Summary
Amid coronation festivities, Galahad gains concerning insights before joining Merlin to pursue an alarming threat.
Chapter 18 The Gifted Ones
The masked woman swayed before the king and queen, her ballad sweeping through the hall in haunting Gaelic tones. She wore a dress of Pendragon crimson, swirls of Camelot's gold and red adorning her flowing outer sleeves. Her high collar and petticoat matched the vivid mask, its feathers catching the candlelight. Turning occasionally to face the audience, her melodic voice filled the space – soothing and hypnotic.
"She's beautiful," Hunith said softly, seated between Merlin and Gaius.
"She certainly is," Galahad whispered to Hunith in his lean across Merlin, eyes fixated on the singer and a syrupy grin spread across his face.
He gazed with adoration upon the masked woman as her ballad ended and she curtsied before the king and queen. During her accolades, she twirled towards the audience and curtsied once more before swiftly leaving through the royal exit where Sir Tristan was stood.
Galahad tapped Merlin, pointed with his head to the arches where she had passed through. "Do you know that lovely creature?" he asked.
Merlin smacked his lips. "That's Isolde," he replied. "Could you not tell? And I wouldn't let Tristan hear you speak of her that way." Merlin smiled widely as his mother giggled.
"The story of my life," Galahad lamented, the fascination seeping away. Even with her face concealed, he should have recognized the woman whose life he'd saved from a fatal injury a month ago. He had not found that special woman to adore and cherish—his life not permitting. Or was it the high bar he'd set that none had been able to achieve? His affections fickle, had he let slip the woman of his dreams somewhere in the past? "I'm cursed, Merlin."
"I'm sorry, Galahad," Merlin replied.
How often had some ethereal beauty danced across his path only for him to advance no further a than kiss on the hand after a dance? How long would he deny his restless spirit a mere chance at profound joy?
Festive music began to waft through the hall as the noise level rose and eating, talking, and laughing resumed. A few couples' joyful dalliance near the minstrels though a more lavish ball awaited in the great hall after the feast. He watched the blissful revelry solemnly. Seeing carefree couples twirl past ignited old wounds – had commitment to duty closed him off to love's piercing sweetness?
"Or is it fear, dear boy?" he whispered into his goblet. His gaze swept the room; he breathed a heavy sigh.
A blue aura here, a red aura there—that's a strong one; a green one shimmering by the minstrels, tapping his foot to the rhythm. There were many auras present in the castle, the courtyards, and the lanes. Since the ban on magic was lifted, more people with magic had appeared in Camelot, or their auras had become stronger, more vivid as they grew bolder. Fear was diminishing, allowing his kin to finally shine inwardly and outwardly. Hope flourished for the oppressed even with the rising opposition of others.
His eyes flicked to the queen – even she now shone with an aura not too dissimilar from Arthur's fiery glow – a gleaming wave of gold surrounding her. Curious what had changed in her, watching a new aura manifest and intensify each time he saw her over the last weeks.
Galahad blinked, a puff of air escaped his lips. Suppressing a warm smile, he dared to surmise that a life was growing within her – perhaps a guarded secret he should not be aware.
"All seems well in Camelot," Hunith was saying as Galahad averted his gaze from the queen. "Everyone appears to be in harmony."
Merlin clicked his teeth. "On the surface, mother. More bad things continue happen around the kingdom. It may become harder to convince people that magic is not evil." He lifted his goblet and sipped mulled wine.
Galahad lowered his gaze, his countenance sinking further into despair. More incidents had been reported across the realm – destruction of property, strange apparitions, mobs – but thankfully no other lives lost save the young boy a few weeks ago.
"Arthur is fixed steadfast upon this course," Gaius replied. "The king will not retreat from restoring magic's rightful place, though I fear more than words are needed to sway the hearts of men."
Galahad set his tankard on the table top. They would show more than words in a few days – prove magic's virtues… but would it be enough? "Change is hard, Merlin," he brooded. "Expected it to be easy, did you?"
Ironically, he hadn't expected his Clarwick brothers to take such hard offense to his slight infraction either, the beating they served him crushing his spirit since. His bittersweet assignment to mentor and train Merlin consumed most of his time, only facing his sore comrade in the barracks upon finishing his daily duties. Even then, the air was thick with resentment – veiled insults, but Galahad refused to request different quarters. He would not show cowardice in front of them – he would not be run off like a frightened mouse from its hole.
"Easier," Merlin admitted soberly.
"You're being naïve again," Galahad tersely replied.
Though Merlin was but a few summers younger, Galahad had witnessed firsthand the extraordinary power simmering below the surface – magical might echoing ages long past now awakening to greet present need. When one day his gifts emerged in full, Emrys would surely stand as a formidable champion of Albion.
Yet his innocence around the grinding arduousness of change seemed only matched by the heights of his expectations. He grasped little of the perilous terrain ahead for those seeking to reshape the world as the youthful often do. And while hope outpaced experience in his dreams, Galahad glimpsed Merlin someday donning wisdom's mantle as readily as his unfathomable might.
He inhaled a silent breath. Still, witnessing gifts awaiting to be unleashed, Galahad was honored when his counsel earned him the chance to join Merlin's vital mission.
Taking a drink from his goblet, Galahad's eyes roamed the chambers again, the cheerful ambiance rising as fast as mead was disappearing. Auras brighten, people became more relaxed with the help of spirits and lively music. But across the way, Sir Gwaine sat perturbed and brooding in a conversation with Sirs Percival, Leon and Elyan.
He'd heard much about the valor of the famous knight, rumors of his legendary swordsmanship becoming stuff of legends within the ranks. Good humored too he was told, but from the looks of things, Sir Gwaine didn't appear to be having a good time right now.
Yet, seeing Gwaine stare his way, rise and then approach after a moment, Galahad straightened with excitement – to learn directly from this legendary sword master was an opportunity he could not pass.
"I'll see you later, Merlin," he whispered, leaving to greet the legend.
Smiling, he stepped into Gwaine's path, tilted his head respectfully. "Sir Gwaine – an honor, sir. I've heard much about your swordsman–"
Gwaine blinked, his eyes finally focusing on him. "Sir … Galahad, right? Good party, eh?" The knight smacked his shoulder but passed him by, grinning broadly.
Dumbfounded, Galahad looked beyond the retreating knight, seeing that his eye had been for a beautiful woman a few tables beyond his, auras of others all around her. But she was refined, a polished work of art like he'd not seen before. Now he wondered if Gwaine had heard a word he'd said.
Returning to his table, Galahad dropped against it with a huff beside Merlin. "I do believe Sir Gwaine is going to be disappointed – that lady is surely above his station."
Galahad turned to find Merlin frozen, eyes fixed intently on something, jaw clenched tight. As Merlin suddenly pushed to his feet, Galahad sprang up instinctively beside him. Hunith and Gaius watched with mounting concern but held their tongues.
"Merlin?" Galahad asked, alarm rising in him as he followed Merlin's line of sight, seeing only the casual ease of people reveling.
Yet Merlin shouldered around him, weaving through the crowd, his eyes focused on an unknown target. Galahad followed, quickening his steps to match Merlin's stride, dodging people here and there.
"What is it?" Galahad craned his neck, stretched to see whatever it was that seemed a threat to Merlin.
There he saw it. A strong green halo, retreating into the turret so quickly that Galahad could not discern whether the entity was male or female.
"Who is that, Merlin?"
"Mordred!"
Merlin charged after the intruder, Galahad on his heels, squeezing though openings in the mass to reach the turret and then down to ground level.
Bursting into the main square, the area pulsated with people and auras. Galahad swore under his breath, whipping his gaze left and right through the throng.
"There!" Merlin pointed to a silhouette slipping through the gates.
They sprinted across the courtyard and through the gates, the sound of merriment fading behind them but then rising again as they entered the town. They dodged townspeople – couples, children, dogs – none offering assistance though knights cast wary eyes. Skidding around a corner, they pursued the form down the torch-lit alley. His aura pulsated brighter now, perhaps from fear.
Up ahead, the alley opened into a wide intersection with lanes shooting in four or five directions and people laughing in revelry. Scanning the crowd desperately, Galahad shook his head, his breathing heavy and hands on hips.
"We lost him," he said, gulping in air. "He could have taken any of these passages. He was just too far ahead of us."
"No!" Merlin shouted, spinning on his heels. He paced, rubbed his forehead. "It was Mordred. Why was he back here?"
Galahad bent over panting as Merlin leaned against a wall breathing heavily, his feet spread apart. Straightening after a moment, Merlin slammed a fist against the wall in frustration and then cradled it with his other hand.
His grim expression sent uneasy shivers down Galahad's neck as he stood upright. Mordred and an unknown accomplice had attempted to rescue Morgana once. He had not been present, but from the description of the accomplice – an older sorcerer with short cropped hair and hard leather – Galahad believed he was the sorcerer with the strangest aura he'd ever encountered. The same soldier he'd fought in the crypt and who could change his appearance in a blink.
He shuddered, sweat beading down his temples. Meeting Merlin's gaze, he saw a reflection of dread staring back at him.
In the sprawling tent city outside Camelot's outer walls, Mordred flinched as Killian's furious pacing stirred up dust in their cramped tent. Celebrations in the commoners' section carried on boisterously around them – oblivious to the tension within. The hulking man came to an abrupt stop in front of him, the candle flame glinting dangerously in his eyes.
"What were you thinking, showing your face at the feast?" he snarled. "You took an unnecessary risk, you foolish boy!"
Mordred lifted his chin, stood taller, though his nerves jumped under his skin. "I wanted to see them – Merlin, Arthur, Queen Guinevere – for myself," he replied, deepening his tone, hoping it didn't tremble. "Study our enemies."
Killian took a threatening step closer, his imposing shadow falling over Mordred. "That was not for you to do!"
Mordred shrank back against the tent canvas. Taking another step, Killian whispered in a guttural voice, his breath washing hot over Mordred's face. "Your role was to wait here until I returned with the artifacts."
His hands swept over a circlet, a broach, and a pendant glinting in the candlelight spread on a dirty cloth – the fruits of their scheme.
Mordred's eyes widened at the glistening jewels – supposedly deadly objects – before he squared his shoulders, feigning a confidence he did not feel. "The plan worked, didn't it?"
Killian's eyes blazed beneath his brows. "That is not the point!" His fist pounded the air by Mordred's head. "You disobeyed and endangered everything we have worked for!"
He jabbed a finger into Mordred's chest, trapping him against the tent canvas. "Don't mistake that you are my equal, boy, and can do as you please."
Mordred's jaw and fists clenched, but he lowered his eyes. "It will not happen again."
"See that it does not," Killian growled turning away, his teeth bared. He tied the bundle of jewels then stashed them in his bed roll. "Dodd will continue to monitor the king and queen's movements as planned. You stay out of sight until you're needed." He swept his cloak around himself and stormed from the tent, throwing curses over his shoulder.
Mordred let out a shaky breath and sank onto the ground, glaring daggers at the tent flap. He'd never seen Killian so angry before. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around himself and let tears that suddenly welled stream down his cheeks.
He glanced at the bundled treasures barely hidden in the bedroll – powerful weapons for exacting vengeance most horrifically as Killian would tell him. Mordred shuddered, tamping down pangs of guilt for justified revenge. Yes. This was justice, he reminded himself, for all the persecution inflicted upon his people.
He looked at the tent flap. Killian's rage terrified him – he was powerful and hardened and driven. But he had suffered too and believed in his righteous cause.
One day, though, Mordred thought, perhaps he would not need Dodd and Killian. One day, he would stand on his own.