Chapter Eleven: And They Wouldn't Die
"'Be ready'? You're sure that's all he said?" Arthur demanded, pacing. God, it was so frustrating, being confined to a single place. All he could do was pace. It had only been a few days—how many now? Two, three? But it felt like he had paced enough to cut a path through the castle's stone, a circular configuration to serve as evidence of his imprisonment.
"How could I mishear him?" Gilli asked. "He's a dragon; it's like the world is shaking whenever he speaks." He glared at Arthur, arms crossed—were all sorcerers so tetchy and irritated all the time? Or just the ones Arthur spoke to?
How was Gilli not going mad with the waiting, with the anticipation, the lack of control?
"But what does she plan to do?" Arthur gripped the fire poker and mangled a piece of coal, ash puffing out from the hearth and onto his rug. Merlin would've had a fit if he'd been there to see it. This thought only made the king angrier.
"How should I know? She needs to do it soon, though—he's setting up the gallows down there."
Arthur peered out of his window to see that, sure enough, Wymond had ordered his men—Arthur's men—to begin constructing gallows. It was a mere wooden frame so far, but Arthur knew it would be ready soon: his father's had taken less than two days. Terror made quick work of such projects—fear of magic, fear of being punished. Wymond wasn't the type who would take mistakes or delays lightly.
The king refused to imagine who it was for, his friends swinging in the breeze as their faces swelled and purpled and eyes popped like grapes, crows landing on their shoulders to steal bits of flesh—
No. He wasn't imagining it.
"The dragon didn't give you a timeline?" Arthur asked.
"Maybe she didn't give him one," Gilli said, shrugging. "I'm sorry, sire." He didn't sound sorry, but Arthur didn't press. Let the sorcerer have his mood; he was helping, and if Arthur took his frustration out on the man, he might abandon the king—annoying dragon or no.
Arthur would have to think about this logically—the way Gwen would think. A maidservant with state secrets… A blacksmith… She'd gotten out, but how would she get back in? And with the druids, no less. Assuming she used the same way twice—however she'd managed it—what would she do next? If she didn't have some kind of timeframe, she'd have three main objectives: stopping whatever execution Wymond was planning, freeing the knights and Merlin, and freeing Arthur. Probably in that order. Arthur wasn't so egotistical to think that she would put him above everyone else's lives. He wouldn't want her to, either.
But if Wymond caught wind of what she was doing, he'd know those would be her main objectives, too.
Be ready…
"We'll start a fire," Arthur said. "And escape."
"Um," Gilli said, "how about… we don't do that. Sire. I think perhaps being cooped up in your room, not eating, has taken its toll. The dragon told me she had a plan; there's no need for us to come up with one."
Perhaps it was Gilli's personality, not anything inherent to magic. Merlin had certainly been more willing to get his hands dirty.
"There's every need." Arthur put the poker down and wiped the grime on his trousers—another thing Merlin would've killed him for. "It's her and some druids, Gilli. She must have every advantage we can give her. So when you see me on the balcony—that will be the signal—you'll start the fire. Get the horses out first, of course. And then I want you to find her and assist her."
It was practically flawless, assuming Gilli could pull it off. But surely starting a fire didn't require a lot of magic, especially in a place as flammable as a barn. The man wouldn't even have to sneak in; he was a stablehand, after all.
"I never agreed to be your soldier," Gilli muttered. "Only a messenger."
Arthur had rarely wanted to sock someone as badly as he did now. "Very well. I suppose we'll all just die then."
"There's no need for dramatics, sire." Gilli sighed. "Okay, I start a fire. And what will you be doing?"
This, Arthur thought, was the brilliance of it. Wymond would assume, if he found Gwen and the druids, that their only objective—or their main objective—would have been to free Arthur. He wouldn't be able to fathom the thought of a maidservant acting of her own accord. If he thought Arthur had escaped with her help, and then caught him, he wouldn't be watching for her actual plan. "You're going to get me some rope," Arthur said, glancing at the window. "So I can escape."
Gilli stared up at the ceiling. "And where will I find rope?"
"In the stables." The king sat at the table. Now that his flash of inspiration was over, he felt suddenly exhausted. His hunger made his head fuzzy, as though it was soft and stuffed with feathers, like a pillow. He needed to sleep and eat; if he wasn't ready by the time Gwen was… He needed to be ready to assist her. His previous plan of a hunger strike wouldn't help anyone now—least of all his people.
"Alright," Gilli said. He stayed silent as Arthur ate what was on his plate, leaving nary a crumb. He'd hardly ever felt so ravenous, even on campaigns. "It's a plan, sire."
Merlin didn't know if it had been the brief re-connection to his magic, or if his body had finally grown accustomed to its lack of magic—but he found that, even after sleeping again, his head remained clear. No one, not Maverick or Wymond, came to wake him or hurt him. He curled up in the corner, trying to determine how much time had passed since the cuffs had been put on him, how much time had passed since he'd last seen Arthur or Gaius or Gwen or any of the knights. Were they okay? Was it too late?
The warlock couldn't bear the thought that they'd been killed because he had been too slow, because he had caught wind of the conspiracy too late. He should've trusted his own instincts, honed from years of violence—should've trusted Gwen's instincts. The excuse of being a young, naive boy had long since faded; he was a man now, grown into something hard and curved and maybe even wicked. Like a gnarled tree clinging to a cliff, dark and angry. Maybe he had never been good, had only ever tried to survive—selfishly, at the expense of others. Maybe he had only ever saved people because it benefited him, because he cared for them. If they hadn't belonged to him in some way, would he have ever tried to save anyone at all?
Maybe it was time he made peace with that, even as he was trying to be better.
But if he had been too late—if his mistake had killed Lancelot or Gwaine… If his mistake had killed Gaius or Gwen… He would murder Wymond. Whatever happened to him, he would see to the traitor's death.
It might have been a week or only a day; Merlin had no way of knowing down here in the dark. He needed information, solid in the way his thoughts currently weren't. He felt jittery and caged, confined to his own skin.
He gripped the damp, moldy hay, trying to ground himself. The magic was there—he couldn't have been imagining it. Whatever fog his mind had created these past few days—hours?—his magic was always real, was always there. The way the sky was always there, blue or black, like a bruise on the earth's skin. Merlin just needed to press hard enough to feel the pain of it—and his pain was always real, too.
The hay in his fingers, itchy and wet—that was real. He focused, imagining a tiny flame flickering across those strands, blackening them. Fire was easy—had been easy even as a boy, when he'd conjured warmth in his home's hearth.
Merlin concentrated on disconnecting from himself, pleading with his magic to do as he asked. He couldn't sense it, couldn't taste its tingle in the air, remnants of the Sluagh and the shield and every other major spell that had ever been cast in Camelot. But it was like the hay: he imagined those sensations, imagined his fire spell joining them. A small tendril of smoke amidst a blazing inferno.
If I want to save them, I need my magic.
Nothing happened. He reached for one of the first spells he'd ever learned the words to, mouth tingling strangely, and he slurred, "Forbærne."
The hay sparked and burnt up in an instant, a quiet whoosh filling the cell. It blinded Merlin, and he brought a hand up to shield his eyes (his good one, his left—the right he still held close to his torso, out of the way). The movement made his shackles clink.
Rats that had made their homes in the corners of the cell squealed, fleeing through the bars. Merlin blinked, trying to get rid of the after-image in his eyes. It still hurt, still ached along his wrists and chest. But perhaps he was adapting. Or, more troubling, perhaps he was growing numb—the way a soldier might fight even as he bled out, might fight until he was dead on his feet, his sword still in hand.
Now, Merlin thought, I'll bend the bars.
"Ābūgaþ andweorc."
He choked as metal creaked in the darkness, chest spasming. This time, it wasn't painful, just unpleasant. Sweat broke out beneath his arms, between his shoulder blades, and he shivered. When was the last time he'd had any water? Or food?
He smacked his lips, which were chapped and bleeding. It had to have at least been a few days, based on how hungry he was. He'd been in too much pain to realize it before. And water… He ran his tongue across teeth sticky with blood, a cemetery of white tombs in his mouth. Testaments to the torture. Maverick…
Something would have to be done about Maverick, too.
The only thought that reassured Merlin was that Wymond would have to keep Arthur alive. If he thought the king was enchanted, then he was on the king's side—in theory, at least. Wymond might have been asking another kingdom or foreign force for aid—he might have hurt Merlin and sent Arthur's guards away—but he was at least pretending to be on Arthur's side. Wymond would keep the king alive, if only to preserve his image. Maybe he was even preserving it for himself—a balm for his self-doubt.
A door clicked and creaked down the hall, and Merlin jolted as he realized the evidence of his magic would be obvious to anyone who looked. But he was too tired to cover it up—more tired than he should've been from doing such little magic. Fear struck him: what if using more powerful magic was too taxing? What if this odd, disconnected way of directing his spells stopped working? He pulled himself in tighter, knees to chest, his right hand resting somewhere near his collar bone. The cuffs made everything awkward and tight, and before Merlin could do anything more to offer himself a semblance of protection, a flickering light made its way down the hall, attached to a hand and a body.
Maverick.
Merlin felt as if he'd been dug up from a fresh grave as his torturer's eyes swept over him, as flinty and hard as his father's—as if he'd only just died, dirt still wet around him, and the killer had come back to make sure the job was really done.
"What did you do?" Maverick hissed, his light revealing the burnt hay, the bent bars.
The man's cold voice shot a thrill of panic sparking all the way to Merlin's toes, that same voice echoing in his ears… What is the source of the enchantment… That voice belonged to his pain—
Merlin said nothing and shook himself, trying to think. Would it be better to kill him now? Try to wring information out of him? Or incapacitate him?
"Filthy sorcerer, answer me!" Merlin flinched as Maverick unsheathed his sword with the hand not holding the torch, and the warlock's stomach burned with jealousy—how dare Maverick move both so easily? The man's fingers gripped without pain, without becoming a weak, throbbing mess.
"Why did you betray the king?" Merlin rasped, shying back from the blade jammed into his cell. His voice grated, rusted chainmail creaking together—his last, inadequate defense. His word was the only thing he'd been left with.
Except—that wasn't quite true anymore.
Maverick drew closer, pressed against the bars. "I've betrayed no one; it's you who's the traitor. A traitor against the Crown, against Camelot, against God. Against nature itself, the way you bend the world to your will."
The warlock stared at the tiny tremble in the man's perfect fingers, the clench in his jaw. "Your father is a power-hungry maniac, and I'm sorry I didn't notice it before. Shared blood does not mean you must share loyalties. You're making a mistake, Maverick." His throat ached even from that short speech, and Merlin coughed.
"I don't answer to you," Maverick growled. "And you seem to have regained your faculties—so I'll ask again: what happened here?"
Merlin wondered what response would soothe the man. I was practicing with my magic. I found a way around your stupid cuffs. I was trying not to panic and come up with a plan all at once. Probably not any of those.
"Perhaps you need a reminder of what our relationship is," Maverick snarled. He put the torch in one of the empty brackets in the hall and unhooked the key-ring from his belt. "I ask questions, and you answer them—and if I can't have your words, I'll take something else from you. Since you don't seem to need it, maybe this time it will be your tongue."
Suddenly, strangely, Lancelot's words came back to Merlin: You're not as capable as you think you are.
For all the warlock's planning, things inevitably went wrong. Hell, even when he didn't have a plan—when he was least expecting anything—it went wrong.
He needed to stop panicking and start doing and damn the consequences.
"Have you killed them?" Merlin demanded as Maverick swung his cell door open. "Have you murdered the citizens you were sworn to protect? Have you executed the knights you were sworn to obey?"
"I will not answer you, sorcerer," Maverick said.
Merlin remembered the man's rough palms on his body, the shoving, the way Maverick had held him down as he screamed. A darkness rose in him then, a thirst for vengeance he'd felt all-too often after his arrival in Camelot. Maverick and his father and all the others—they had been planning this from the beginning, as they'd watched Merlin sweat and bleed.
Restrain him, he asked of his magic. "Gebinde hine." He nearly groaned as his wrists spasmed, close enough to the cuffs to feel the runes crackle. But, again, there was that bizarre numbness, that separation—the same he felt when he soul-walked, as though his magic were a severed limb, a flayed skin.
But instead of standing immobilized, Maverick only stumbled. Merlin's parched mouth grew drier.
"What was that?" Maverick said. His sword came up to rest near Merlin's neck. "A spell? I'll kill you, sorcerer, I really will—damn what my father says. I've always hated people like you, pretending you're better than you really are, pretending you aren't beholden to the same rules as the rest of us." He sneered. "Trailing after the prince, your smart mouth—when the rest of us had to stand back and be quiet. We knew our place."
Merlin begged inside his head, begged for his life—to the only entity he was ever willing to beg to, to his magic and his soul, somewhere outside himself, fighting the runes and the manacles Uther had used for years to restrain anyone of real power.
Please, he thought. I can't die now. Not yet. Kilgharrah had said they were close; the druids had said they were close. His friends might still live—Arthur was certainly alive. Everyone was counting on him.
"Gestandan," he choked aloud. "Gestandan Maverick!"
"Stop that!" Maverick snarled. He pressed until Merlin felt blood trickle down his neck.
No, no! Why wasn't it working? Merlin needed to disconnect, to fade, to guide the magic from afar—
"Gestandan! Gestandan efenlæcung stán, ic bidde unc, bealucræft!"
And then it happened, like gray roots creeping up Maverick's legs—rock crackling along folds of fabric and where Maverick's arms and legs bent. The man tried to scream, but everything was soon made of stone, his blade left hovering millimeters over Merlin's neck. It was soundless, except for a faint grinding and Merlin's heavy, panting breaths.
His arms were tingling again, from his missing fingernails all the way up to his shoulders. Everything was wrong—his magic had always been there, and now it wasn't. It was barred from him, his extra limb, his extra set of lungs.
And still, he had managed to kill a man with it. Even when he hadn't been trying to.
They're right to be frightened of me, he thought.
Merlin ducked unsteadily beneath Maverick's sword—it was the only thing that hadn't transformed into stone. Using the wall, he climbed to his feet. The others would come looking for Maverick eventually, and he needed to get the cuffs off and get out, preferably with the knights in tow.
If they were even here.
Maverick's belt didn't have any other rings except the one to Merlin's cell, which was now glued solidly to the man. The warlock couldn't even get the sword, which was encased in the man's grasp, ten solid stone columns protecting its hilt.
But maybe he could use the blade as leverage…
The warlock positioned the cuffs so that the thinner links between the manacles were pressed against the sword's sharp edge. He bore his meager weight down on them, but they didn't budge—magically reinforced, then, or he was just weak.
Arthur's sword might do the trick, or some other kind of enchanted blade. Who knew where Wymond had put Excalibur, though?
Merlin tugged at his hair—he didn't have the range of movement to run a hand through—and sagged. He could use his magic, but it had almost been too late. Maybe it needed clearer instructions with the disconnect between it and his body, like it couldn't understand him unless he spoke aloud. Usually it moved like his heart, beating without instruction; now, it needed to be told when to beat, how to beat. Merlin had to hold it in his hand and squeeze.
He gave one last long look at Maverick's expression—anger, surprise, horror—mouth wide and face stretched with panic—and he turned and left.
In the end, Idonia, Aldusa, and Florian decided to come. Idonia told Gwen that the dragon had been in contact with Wymarc while she slept, and he had told the druid woman that there was someone with magic still free in Camelot—some man called "Gilli," who was in contact with Arthur. She'd admitted this with a sour tilt to her mouth, and Gwen didn't blame her. Kilgharrah seemed to make enemies wherever he went—he was a bitter old man wrapped in a beast's scaly skin.
"I don't like him either," Gwen had said, "and he saved me from dying alone in a pit. You don't have to hide your feelings from me."
Idonia had nodded, and that had been that.
Now, the four of them were trekking through the woods that surrounded Camelot. Gwen stuck to the back, the hood of a cloak thrown over her face to hide her identity. The others had shed their distinctive druid clothing and traded it for a peasant's look, rough and dirty. The late afternoon sun mangled the trees' shadows, stretching them into long distortions.
"We shouldn't enter through the tunnels," Florian said. His voice held that musical quality that most druids had. Gwen wondered if it was because they were accustomed to speaking in their minds or because they often spoke the language of magic. "I fear it would waste too much time, given what you told us of the danger to the citizens and the knights. But they won't be letting anyone in through the gates, either, especially not a group as big as ours."
Gwen scowled. He was right. She thought the problem over, fingering the vial that Wymarc had given her. It was kept out of sight in her pocket. "Couldn't you use magic to put the guards to sleep? Or disguise us somehow?"
She stepped over a log, careful to keep her voice low. They didn't know if Wymond had sent out any patrols. Gwen figured it would be a waste of his limited manpower, but she also figured it didn't hurt to be cautious.
Florian glanced at the others. Gwen hoped they weren't discussing how stupid of an idea that was behind her back.
"Doing so might render one of us useless for the rest of the night, depending on the number of guards," Idonia finally said. "I could put one or two to sleep without issue, but if there's more, I'm afraid I would only be able to aid you in what I can do with a staff."
"And it's the same for the rest of you?" Gwen asked.
Aldusa nodded. "Florian and I have experience with disguises, but I don't know how useful that would be in this situation—except perhaps to disguise you. And who would they even let in at such a late hour?"
"Then we'll go through the tunnels," Gwen decided. "I understand your point, Florian, but we also waste time trying to find another way in. This way, we gain access to the castle immediately and have no chance of running into guards as we enter Camelot. We will simply have to walk quickly—the other ways into the citadel are too risky." This longer option was risky, too, but she would have to hope her brother could keep himself alive long enough for her to rescue him. If she could release him—and the others—that would increase their manpower and save their lives, assuming they were well enough to fight. Sir Leon could even go out to fetch the knights at the border and bring them to the citadel to put things right.
"It's your decision, my lady," Florian said, tilting his head.
Gwen lifted her cloak so it wouldn't catch on a bush. "I'm no lady," she muttered. "And I wish you would stop calling me such. I am nothing but a serving girl."
"A serving girl leading a rebellion?" Idonia scoffed. "You are no more a serving girl than Emrys is a manservant. You disservice yourself."
It was hardly a rebellion with as little as six people—including Gwen herself. But she was filled with relief when the others didn't chime in. She didn't know what it meant, that they kept calling her such things, and the druids were too cryptic to give her proper answers—and now wasn't the time to ask, besides. Marching forward, she hoped they didn't see her gnawing on the inside of her cheek. "It's this way," she said.
They followed her like lambs trailing after a shepherd, and she wondered where in God's name she'd gone wrong.
It turned out that climbing down into the dragon's tunnel was much easier with the assistance of magic and a rope. Florian tied one end securely around a tree, and Idonia showed Gwen how to use it to climb down. Aldusa summoned a light within the tunnel itself to see by—none of them stumbled, even when they landed—and she called the rope back to them after they were all at the bottom, as easily as one might call a dog.
Now that victory was so close—now that she was returning to the castle, less than a day after she'd left but with help—Gwen suddenly felt nauseous, so sick she might puke all over the cloak the druids had given her. How did everyone else deal with it, this anticipation and dread?
"My teachers told me it's the worst part," Idonia whispered to her. Florian and Aldusa were up ahead, Aldusa's light bobbing above her fingers. "The waiting, not the battle itself."
Gwen swallowed bile. "How are you meant to cope with it?"
Idonia grasped Gwen's fingers, and Gwen noticed they were just as clammy as her own, the cold sweat of fear. "I don't know. They never got that far."
Perhaps Gwen should've been embarrassed, drawing comfort from a stranger and one so much younger than her—one who probably hadn't ever seen a proper battle. Gwen had witnessed plenty, and their gruesome aftermaths had haunted her, lingering in her psyche long after everything was over.
But this was the first time where it all seemed to rest on her, where she could least afford to lose her head.
"Maybe you can't ever cope with it," Gwen said. "Maybe you just bear it in the moment, and it stays with you forever."
"Maybe." Idonia shrugged, squeezing her fingers before withdrawing her hand. "I couldn't say. But it's been written that you won't fail, and I think you should draw hope from the fact that you aren't alone."
It was comforting. Gwen managed a smile. "You're right. Thank you."
The trip back to the castle seemed simultaneously much longer and much shorter than Gwen remembered, and with the brighter light, it was easy to see scrapes along the wall from where the dragon's bulk had marred the stone.
"It's funny," Florian said, "how much of Camelot's history is rooted in magic." He let his fingertips trail along the wall as he walked. "And how often Uther sought to make use of it before deciding it was better off having never existed at all."
"You mean the tunnels?" Gwen asked. "I thought they were too smooth to have been made with tools."
"Yes," Florian agreed. "Many mages worked to create these—perhaps for Uther's siege, perhaps as part of the plan to trap Kilgharrah. I couldn't say: Uther would have erased this from the mouths of those who knew. I'm interested to see what information the young Pendragon might discover once he is looking for those traces of magic."
I'm sure he's interested too—and dreading it all the while. Arthur had never been the sort who had to know, especially when it came to history. He'd understood the need for court secrets—had mandated that need, even. As Morgana's maid, he'd sworn her to secrecy more than once about the lady's health, about Uther's health. But now…
Gwen thought Arthur was sick of secrets, and this relieved her.
"There will be plenty of time for discovery once we take back the citadel," she said. It was clearer than ever that her ragtag group wasn't made of warriors. They were unfocused, dripping in sweat. They were as nervous as her.
Florian cleared his throat. "Right."
These were people accustomed to sneaking, accustomed to guarding. Gwen needed to remember that and use it to her advantage—she wasn't some commander leading soldiers into battle. Those were tactics Wymond would be expecting, would have trained for. She needed to think like herself and hope Wymond had never gone against a serving girl.
The gallows were finished, and Arthur thought it must have been a record. The king couldn't wait any longer, not for Gwen or anyone—if he was to help any of his knights, any of the brave men and women who had remained loyal to him and to the crown—he needed to act now.
Because, to Arthur, it was easy to guess who Wymond was executing.
Praying that Gilli was watching, Arthur began unwinding the rope the sorcerer had brought him on his balcony. He tied it securely around one of the railing's pillars and gave it a tug—sturdy enough. It was nearing sunset, and the dreary winter clouds made the dim sky even dimmer. Hopefully that meant no one would see him until it was too late.
He strapped his fire poker to his belt, where it swung awkwardly against his hip with each step. The king would pause only until he heard the cries.
Drumming his fingers on the wall, Arthur glanced back into his chambers. The chill made his fingers ache—would he have a good enough grip on the rope to actually climb down? The whole plan would crumble if he fell and broke his neck. He flexed his hands until they felt warm again, growing more impatient.
To hell with it, he thought. He swung one leg over the side of the railing and dropped the rope, clutching one end. As he began to descend, he heard cries of fire! The stables! and breathed a sigh of relief. Gilli had come through after all. And for all his reluctance, Arthur would reward the man when all this was over—an honorary title, a bit of land, some money. This was twice now the sorcerer had serviced Camelot, for all his disdain.
The king wrapped his legs around the rope and climbed down hand-over-hand. His shoulders and forearms burned, but he made it before anything terrible could happen. Glancing up, he decided to leave the rope dangling there; this was a distraction, not a real escape attempt. A way to delay the execution, a way to buy Gwen time.
He joined the crush of bodies as his servants rushed to put the fire out. The horses were loose in the streets—which Arthur thought made the entire chaos of it better. The air was filled with panicked cries, both human and animal, and a dense smoke that stung his eyes. He was halfway across the courtyard when the bell began tolling, and he hoped it rang for himself and not for Gwen.
The king, having not gotten this far in his planning, ducked into a group of servants as guards went running past—this was working better than he had hoped. He'd even roughed up his clothes, which were still objectively finer than most. In the dim winter evening, he might even manage to get to the city's gate. Wouldn't that throw Wymond off his game?
Arthur scurried out of the courtyard, glad to be rid of the sight of the hideous gallows—they stood behind like omens, like bloody promises. If he squinted, he could even see his father presiding over them on the balcony just below his rooms, raising his hand to signal the fall of the axe, the pyre to be lit. He could almost hear the pleas.
As he turned, someone grabbed his arm.
"Your Majesty," a cool voice said, "what are you doing out of your rooms?"
Arthur's blood turned to ice at the sound—Wymond. The commander was calm in the face of the fire and the king's escape, and his grip was tight.
"I wanted to take a stroll about the grounds," Arthur said. "I find the evening air agreeable, don't you?" With his free hand, he ripped the poker from his trousers—this was his chance to end it—
Three guards appeared in the corner of Arthur's vision, one unsheathing his sword and bringing it up to block the poker. The clang reverberated up the king's arm, vibrating his teeth.
"You would draw on your king?" he demanded, wrenching himself from Wymond's grip. It was a man he didn't recognize, especially in the dim, hazy light. The two others he thought he'd seen guarding the throne room. How had Wymond managed to convince so many to side with him, against their oaths? "You would pretend to be loyal, even as you lock me up and prepare to kill my men?"
The guard didn't flinch, and Wymond brushed off flakes of ash from his shirt—bits from the poker had flung everywhere. Arthur regretted his appearance: he needed to remain poised, in control. Unenchanted. But this is a distraction, not the real thing, he reminded himself.
"We're lawfully executing those who are in league with the sorcerer—and thus colluded to enchant you, sire. Everything is above-board, I assure you, and you may review it all once you are in your right mind. I will accept any punishment you give me at that time, my lord," Wymond said. "Now, please drop the poker and tell me who set the stables on fire."
Arthur dropped the poker, and the guard sheathed his blade. The king made note of his face as best he could—the look of his armor, the color of his skin and hair. The man wouldn't hold a job again in Camelot, once all this was over.
With the rage coursing through his veins, the king wasn't even sure the man would live, once all this was over.
"It will be better for both you and I if you answer, sire," Wymond said. He took Arthur's arm again—gently, this time, as though he were leading an invalid. The king stared at the commander's fingers as the chaos began to settle into something calmer, as he was corralled closer to the castle. "I was just coming to get you, you know. To watch the outcomes of my own little trials." His mouth lifted in a tiny smirk.
"Let me guess—guilty?" Arthur asked. "You're not as clever as you think, Wymond. And I am not some hapless idiot, so let go."
Now, others were watching—servants and Wymond's loyal guards. The king was used to the eyes, but less accustomed to the feeling of being used: like a lame calf, an oddity shown to everyone before it might be put out of its misery. He could even imagine the clucking tongues, the fake sympathy. Arthur held his head up high.
It's not real, he told himself. Just a show. A show for Gwen, for your knights.
"How astute you are," Wymond said. He only let go once they were up the courtyard's steps, nearly into the castle proper. "Five of your knights are far too close to the sorcerer for any kind of comfort. I thought of banishing them, but—did you know?—one of them has actually been banished before. I had not remembered his face. The circumstances are a bit peculiar, a bit suspicious. You have not often changed your mind, sire."
Now, Arthur understood that on some level Wymond was fooling himself. The commander knew the king, and he'd known that even before Merlin, Arthur had valued fluidity. He hadn't liked it, perhaps, but his child-self's mind had often been more malleable than his father's—as any child's mind was. Maybe it had been his youth, or maybe it was just who he was. He'd given Gwaine a chance, given Merlin a chance, given Gwen a chance—and they had proven themselves to him, over and over.
The king liked to think he wasn't a stubborn fool, at least some of the time. And Wymond should have known that.
"You will remember that, then, when it's your neck on the chopping block. I haven't changed my mind about you, Wymond," Arthur said. Five of his knights, hand-picked and unlikely under most circumstances. All hard-working, all brave—and this was their reward for their loyalty to him?
Arthur swallowed hard and pretended it was the smoke from the stable fire making his throat dry.
"You will know your mind once this enchantment is lifted," Wymond said. As if these executions weren't just a ploy to take away Arthur's morale, weren't just a ploy to demonstrate that loyalty to the king resulted in gruesome death.
"By destroying the diary?" Arthur scoffed. "Or the sorcerer?"
"I'll find a way," Wymond assured. "And you had better hope I succeed, or this is your fate, my king—to be locked away, known forever as an addled, enchanted fool."
And Arthur did see his future as Wymond said: locked away, his friends all dead, tormented by guilt and the gnawing certainty that he should've seen all this coming. Betrayal was inevitable in Camelot, it seemed—maybe it had nothing to do with blood, and everything to do with the place.
Maybe his kingdom was the thing that was cursed.
Gwen, he thought, hurry.
Sundown wasn't an unusual time for executions. Uther, Gwen suspected, had enjoyed creating a dramatic spectacle: flames framed against a blood-red sky, the dull glow of an axe. Sundown, sunrise… Gwen had sometimes dreaded the day ending because it hadn't meant a break or going home and bedding down; it had meant listening to people scream and plead for their lives. The only good thing had been that the glaring transitional light had made it impossible to make out their faces properly, as if even the sun didn't want to make the executed's pain worse.
Gwen had been torn between the dungeons and the courtyard—as soon as they had reached the main dragon's cavern, they went up and looked out the windows. Just four servants, nervous from the coup and peering out the glass. No one had paid them any mind. They had seen the gallows, but not the knights—not Elyan—and Gwen couldn't know from a glance who Wymond planned on killing. But it didn't truly matter: Wymond didn't have the authority to execute anyone.
For Gwen, the question became whether or not her brother was still in the dungeons. In the end, she supposed that didn't truly matter either—not if they were going to stop the execution either way. But this didn't halt the sick feeling in her gut, the clamminess of her hands, or Idonia glancing at her in sympathy.
"Alright," Gwen whispered. "Alright. Are you ready, Idonia?" The two were walking briskly to the kitchens; Aldusa and Florian were heading to the courtyard.
It plays to their strengths, Gwen thought. They're going to be fine. We can do this—I can do this. She took a deep breath. The plan felt haphazard to her, a half-melted chunk of metal too cold to mold into anything. But it was all they had, and their time had run out.
"Are you ready, Guinevere?" Idonia asked, and they ducked inside.
The kitchens were always blisteringly hot and smelled like a mix of meat and honey that made most people heady with hunger. Even with the imminent execution—of the knights? Of her brother?—the kitchen was bustling with activity. Preparing meals for the morning, preparing meals for the evening… No matter who was running the castle, they still had to eat. Gwen, already sweating, began to feel as if she were swimming in her own salt water. She was too recognizable—they would know she was there to go against Wymond. She had stood up to Morgana, stood up to everyone. Who would believe that she was bowing to a traitor?
She kept her head low—let them think she was nervous, because she was. Let them think she had stayed out of the castle for a day to let everything die down. Let them think she was a coward.
Idonia mimicked her. With her dirty shawl and tattered skirt, she fit right in—much better than the cloak, trousers, and tunic she'd been wearing when they'd first met.
No one glanced at them. They were nervous, too, Gwen realized. Suspicious of each other, or perhaps they were just afraid. They were accustomed to take-overs, to violence—who wasn't? But the terror of knowing you might die at any moment, that you were a speck of dust in someone else's eye, fit to be blown away at any moment…
That never went away. Not when the person in charge was unpredictable, murderous.
"I'm taking meals to the guards," Idonia muttered to the head cook—Mary. She was a stout woman and had a mean temper, but Gwen had always found her fair. "To the dungeons, I mean."
"Hmm," Mary muttered. "That platter there you can use; take from that table. Don't use none of the good stuff, y'hear?" She glared at Idonia, at Gwen crouched half behind her. The cook had to have recognized Gwen; there was no doubt in her mind.
Gwen's heart pounded, and she tried sinking further into the floor. She wished she could fold in on herself, disappear. Would Mary call the guards? Alert Wymond somehow? Do something worse?
The cook's voice dropped to a whisper: "And don't get me in any sort of trouble, neither." None of the others paid them any mind—it was a deliberate ignorance, a knowing turn of the shoulders. A closing of the ears, a willful disinterest. People Gwen had seen around, people Gwen knew, people she had worked with for over a decade. Maybe she should've just sent Idonia in by herself. But…
"Trust me," Gwen whispered back, sounding braver than she felt. The cook's eyes softened. The other servants said nothing, did nothing except their jobs, and Gwen knew that none of them would tell—even if they couldn't fight back, none of them wanted to be under some crazy despot's thumb.
As Idonia gathered what they needed for the plates of food, Gwen leaned forward. Suddenly she was confident, suddenly she felt like she knew she would succeed, and she let herself fall into the intoxicating feeling—even if it was a lie, it was better than crippling despair and the certainty that she would fail.
Mary liked her, she finally remembered. They all liked her, and they liked Arthur being in charge—she'd heard it from their own mouths. She knew them, and they knew her.
"Do you know where Gaius is?" she muttered. "The knights?"
"Locked him up in his own chambers," Mary breathed back. "You're brother's set to be killed—and you'll get me killed, if we're caught talking like this. Abby and Garrick told me everything. You're well-liked, Gwen, but nobody wants to die. So you best get to doin' whatever you're here to do." Her tone carried a brusque irritation—but it seemed almost performatory. Mary had always had a gruff exterior, even as she'd snuck Gwen extra pastries for her and Morgana on a picnic, had let Gwen stay overnight in the kitchens, sleeping where it was warm, when it was too late to go home. That was before she'd had Merlin's friendship, before she'd gotten Elyan back…
"Where is Abigail? And Garrick?" Gwen asked.
"Safe, far as I know," Mary said. "Go on. And good luck."
Gwen led Idonia out of the kitchens. She was still sweating, but this sweat she recognized: sweat from anticipation, tension. It was the kind of sweat she got when she was rolling up her sleeves, preparing to help Gaius with an influx of patients. The kind of sweat she got when the forge roared in front of her.
"Stop here," Gwen said. They ducked into an alcove, and Gwen took out the potion Wymarc had given her. She'd asked for it after she'd woken at the camp, a plan just outrageous enough to work. "Hold the tray still. Wymarc said I need to sprinkle it on—"
"I know what it is," Idonia interrupted. "A bottled sleeping spell. We use them usually when someone is in too much pain for normal herbs and things to work."
Gwen nodded. "It's for the dungeon guards. I thought it would be easier, since I knew we might have to split up." She uncorked the vial and drizzled the stuff across the plates of food—it was thin enough and clear enough that they would probably mistake it as water if they saw it at all.
"And you don't have magic?" Idonia guessed.
Gwen nodded, ducking out of the alcove. She tucked the empty vial back in her pocket. They didn't have time for lengthy explanations—they needed to move. They descended down, down hallways and staircases familiar to Gwen. How many times had she gone from Gaius's chambers to the dungeons? She grimaced.
As they went, there were less and less people—Gwen didn't know if it was the later hour, their location, or the fact that Wymond had likely mandated that everyone attend the execution. She swallowed bile but forced herself on; she wasn't going to get pulled back into that place of anxiety.
The two were stopped only once, and Gwen put on her best demure smile, curtseyed to the guard, and told him they were delivering food to the ones down in the dungeon—it was hard work looking after a sorcerer, wasn't it? The guard had squeezed her arm and smiled, letting them pass.
"You're good at that," Idonia said softly once they were a few hallways down. Gwen hated it, but she was right—she'd gotten good at lying, somewhere along the way. Had it been when she was helping Merlin? Or had she always been good at it when it suited her?
"I've done this trick before," Gwen responded. "With Arthur. He snuck me a—an herb we needed." And it was true, she found when she thought about it—she had always been able to lie when she needed to. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
As the two headed down the last set of stairs before they came into the dungeons proper, Gwen whispered, "Remember. It's just food from the kitchens. Your name is Abby if they ask."
Idonia nodded and put on her best submissive face. Gwen hung back as Idonia entered, her ears straining to pick up their conversation. There was a chance the guards would recognize her with how often she'd been down visiting Merlin, and Gwen didn't want to be discovered earlier than necessary.
"Sirs," Idonia called. The air coming from the dungeons was damp and cold, worse now with the winter nights. Gwen pressed her spine against the chill stone wall and tried not to think of her brother rotting away, of Leon or Percival or Lancelot or Merlin. "I've brought you food."
"About time!" one exclaimed. "You'd have thought they'd forgotten about us, with all the commotion."
"Don't be ungrateful," another said. This one sounded familiar, and Gwen thought that the voice maybe belonged to the lieutenant who had often brought Merlin to the trial's proceedings—the one who had accompanied Maverick.
"Pity Maverick's too busy to eat even. It'll be cold by the time he gets back," the first guard said. "He's obsessed with that damn sorcerer. Well, girl, what are you still doing here? You've delivered our food—now go."
Gwen heard Idonia's footsteps retreating, and she ducked next to Gwen, holding up three fingers. That meant four guards, including Maverick. Gwen hated to think of what the man was doing to Merlin if what the other guards had said was true. The nausea she thought had faded swirled again in her stomach.
But all they could do was wait in tense silence for the guards to eat.
"Mary's been experimenting again," one of the guards said. He must've been the third one; his voice was unfamiliar. "She dumped water on—"
As he cut off, there was the sound of something clattering, muffled thumps and clangs that might've been bodies in armor or cutlery. Gwen held her breath, but no one began shouting for help. There was no sound at all.
"Let's go," Gwen said. She stepped out from her hiding place and into the room where the guards often stationed themselves when they weren't checking on the prisoners. The low table held a few candles, goblets, and the platter of uneaten food—two of the guards were snoring in their chairs, and the third was slumped on the floor. He had a gash across his forehead—he must have hit the table—and he was bleeding.
Gwen reached down and took all of their key rings, unbuckled their sword belts and piled them in the corner. "Pick one, quickly, and help me drag them into one of the cells. Hopefully no one will hear them for a good, long while."
Together, they made quick work of tossing the bodies into the nearest cell, Gwen locking them in with one of her new keys. Idonia slung one of the sword belts across her waist; Gwen did the same.
"There was one other," Idonia said. "With Emrys. It's strange—I cannot sense him beyond here."
Gwen swallowed. No, Merlin was still alive; he had to be alive. They wouldn't have killed him without fanfare, and though there was no sign of the knights in this dim place, the guards had mentioned Merlin. He had to be locked up where Uther had kept the sorcerers long-term.
Together, they traveled to the end of the hall. The cells were too dark to see inside; if they held prisoners, none of them spoke. Gwen reached for the doorknob—the one that led past the torture chambers, so all the prisoners could hear their shrieks—praying that her courage wouldn't fail her now. It had brought her this far. She'd found the druids, had delayed her brother's execution… Merlin was always going to have been her ace in the hole. If he'd…
Before she could open the door, it was flung open from within. Gwen lurched back on instinct and narrowly avoided being smacked in the face.
And there was Merlin, looking worse than she could ever remember seeing him.
The king watched, held in place by his own guards and harried by Wymond's smug grin, as his knights were led to the gallows. Five nooses hung from the broad board above, silhouetted against the lowering sun. The clouds had parted for the evening light to splatter colors across the sky—arterial blood pumping from its giant, burning eye. The stables, and the plume of smoke rising above it, had been ignored in favor of the proceedings. The flames were out—and Gilli hadn't been caught—but Arthur couldn't find it in himself to feel anything except despair.
"Citizens of Camelot," Wymond began, and Arthur wanted to go limp. Had he been too late? Or too early? Maybe Gwen wasn't even in the citadel yet. Maybe Gilli had lied; maybe the dragon was wrong; maybe something had happened to delay them. Maybe Arthur's impulsive desire for action had ruined everything.
The line went Percival, Elyan, Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon. It was difficult to tell their states from the distance—especially since Wymond had dragged him to the balcony where his father had given his proclamations. The last time Arthur had appeared here… Had he announced the trial? Or had it been his coronation? He couldn't remember, his thoughts jumbled, as he faced yet another of his worst nightmares: his men, his soldiers, his responsibility, his friends, led to their deaths because of him.
And the worst part was there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
Wymond's guards (and where had the others gone?) were stationed at the edges of the crowd; others ushered the knights onto the platform. Some of the nobles stood on the courtyard's steps, likely the ones from his council. Arthur was too far away to hear the gallows' wood creaking, but he could imagine it—the shudder of the boards, the ugly coarseness of the ropes. The sweat on their faces, the trembling of their hands. Or maybe they were too brave to tremble; they were the best of Arthur's knights, after all. His chosen circle.
Wymond was still speaking. The king could remember the speeches he'd given when Arthur was a boy, the ones he'd given as a general before his troops, a commander of men. Invigorating. Inspiring.
Terrible.
"—And so it is with great sadness that I—"
"Liar!" Arthur bellowed, pushing against the guards so his voice might be heard by the crowd below. "Wymond Sunderland is a power-hungry, opportunistic traitor. He saw his chance to revolt and took it—he is no rightful regent; he is no rightful citizen!" Wymond went pale with fury as Arthur strained, managing to get free from one of the men holding him. He lunged forward, grasping, only for his arm to be caught again. "This cannot last, Wymond, mark my words. I'll—"
Finally, one of the guards mustered the courage to shove a gloved hand in Arthur's mouth—too thick for his bite to do much, although the king tried.
Wymond turned back to the crowd. "Don't you see? Our king is deceived—wild. Only by taking the sorcerer's power can we restore him—and Camelot—to glory! These men have been found guilty of colluding with magic; by Camelot's own law, they must die."
Wymond raised his hand. The nooses had been tightened around the knights' necks. Arthur didn't tear his eyes away—he would watch their last moments, as a testament to their strength, their loyalty. It was the last, and only, thing he could give them.
When the traitor dropped his arm—a motion eerily reminiscent of Uther's motions—the man at the base of the gallows pulled the lever, and the floor dropped out from underneath the five men.
And Arthur almost couldn't believe his eyes when the men dropped, too, a moment later, falling through the scaffolding to the ground beneath.
Coiled above them, hanging from the beam, were five thick snakes, hissing and bobbing, smooth scales glittering. People in the crowd screamed, reeling backward and away from the gallows—Wymond's men sprinted forward, swords drawn.
The serpents did nothing—it seemed they were only serpents, tongues flicking in and out, their eyes lazy and slitted in that drowsy, reptilian way.
Arthur suddenly wanted to laugh.
His men—thank God—wouldn't die.
"Kill them!" Wymond snarled. When the guards turned to kill the knights, the man clarified: "The snakes—use your spears!"
The king's knights were set aside, and Wymond's men began jabbing at the snakes. Instead of piercing their scaly hides, the spear points deflected as though they were striking stone, a few sparks dying out mid-air.
There were more cries from the crowd, and the man's grip on Arthur's mouth slackened. Around the taste of sweaty leather, the king couldn't help but cackle. He didn't know if it had been Merlin—or Gilli or someone else—but he was giddy with relief. Had Merlin escaped? But then, why was he hiding?
Whoever it had been, they were an ally. And they had Arthur's thanks.
"You thought you could win?" Arthur scoffed. "Against magic, without any of your own? If the trial had taught you one thing, Wymond, it should have been that you can never win against magic with pure steel—"
"Keep him silent!" Wymond snarled, turning on his heel to stare at the king. The guard belatedly clapped his hand back over Arthur's mouth. "That trial was a lie, sire, and you would do well to remember that you're not in your right mind!" He exhaled through his nose and faced the crowd below. "Do not fear! This is only a sorcerer's feeble attempts to stop us—execute them. They will die just as certainly on their knees!"
The knights were taken and forced to kneel in front of the gallows. The light was worse, now—Arthur could just make out their forms if he squinted. Something caught in his throat, but he told himself that whoever had stopped their executions once wouldn't leave them to die now.
"You." Wymond pointed to a man at the door—Conrad, it looked like, and a part of Arthur seethed with recognition. "Check the dungeons. See to it that the sorcerer hasn't escaped. Find my bastard, Maverick, and ensure that none in the crowd leave. There is someone using magic down there, and they will be punished for it."
"Yes, sir," Conrad said, nodding. He spared a glance for the king before leaving.
By now, the knights were restrained. One man had been given an axe, though there was no block for the knights to place their necks on. He hefted it. It wasn't the normal executioner, and Arthur wondered if the man had decided he could not go against the crown.
Percival had been singled out to go first—maybe because he was the biggest among them. Arthur held his breath as the axe was brought high.
It swung, and rusted away to dust before it could even touch the back of Percival's neck.
The crowd, Arthur could see, was trying to retreat—they were frightened of what had happened, of what might happen. They still remembered the Sluagh, all of the magical attacks that had brought them low, that had killed their loved ones and destroyed their homes.
Wymond let out a wordless noise of frustration, somewhere between a snarl and a scream. He drew his sword rasping from its sheath.
"Come," he said, staring back at them. His eyes were hard and lightless. "I'll kill them myself."
Merlin crouched in the torture chamber, ears ringing, for minutes. Hours? Time was going fuzzy again, and he shook his head to clear it. He avoided looking at the chair where he'd been strapped down, the instrument Maverick had used to—
He shook his head harder, until he could almost hear his brain rattling inside his skull. Faint light came from the torch Maverick had taken with him, behind Merlin, and faint light also seeped through the cracks in the door beyond.
I have to find something in here to break the manacles. His magic was still responding, if only to his words and a strange, detached kind of will. He could enchant something and use that to break them—but, no, that would take too long. Merlin had to figure out how to take care of the guards now. He needed to remember the words in the Old Tongue, the words he had pretended in front of the world not to have known for so long…
His face seemed numb, and he was sluggish when he stood—but if he could think of the words, he could kill the guards or put them to sleep—or whatever he needed to do…
The warlock could feel his grip on reality slipping. But he couldn't go back, not to that underwater world where nothing mattered, where he couldn't remember where he was, when he was… He swallowed, mouth dry and aching.
Just do it, he told himself. He had to act fast if he wanted to save—save his friends.
His hands gripped the doorknob that led out of the torture chambers and into the next hall of cells. Merlin grunted and pushed his uncooperative body forward. The door swung out with a bang, hitting the wall—Merlin didn't have the brainpower to be sneaky—
And there was Gwen, along with a strangely familiar woman, staring at him.
"Gwen…" he muttered, not entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating.
She wrapped her arms around him, and it was awkward because he couldn't reciprocate, not with the manacles, and her dress brushed his swollen, injured hand. He hissed, and she pulled back. "Merlin?" she said. "Are you…" Her eyes traveled down to his hand, and she gasped.
"Better fingernails than the fingers," Merlin said, waggling them for good measure. He didn't feel right, but it was better now that Gwen was here. She was dirty, he noticed, and there were a few scrapes on her hands and a sword buckled to her waist.
"I am glad to see you alive, Emrys," the other woman said. "I'm Idonia. Perhaps you remember my brother, Rowan." That was it—her rounded face, the slope of her nose… How had Idonia gotten here? How had Gwen gotten here? There were… guards…
His thoughts were fleeting; it was like trying to grip fistfuls of rushing river water. If he wasn't careful, he'd be swept away.
"Right," Merlin said. His tongue was thick and useless in his mouth, a wad of rough cloth. "Pleasure. Gwen, how long… I mean, where…"
"I am sorry, Emrys," Idonia said. "There is no time. Gwen, Florian and Aldusa have received help—a Gilly-man, they say—and they have halted the executions for now. But they're afraid Lord Wymond will begin lashing out at the crowd soon, and they don't know how long it will be before they are caught—"
Executions. Merlin looked around, but there was no sign of anyone, except… He could make out Agravaine's rumpled form in the back of one of the cells, watching them. "Arthur?" he asked.
"Safe, as far as we know," Gwen replied. She held Merlin's arm gingerly. "It's the knights who are in danger, and who knows how many others. Can you—I mean, will you be able to—" There was sweat on her forehead, sending streaks through the dirt. Merlin had the insane urge to wipe her face clean.
"Point me at Wymond," Merlin said. "I'll do what I need to." He couldn't think of himself as anything but a loaded crossbow. He had to be ready to fire; he could do this. Concentrate on the words, he thought. The words. Not your instinct.
"I will clear the way." Idonia nodded, unsheathing the sword. There was a fear in the turn of her lips. "But are you certain? Emrys, I can't feel your magic. It's like—"
"Are you so certain you want to save them, Emrys?" That was Agravaine. The man had finally opened his slimy mouth, and he was nearer now, gripping the bars. There wasn't anything Merlin liked about Wymond or Maverick or any of them, but—he had to admit—it was satisfying to see Arthur's uncle in a cell where he belonged. Merlin had often dreamed of the day that Arthur would see how much of a slime ball the man was.
"Say another word," Merlin said, "and it will be the last word you ever speak." He could feel them pressing against his mouth, against his teeth: a thousand magic commands that might kill him, all more gruesome than the last.
A part of Merlin was horrified that he knew so many ways to destroy a man. The more pragmatic part of him decided it was a good thing—especially since his wordless, instinctual magic had been barred from him.
"I'll tell you how to get to the courtyard," Gwen said. She unsheathed her sword; both women ignored Agravaine as the man slunk backward, cowed by Merlin's threat. "Go."
With her other hand, she took Merlin's elbow on his left side. Idonia surged forward, and Merlin stumbled as he was dragged after. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Gwen glancing at him—wondering how he had escaped, maybe, or wondering if he could really fight. Wondering how they could do this, could save the knights from death and stop Wymond and all those seeking to destroy Arthur's reign, even in its infancy.
Merlin glimpsed three bodies as they passed where the guards normally kept watch. One was snoring, and he didn't bother asking if they were alive. The three went up the stairs, Idonia's feet barely whispering on the stone. The warlock caught himself from tripping on the steps, nearly bruising his shin (it helped that Gwen was there to steady him).
Gwen gave directions, and everything faded into a charcoal, black-ish blur—Merlin was fading, he knew, back into his stupor. He tried to focus on Gwen's warm fingers, on Idonia leading them, sword-first, through the castle. A few servants glimpsed them, Merlin thought, and scurried out of their way.
Twice, Merlin thought they were met with guards. There was shouting, glints of metal—Idonia threw up a hand, bashing one against the wall. The other's weapon crumpled like paper in his hands, and she thrust her own blade into his belly. Gwen kept Merlin back, and he felt as if the entire world was whirring around him, like a child's top.
The second time, the warlock could smell blood in the air and hear clashes of metal—but he couldn't see, couldn't make his eyes focus. The guard Idonia fought seemed familiar, but Merlin…
Merlin was…
I promised, he thought. I promised I could do this. The knights are about to be killed… I'll be captured again, taken to the cells, this time with Gwen. Gagged, drugged…
No. He forced his eyes to un-blur the forms in front of him. They went past the collapsed shadow—a body—Merlin leaning on Gwen so as to not stagger. She pulled him aside—he recognized the corridor that led outside to the courtyard. Beyond, he could hear…
Screams?
"Can you do this?" Gwen asked.
"Yes," he said. He hoped his voice didn't tremble. "Yes, I can." He had saved his friends before, had saved Camelot from tyrants and magical beasts and armies. Was one weaselly man really going to be the thing that defeated him? Not Morgana, not the Sluagh, not Cornelius Sigan—just some nasty, traitorous commander with a grudge against magic? Merlin didn't have much pride left, but he'd damn himself if he died like that, rotting in the dungeons. "Just—make sure I don't fall over."
"Those words do not inspire confidence," Gwen said. "It's not only Wymond out there, Merlin—he has men. Idonia and the others… I don't know how much help they will be after what they've done already. There aren't any options except you. We're out of time."
She meant they were out of time to save her brother, to save Lancelot and Percival and Gwaine. Merlin knew she had to have thought about it, about going to the border to fetch Arthur's knights. Maybe she had even thought about looking for the missing guards.
Merlin felt as if he was wading through something thick and oozing—a wall of un-reality blocking him off from sight and sound and smell. He struggled to break through it.
"I'll cover you, Emrys. Both you and her—I swear it," Idonia said.
"Unless you have quick, magical means to break these," Merlin said, holding up his manacles, "you're right. We are out of time, and that means we can't waste it wondering whether or not I can. I must." I must, I must, I must.
Saving Camelot and Arthur and those he loved had never been an option—only a certainty.
"You're right. Let's go," Gwen said.
They turned the corner to meet the men guarding the door that led to the courtyard, and Merlin let his mind fall into its own crevices, a place apart—like he was a spirit possessing a body, a soul without a shell. He couldn't tell if his hands were raised, if he was moving, if he was breathing. He couldn't see or hear or feel; all of it buzzed and writhed around him like so much air, like an oppressing nothingness. It didn't matter, he realized, if he was cut off.
He grasped for his tongue and felt it, and it was all he needed.
Arthur stared at his knights and hoped they could read his eyes—the apology, the pride. None had flinched when Wymond approached, the king forced to walk behind. Some of the men carried torches to light the courtyard; what was meant to have been a quick execution had been prolonged into a humiliation. Arthur's people grew restless with the dark—they were supposed to be home by now, tucked away in their beds or else finishing their work for the evening.
"Wymond," Lord Sterling spoke from the steps that led to the castle. "You go too far." Arthur had been right: it was his council, plus a few other nobles, all gathered together and threatened by a cluster of Wymond's men.
"None leave here tonight!" Wymond shouted, ignoring the lord. "None leave—not until these men are dead, and the sorcerer who saved them is found!" He gritted his teeth and raised his blade. Gwaine was the nearest, and his knight didn't even close his eyes to wait for death.
There was a blast of—something—a rumbling in the ground, two loud cracks. The doors, Arthur thought. He knew what it meant.
He's here.
First came an unfamiliar woman, followed by Gwen, and then Merlin. Wymond's men—the ones who had been guarding the courtyard's entrance, ones Arthur had just seen—were nowhere to be found.
"The sorcerer has escaped!" Wymond yelled. "Protect the king!" Arthur was pulled backward as the guards sprinted forward, falling into formation. There were thirty or forty, all heavily armored and outfitted—such a small force to take an entire castle with.
And such a small force to take on Merlin with.
Gwen, Arthur could make out, was ragged and dirty but no worse for wear. Merlin, on the other hand, was strange—he seemed to almost drift forward. His eyes didn't glow as he thrust a hand toward Wymond's men, as some crumbled to the ground without warning, as others were lifted into the air. His mouth moved continuously like he was praying under his breath. He still wore the cuffs, and his right hand looked misshapen.
The king couldn't find any expression on his friend's face—it was shuttered, almost lifeless. Arthur wanted to call out to him, but he couldn't, not with the guards holding him.
"You'll want to let go of 'im," Gwaine said. He was still kneeling to the side, with the other knights. The crowd screamed behind them, and the guards abandoned their efforts to keep them contained, instead focusing on Merlin. Somewhere, Arthur heard a child's cries—high and piercing. "Else there will be no one to control the sorcerer."
"He's right," Elyan rasped. "If you want any of your friends to survive this night, you'll release the king."
Wymond whipped his sword around and leveled it at the knight. "You will be silent, peasant. You dare lecture me?"
But in his distraction, Merlin had finished dispatching his men. The warlock inched forward unsteadily, and Gwen and the other woman covered him from behind, engaging any of Wymond's soldiers brave enough to rise after they'd been so thoroughly beaten.
Against him, Arthur could feel the guard shaking.
When the stone beneath Wymond's feet swallowed him up—as though it were water, murky and opaque—the men holding Arthur ran. The commander was gone in an instant, vanished, his hand reaching for the dark sky. He hadn't even had time to scream.
The king felt a dark flash of panic that grew as Merlin turned to the running guards and sent them soaring through the air. They clattered to the ground with heavy clunks, heavy enough that it was clear they had died.
Behind the warlock, the king's nobility watched, horrified at the chaos and the violence and the easy, easy death.
"Merlin," Arthur said, coughing. "Merlin, you have to bring him back."
Ástríce. Flēoþ. Swican á be cyning ond gealdor. Formelt stán ond āþege þrysm ādrenc. Ic þurhsēo þu. Flēop, swican á—
Merlin was detached; he saw the world from hundreds of feet above. But he didn't see in the normal way—he didn't know or understand in the normal way. Nothing came from his head or gut; he had no sensations of the skin, no sweat to wipe from his eyes. It wasn't blurry, wasn't clear.
And yet he knew. There were people, many people, all fleeing and frightened. There were others who were not frightened, and they came toward him before fleeing, too—but only because he made them.
Āscūniaþ, unholdu campweorud, morpslagan. Ástríce. Flēoþ. Swican á be cyning—
He was without body, without mind. His only anchor was the voice—his own voice—wrapping around the words. The words were meant to help, were meant to connect. He imagined his tongue reaching out, a fleshy finger probing the magic in the air.
Merlin was a demand, a plea, a bargain. He was magic and something less than magic.
He wasn't. Unmade, untethered—
—lin, you have—
—him back—
Arthur. Was it a dream? A command? A trial—a test of everything Merlin was and had ever been, bared before the court because otherwise his kind might never be free? It was always a test. It always rested on Merlin. Like his magic and the pain; it was destiny.
You have to look in control, Merlin—
Who? Who was Merlin meant to bring back? It was all so far away… He had let go so he could connect to the magic, so he might be of use. So he might save Arthur and the knights once more.
—can't kill him without questioning—
—panic—
—please, is he even still—
Wymond. Arthur wanted Wymond back.
And Merlin found himself back in his own body, a barreling sensation that gave him whiplash. He choked and coughed. He was staring into Arthur's face, Arthur's hands on his shoulders. The knights were behind him, their hands bound—Merlin was still bound—
Everything was a test, wasn't it? Merlin had to be the perfect sorcerer: bound by the king's will. Invisible chains. He wondered if he resented it, wondered how he felt at all. He was nothing, a spiral of flesh. The air reeked of battle—smoke and blood and steel—rang with the sound of gasping last breaths and wails from those running.
Merlin couldn't recall, exactly, what he had done.
He took a shuddering inhale and spoke: "Gelīes."
The magic thrust Wymond from the ground, and the man looked hardly worse for it. He shook and landed on all fours, panting and heaving.
"Thank you, Merlin," Arthur whispered, and it was maybe the third time in his life he'd ever said the phrase. The king let go, picking up a stray sword from the ground—from one of the men Merlin had killed? From one that had fled? The warlock swayed on his feet. Someone came and steadied him (she had soft-looking hair and smelled like dust). Had someone attacked again?
Wymond, Merlin remembered distantly. Wymond had attacked.
Arthur stood over Wymond and pressed the sword-tip into the man's throat. "You are under arrest, Wymond Sunderland, for betraying Camelot, her citizens, and her king. You will be executed at dawn."
And even though Merlin wasn't sure any of it was real, he thought he'd passed the test. He sensed eyes on his back. People were always watching—this time, those eyes were attached to fine silks and embroidered skirts, men and women with power. He sensed that he'd been a part of a show, and Merlin knew how to put on a show.
Now that he was back in his body, he was in agony. His hand, his torso, his wrists, his chest—down to his hair, which he didn't think he was meant to feel normally.
He sat down, right there on the stone, and sighed.
AN: This is how I imagine the conversation between Gilli, Aldusa, and Florian going, btw:
Gilli: Can't believe that crazy bitch actually made me burn his own stables down. (Hears the druids) Damn you guys are talking loud in your heads.
Florian: …
Aldusa: Are you on Emrys's side? We're here to stop the executions.
Gilli: It's always about freaking Merlin, isn't it? Yeah, whatever, let's fuck shit up. I already set a place on fire tonight, so who even cares. What if we turn the nooses into some goddamn snakes?
Florian: I was just going to vanish them…
Gilli (remembering what Arthur said about distractions): No! It must be dramatic. Gotta make a statement. If we're doing this, we're doing it right.
—moments later—
Aldusa: Well, I couldn't just let them kill our snakes! Those are our children.
Florian: Good point, good point.
Gilli: I hate it here.
ALSO: Sorry for the delay! This chapter was supposed to be out ten days ago, but I had to wrestle it into submission. I'm praying that it's not too clunky or anticlimatic (but at this point I also don't know if I have the will to fix it). All of the Old English spells are from a translator (not Google, in case anyone's wondering), but the grammar and everything is definitely all wrong. So sorry if anyone knows any Old English.
A word from my beta: I also apologize for this being late. I had to finish binge-watching Demon Slayer before I could properly focus on editing this. Happy New Year!
I hope everyone's had a lovely winter holiday, and Happy New Year! May 2023 bring more updates!
The epilogue should be posted soon, along with a teaser for the next (and final) installment of this series ;)