kind of altruism. But perhaps men like Gilli could only be moved by their own frustration and helplessness, as opposed to empathy for others.
"I'm not some noble knight whose goal is to rescue everyone, sire," Gilli said. "But I'll help you—because I think the dragon will drive me mad if I don't. That should be enough for you."
Arthur stared at him critically. How could he know that the sorcerer wouldn't just leave once the going got tough? How did he know Gilli wouldn't bail once his life was directly on the line? And for what—to get rid of an annoying voice?
But maybe it went deeper: maybe Gilli did have a conscience, did feel something was owed to others. Maybe he couldn't admit it to himself—or anyone else—and this was only an excuse so he could change his mind and save face.
Regardless of why he was doing it, he was the only one Arthur had right now. Cut off from those loyal to him, he would have to make do with an enemy of his enemy.
"Did the dragon say what Gwen's plan was?" Arthur asked. "Or what Merlin told him?"
"He said Guinevere is planning to plead her—or your—case to the druids," Gilli replied, leaning against the table. His spine was straight: hostile and disrespectful in the face of royalty. But Arthur supposed now wasn't the time to get hung up on things like that. Even if he would've liked to have stared down at the sorcerer, who acted like he was so far above everyone else.
"It's as good a plan as any," Arthur said. Gwen wouldn't have been able to convince the soldiers at the border of the danger the Citadel was in—nor would she have been able to free the knights and Merlin from the dungeons without help. She needed allies, and the druids were an excellent choice.
Gilli shrugged. "The dragon thought so."
"And Merlin?"
"His magic's been locked away with those cuffs they put on him," Gilli said. "For someone as powerful as him… Well, it's messed him up, made him sick. The dragon said it was 'fortunate' that the cuffs didn't block his dragonlord powers."
Arthur had known about such cuffs—his father had bragged about them, though he'd hardly used them since the beginning of the Purge. Arthur thought this had something to do with their own magical nature; Uther had liked to pretend that sharp blades and solid steel were all someone needed to catch or kill a sorcerer. But that had been one of his many lies. Uther had used magic in those early days to get the upper hand, and he'd kept all the artifacts in the vaults for "safe-keeping" or to be "destroyed later."
When he'd heard, Arthur hadn't understood the hypocrisy of it all, and Merlin was once again paying the price for his ignorance.
"I assume, then, that Gwen's first order of business will be to free him, the knights, and myself?" Arthur asked.
Gilli shrugged. "I suppose. The dragon didn't tell me—there's not much we can do now except wait for him to speak to me again." The sorcerer frowned at this, annoyance flashing across his face. "Which means I'll be in touch. But if I end up getting caught, it will be my neck on the chopping block. Sire."
"If you end up getting caught," Arthur said, "it will be my neck, too."
And all of Camelot's. Because the king had no doubt that Wymound would pay for Arthur's rebellion with his people's blood.
Merlin wanted to fly away. He wanted to shoot into the sky and swim among the clouds, chirping at birds and feeling that cool mist along his skin. As a child, he'd been able to soar even with his feet on the ground, closing his eyes and knowing he was up in that blue, gliding on the air's currents.
His mother had caught him once and demanded he stop, that he wasn't to daydream like that anymore. She'd been so scared when she'd seen him laying down in the fields. She'd shaken his shoulders until it felt like his head would fall off. It was months later when he realized he must've been doing magic—eyes glowing, unseeing, outside where anyone might catch him.
Maybe I was even soulwalking, he thought. Spying on the hawks that wheeled overhead, hunting for mice and rabbits. What he would give to be out of his body now, comfortably wandering outside himself where he couldn't feel pain—not the throbbing of his fingers, the ache in his veins…
But no—people were in danger, weren't they? Him most of all. He needed to do something; his head was clearer than it had been in hours—days? Merlin opened his eyes, although it didn't make much difference: they had lit no torches in this part of the dungeons. He sat up, brushing moldy straw from his ragged breeches and scaring a rat that had scurried too close.
He still felt off—drunk, almost. He listed to the side as he tried to stand and work blood into his limbs. Would anyone be coming for him? Or were they trapped too? He almost remembered Arthur, shouting something about betrayal… A spectacle, a trial unlike Arthur's methodical parade of witnesses. Had Wymond really given such a speech in front of everyone?
Without light, he couldn't tell how bad his hand was. All he knew was that it was agonizing—and even if he had been able to see it, he had nothing with him that would help.
Merlin examined the cuffs with his good hand. The runes were along the inside, ones he didn't recognize—creating cold iron was an ancient and delicate practice, older than even the Old Religion. There had always been people eager to bind mages' powers.
But how to break them? They had been smart to put the runes on the inside; he couldn't' destroy the configuration as Agravaine had destroyed his own without injuring himself. If he used friction, his skin would give out long before the metal did. But how else to regain access to his magic? He couldn't do anything without it—he didn't know how to pick locks, didn't have the strength to break the cell door, didn't have the tools to file away the bars.
He couldn't do nothing, either.
Perhaps… He'd been soulwalking before they had put the cuffs on him. He'd had access to his magic, fleetingly, even after they'd clamped over his wrists… Or he thought so, anyway.
If he tried again…
Merlin leaned against the wall, holding his knees to his chest to help with the chill. He tried to loosen himself from his body, tried to imagine the stone against his back dissolving, the cold vanishing. But everything was tight, his muscles tensing and curling around his bones with suffocating grips. Painful, the way he was trapped within himself, cut off from the magic and the world.
"I know you're there," he whispered—that made it more real. His voice joined the slow drip drip of water. "I can't feel you, but I know you're not gone. Please…"
Merlin could see his magic in his mind's eye: coiled around his heart like a snake, shackled inside his chest when it needed to roam free. Blocked from his will, swelling like a limb, straining against skin. He felt so empty…
And something jostled, the slightest tingle of warmth under his sternum. Merlin gasped, coughing as the pain disappeared—but only for a second.
The cuff's pricked his skin, pins and needles racing up his arms like a thousand tiny spiders burrowing into each of his pores. He muffled a groan with his fist, body spasming. It was punishment for having reached his magic, if even for a moment.
But now Merlin knew it could be done. It took more focus, maybe, and it hurt. But it could be done.
And so he would do it.
AN: In which I regret the fact that two of my characters' names start with "Wym." Sorry for the delay. I wanted to work a part-time job over the summer, so my company naturally scheduled me for 39 hours a week. And now school's starting again :(( Regardless, I'm hoping to have this story finished by December. We'll see how that goes lol.
But anyway, thank you all so much for continuing to read! You guys are great, and you're what keep me eager to get back to writing :)