The guards open the doors to reveal a scene.
That is the best word Merlin can muster for what he sees. Around a large oak dining table are the more sober guests of the welcome dinner, including Guinevere, Sybil, Greta, Galahad,Lian, and Mithian herself.
Gwaine sits on the shining wood of the oblong table, one hand on Sir Fred's shoulder, the other pressing an over-filled tankard to his chest. Fred looks up at the younger knight, eyes twinkling, and knocks their tankards together in a clumsy cheer. Mead goes spilling across Gwaine's shirt and the table, but is ignored by both knights. Gwen rolls her eyes and reaches over to wipe it up with a white napkin, interceding before Dagonet, Sybil, or Greta could get to it.
The roguish knight sees the party of four–comprised of, strangely enough, two royals, a druid, and the former manservant, who are evidently the last to arrive–walking through the doors. Gwaine hops to his feet, sending yet more mead to the floor. This is ignored by him as well. Gwen mutters something under her breath, but Gwaine ignores her in favor of going to Merlin's free side and throwing the arm unburdened with a tankard of mead around the younger man's shoulders.
"And so, dear friends, this is the end of my tale," Gwaine sings, ruffling Merlin's hair.
Sir Fred and–surprisingly–Elena join in the final refrain with Gwaine, warbling loud and off-tune: "Unless we take in ano'er pint o' ale."
Gwaine grins largely at the room, then redirects his smile toward Merlin.
"If it isn't the man of the hour," Gwaine says, pressing his tankard into the warlock's chest.
Merlin takes the cup away his friend and holds it away from the two of them. Elena plucks it easily from his outstretched hand and takes a deep drink.
"I have no idea what you mean," Merlin says, his voice slightly tired.
"Oh, the whole fete is in an uproar," Galahad says loudly from across the room. Next to him, Lady Lian Tellendell nods and hides a smile behind her hand.
"And how happy my heart is," Gwaine says, "to know that it is you, my friend, who sent them into a tizzy."
"What's this?"
Mithian's voice is quieter by far than the raucous volume and tenor set by Sir Gwaine, but the question cuts through nonetheless.
"Oh, Princess Mithian," Elena says, releasing Merlin's elbow to curtsey. "Queen Guinevere. A pleasure."
Mithian nods, her expression betraying more amusement and curiosity than annoyance.
The warlock rubs the back of his neck and asks Gwaine, "The princess not knowing yet what occurred at the social is a good thing, yes?"
"Of course not," Gwaine replies promptly. "Everyone should know."
"Everyone with idle time already does," Lady Lian informs those gathered. "Unfortunately, our princess was far too busy to be concerned with such gossip."
"Perhaps we should enlighten her, then," Elena says pleasantly.
She drags Merlin across the room so she may sit to Mithian's right, with Merlin on her other side and next to Gwen. Sandwiched between royalty.
It occurs to the warlock suddenly that this should be a privilege: a queen on one side, two princesses on the other, sat across from four knights and two serving maids. In fact, Gretaand Sybil very much look as if the thought had occurred to them earlier than it did Merlin. Both seem to be caught between terror and awe, sitting at a table with so many royals and noble persons. Honored, even. The warlock is sure that if Dagonet were not standing, pitcher in hand, behind him, that the boy would be wearing much the same expression.
Merlin wonders why it has always felt like work to him. Never an honor, sitting among such high-ranking persons. Work, when surrounded by friends, because he was a part of the Round Table and because he apparently had a tendency voice his opinion whether it was welcome or not. Punitive, perhaps, when surrounded by hereditary nobility and the few remaining decrepit, "honor-bound," malicious corpses who called themselves advisors leftover from Uther's reign.
Perhaps dealing with Arthur and his court really had had a lasting effect on the warlock: developing such a disregard to title that it approaches callousness.
But here, he is among friends, and so it feels once more like work.
Guinevere was his oldest friend in Camelot. Elena he met not long after and saved from a changeling and a disingenuous marriage. Mithian he knew from her brief courtship with Arthur, and then after her visit to Camelot not so long ago. Gwaine he saw become a knight, Sirs Fred and Galahad were the first to make friends with him and the Knights of the Round Table. In fact, the two had fit in like a hand to a glove. Lady Lian was just as welcoming, and allied herself quickly with Princess Mithian and Queen Guinevere during all their daring political and courtly schemes. Sybil had been a friend since that first night in the servant's quarters.
They are all allied toward a common goal here. There is no one he would suspect of ulterior motives, no one who screams assassin or Morgana's informant or bad actor. Instead, they are all here to support Princess Mithian to find a suitable prospect and reject others undesirable ones. Not to talk about him.
He expects that someone will intervene to save him from the fate Princess Elena seems intent on incurring by discussing his behavior at the social.
So his mouth drops open when Sybile, his fellow servant, adds slyly, "Lor Merlin has not just the court in an uproar, your highness. He is all the rage amongst the servants as well."
"I beg your pardon," Merlin exclaims.
Elena and Guinevere both pat Merlin on each shoulder, one comfortingly and the other bracingly, then they both laugh at their shared gesture. The warlock grimaces.
"That cannot be true," Merlin protests.
Sybil and Guinevere both scoff.
"Someone, pray tell," Mithian asks, eyes widening, "what has happened to set the castle's tongues wagging already?"
Merlin opens his mouth to reply, but several voices cut him off in a clamor of simultaneous answers:
"Lord Merlin was a perfect gentleman," Caradoc says first.
"Duke Pellinor was a horrible brute," Guinevere begins.
"A duke was goin' to hit me, your high–"
"Our mad bastard came between Dragonlet and this arsehole–"
"This horrible man went to strike–"
"It was all over a spot of wine, your majesty–"
"I assure you, from what I hear, Lord Merlin was completely in the right–"
Mithian holds up a hand against the onslaught, and her guests quiet once more. The princess furrows her brow, then looks quizzically toward the new lord seated just one chair away from her.
"Duke Pellinor was offended because Dagonet spilled wine," Mithian summarizes, "and you intervened?"
"Lord Merlin obviously challenged the man's quite apparent lack of honor–" Caradoc starts.
"Merlin interceded on Dagonet's behalf and ended the scene swiftly–" Gwen says.
"M'lord Merlin offered to take the punishment for me, your high–"
"Your man offered his own cheek to the fu–"
"Lord Merlin put the issue between an inconvenience and the duke's honor, where the issue really was–"
"Yes, and all over a pinprick of a wine stain–"
"Lord Merlin, I am informed, acted with the utmost honor and decorum, whereas–"
Again, Mithian raises a hand and the group goes quiet. Her dark eyes do not leave Merlin's own blue ones, wide and pleading innocent.
"You offered Duke Pellinor your own cheek to satisfy his complaint in the stead of your servant's?"
Merlin gives her a quick shrug. Upon seeing her serious face, however, he provides a curt nod to affirm the princess's guess.
"I see," Mithian says evenly. Then, her tone only betraying a bland curiosity, she asks, "And you thought this a wise thing to do before the members of every court assembled here, Lord Merlin?"
Merlin coughs. Then, suddenly finding he cannot maintain the princess's gaze, he focuses his own eyes on the table before him. He mumbles something in fast and somewhat surly in response, even as his cheeks stain pink. His hair, still resting in their perfectly arranged waves Dagonet had spent so long on earlier, covers his ears, which he can feel warming. Suddenly he feels himself grateful for the boy's earlier and exacting attentions.
"I didn't hear that, my lord," Mithian tells him, raising an eyebrow.
Merlin coughs again and says, a little louder this time, but still more sheepish than usual when made to answer to royalty, "I said, your grace, that it was more wise than threatening to strike my servant before the members of every court assembled here."
Gwaine and Sir Fred erupt into laughter and initiate a round of toasts. Even Galahad, Lian, Caradoc, and Elena reach over the table to clink their goblets together to honor the warlock's flippant remark and his splashing entrance to the celebrations. Merlin studies a bowl of summer fruit resting on the table as if it were a particularly challenging text.
In doing so, the new lord completely misses the grudging smile that briefly decorates the princess's face at his words. She schools her features quickly into something more unimpressed, even as she looks on at the gallery of her laughing and cavorting friends.
"Now everyone's talking about our Merlin," Gwaine says, immensely satisfied as he leans back in his chair and places both hands behind his head.
"Tongues are wagging, certainly," Galahad says. "Lords and ladies of all stripes witnesses the scene, and I am pleased to report that our man came out the other side quite favorably. At least, he did so among the more civilized of our guests."
"Oh?" Guinevere asks. "And who among us are so backwards that Lord Merlin looked anything but the hero in that situation?"
"Not a–" Merlin begins, but is quickly cut off by Sybil and Greta.
"Some of the lords of Essetir–" Sybil says quickly.
"Terrible lot, they are," Greta adds helpfully.
"Right, well, they're more old-fashioned about it," Sybil informs them all.
"Terrible lot," Greta tells them.
"So they think Duke Pellinor was right, in wanting to set the young Dagonet straight–"
"Horrible, really–"
"And as such have developed a distaste for Lord Merlin and his boy."
"Dagonet," the serving boy supplies timidly.
Merlin turns about in his seat and tells the boy seriously, "I don't want you around the people from Essetir. Especially not Duke Pellinor. Just… try to steer clear, you understand?"
"Yes, m'lo–"
An eyebrow inches up Merlin's forehead. Dagonet looks at his feet.
"Yes, Merlin."
"It wasn't just the lords from Essetir, though," Caradoc says, rolling his upper lip until his expression is the picture of distaste. "Older lords and ladies from several courts disapproved of the move. While they couldn't say Merlin acted dishonorably, they did seem to hold the opinion that he acted without proper manners, whereas Pellinor acted accordingly."
"Does that mean they are also saying you acted without manners?" Merlin asks, raising an eyebrow at the prince. "After all, you did not try to discipline Dagonet when you were the more wronged party."
"Of course not. Because I am a prince, they say I acted with grace and magnanimity," Caradoc sniffs, then shoots Merlin a grin. "And wisdom, as I wasn't such a fool as to have threatened your manservant."
Gwaine and Sir Fred chuckle in unison.
"Hear, hear!" Gwaine crows, lifting his tankard again.
Dagonet darts forward to refill it. The roguish knight claps the boy on the back as he does so, and shoots the boy a wink. Dagonet smiles back at him, then trips on his way back to Merlin. Only Galahad's steadying hand, quick as lightning, keeps the boy from repeating his earlier incident. Dagonet sends the older lord an appreciative smile before he returns to his post behind Merlin.
"What I don't understand," Merlin complains, "is why everyone is talking about it. Surely, there are more important things to discuss amongst the nobility."
Mithian opens her mouth to respond, but is beaten to the punch by a chorus of voices around the table.
"You are somewhat of a folk hero–"
"The servants and familiar nobles all love you–"
"Everyone who went to Camelot is already fond of you–"
"You're fresh blood, mate, and they're sharks in the water–"
"King Rodor remembered and congratulated you on your promotion–"
"You escorted a queen to the luncheon and a princess to this dinner–"
"All right, all right," Merlin says, waving a hand through the air. "No matter. They can discuss me all they would like. Right now, I believe we have bigger things at hand."
Merlin's blue eyes turn to Mithian. Everyone else's gazes follow. Princess Mithian bows her head, collecting her thoughts.
Of course," Princess Mithian says finally, raising her eyes to allow her gaze to travel across the many gathered faces. "I have asked each of you here for a reason. I mean to make each of you a conspirator in my scheme. And though I have been as forthright with you all–so much as written correspondence would allow–what should follow this introduction to the matter at hand will be with the understanding and expectation of a certain shared trust. If you, for whatever reason, believe no longer that you would be ready and willing to help me undermine the designs of Nemeth's king and queen, I beg of you to leave now."
No one moves. Mithian takes a moment to meet each of their gazes.
"You would not be met with reproach or mistrust should you choose to leave," Mithian tells them. "Instead, I would fully understand and bless you in your departure for having come to these celebrations at all. But I need to know that those of you who remain are intent upon aiding me, regardless of the possibility of scandal or trouble."
"I am with you, of course, my dear friend," Elena tells her, reaching over to clasp the princess's hand.
Princess Mithian gives her old friend a tight smile. But her attention is quickly diverted when a loud thump rattles the silverware and beverages on the table. Sir Fred raises his fist and slams it into the table again, then nods deeply at his princess.
All around her, the princess's friends voice their support. Princess Mithian sits quietly for a moment longer, looking with deep and sincere gratitude at each of them.
"My heart is happy to know I have such devoted friends," Mithian tells all of them. "Then, of course, we shall discuss business. But such things are better done along with good food, don't you think?"
"I could not possibly agree more," Gwaine says from the end of the table.
Leon elbows him, but Mithian only smiles. She nods at Sybil, who dashes out of the large doors. Just a moment later, the young woman returns to the room, followed this time by several servants, each of whom carry in their arms a large silver platter. They set the food down on the table–depositing delicious-looking roasted boar, fresh salads, fried fish and delicate soups, cut fruit and hard cheeses, roasted nuts, meat pies, piles of blackened vegetables on the surface before the conspirators–and then quickly and quietly exit the room.
The group digs in heartily and each person eats contentedly and quietly for a while. Many, after all, find themselves fatigued and weary after a long journey. But, eventually, after each person has helped themselves to either second helpings or a bowl of fruit and cream for dessert, someone takes it upon themselves to break the silence. Unsurprisingly to most, it is the foreign Princess Elena who does so with characteristic brashness and directness.
"So, Princess Mithian," Elena says, wiping at her mouth delicately with a napkin and setting down her dessert spoon. "What is to be our plan for these celebrations?"
"Right," Mithian says, setting down her own fork. "I suppose I should begin by informing those of you who are not aware yet that my parents both intend to parade suitors before the court and myself for these next four weeks."
Elena nods. "So is our aim to keep you from an unfavorable match, to find you a favorable one, or to sabotage the affair entirely?"
Mithian scrunches her nose. "Sabotage is a strong word."
"Interfere," Guinevere suggests.
"Manipulate," Gwaine offers.
"Shape," Merlin says.
"Shape," Mithian repeats, pleased with that particular characterization. "I'm most comfortable with that. In short, we would intend, I suppose, to do a combination of all those things: avoid unfavorable matches, allow me to get to know potential favorable matches, and establish the idea of an independent monarch in the minds of my court here in Nemeth."
"But perhaps," Elena says, "in reverse order?"
"Establish Princess Mithian as capable of steering the country independent of marriage," Gwen says, raising her thumb into the air. She extends more fingers as she summarizes, "allow the princess to get to know favorable matches, and finally, and if necessary, shape the proceedings to disallow unfavorable matches."
"Exactly," Elena says, smiling at the queen of Camelot. Gwen returns the favor.
"So we are still attached to the idea of auditioning suitors," Lady Lain clarifies. "But only acceptable ones?"
"Right," Elena says. "Not arseholes like Duke Pellinor."
Gwaine snorts. "Obviously not."
"So we are to help vet potential choices for the princess," Sybil clarifies.
Lian shrugs a delicate shoulder. "Of course. There is hope for a love match for our dear princess. After all, not every man at this fete is entirely hopeless."
"Indeed not," Elena mutters.
Mithian raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"
The blonde princess straightens slightly, somewhat surprised that her stray comment warranted her friend's attention. Elena glances quickly at Merlin, then at the rest of those gathered.
"Well–" Elena says slowly.
Caradoc leans forward and interrupts his sister smoothly. "Of course, there is Sir Kay, Earl of Tarling. He is the heir apparent to Caerleon, and nephew to Annis."
"And from what I've heard," Merlin adds, "the most polite man in Albion."
Gwaine snickers, and even Galahad and Leon allow small smiles at the remark.
"What does that mean?" Mithian asks.
Merlin hefts a shoulder in a shrug, so Guinevere decides to answer for him.
"It was said that he got it into his mind to begin courting a lady," the queen reports. "And as he was carrying a bouquet to her to begin their courtship, he came across a man who declared his intent to do the same. Sir Kay, well… he demanded satisfaction then and there."
"Got walloped, by all accounts," Gwaine says cheerily.
Gwen sighs. "But by all accounts, he accepted his defeat graciously."
"Duke Bors is also on the list of potential suitors as I understand it," Mithian says. "But I must confess, I know very little of the man."
"He is older," Sybil says slowly.
"But honorable," Sir Fred adds.
Elena nods reluctantly and says, "Bors is from Gawant. He is, by all accounts, a good man."
"What of Sir Maleagant?" Princess Mithian asks. "That is another name on the invitations I did not recognize. He is a duke of Caerleon, is he not?"
Gwaine screws up his face. "Sir is a strong choice of word there, princess."
"I must agree," Sybil sighs. "Sir Maleagant is not spoken of favorably amongst the servants. Duke of Mercia though he may be, he is known–"
"For dishonorable behavior," Merlin interrupts. Despite his gentle words and euphemism, the distaste on his face is enough to communicate to those around him his thoughts on the man.
"If you all believe him to be less than favorable," Mithian says resolutely, "then he shall be stricken from consideration along with Duke Pellinor."
"There's also Prince Bedivere," Lady Lian suggests, obviously wanting to steer conversation toward better prospects. "Bayard's second eldest. He is not heir to the throne of Mercia, but still second in line to the throne."
Fred nods. "I've heard of Bedivere. Solid swordsman."
"And a fine scholar," Caradoc says. "He has directed his court, I have heard, to expand their library. He has also instituted an academy of scholars to tutor the young lads and lasses of the Mercian court."
"Not just the noble children," Merlin says. "I've heard some children of the upper and lower towns have been invited to attend classes as well. An admirable policy, in my humble estimation."
Mithian nods thoughtfully.
"So Sir Kay and Prince Bedivere may be viable options," Mithian says. "Both heirs to two different friendly countries. My parents and the court both would be pleased by that."
"And we would have a month," Lady Lian says, "to see whether you would be pleased by them as well."
Mithian sighs. "Right."
"And a month to prove, if necessary," Merlin adds, "that the crown could flourish in the absence of a husband."
"Right," Mithian says again, but this time her tone is more pleased than defeated.
"So how shall we have these two men prove their mettle?" Sir Leon asks. "Duels? Written tests?"
Mithian snorts and shakes her head. She tells them, "My parents have devised a schedule for these festivities that features one large event per week. Each is intended for suitors to prove their mettle and for visitors to marvel at the treasures of Nemeth. The prize for each is a golden rose. I suppose their idea is that whomever wins the rose wins my favor, and whoever wins the most roses is most well-suited to become my husband. More aptly put, however, would be to say that whomever wins the most roses wins the most favor with my court and my parents."
"And what are these events?" Guinevere asks.
"There's the labyrinth," Rosaline offers, her quiet voice almost not discernable amid the clinking of cutlery and goblets. "That's the first week."
Merlin raises an eyebrow. "Labyrinth?"
"Meant to honor the Labyrinth of Gedref," Mithian supplies. "There was a maze grown on the grounds of the palace. Its creation was shrouded in mystery, and its layout known only to our Games Master and the druids who helped grow it."
"So not even the king and queen know how to solve it," Leon muses. "Interesting."
"And at its heart will lie the first golden rose," Mithian says.
"How very interesting," Guinevere says. She swirls the wine in her goblet as she speaks.
Merlin glances over at his queen. He knows just from her slightly distant gaze that despite the plans being laid out, she is becoming quickly distracted. At a guess, she must be thinking about the process of smithing such an object. As a result, the warlock decides to quickly change the subject of conversation before his queen can ask any technical questions.
"So all the nobles are all to go into this maze and hope to be the first to find it?" Merlin asks.
"Quite," Mithian responds. "Lords and ladies alike will choose an entrance to the labyrinth, then enter in the hopes of finding the golden rose."
"Or of finding a suitably dark corner," Gwaine mutters.
He earns another harsh elbow to the ribs from Sir Leon, which makes the roguish knight lose his grip on the turkey leg dripping grease onto his plate. The food makes a great clatter against the fine brass plate when it falls, and Gwaine turns disapproving eyes on Sir Leon as if the Head Knight had made the noise himself.
Elena rolls her eyes at the both of them and says, "Our goal for the first event, obviously, should be orchestrating things to the best of our ability so that Princess Mithian herself finds the golden rose first."
"Why not test some of the suitors and allow them opportunity to find it honorably and rightly?" Lady Lian asks. "We should consider affording them the possibility of winning it first."
"Right," Galahad agrees. "Perhaps it would indicate some forerunners in the race for the princess's heart. Would they proceed forward alone, or with companions?"
"Would they help others, or shun them?" Guinevere adds.
"Would they be clever, or predictable?" Sybil muses, eyebrow raised in consideration.
Merlin shakes his head. "I agree with Princess Elena. We should endeavor to place power in the princess's hands first by helping her claim the first prize. It would give her more leverage whether she should strive toward independence or marriage."
"It is true," Elena says, shooting Merlin a grateful look. Then, she turns her attention back to the group at large. "But our goals need not be necessarily exclusionary of one another. We should endeavor to place the first rose in the hands of the princess herself. And while we do so, we should also ensure that we monitor the behavior of potential suitors so we may report back to one another and describe their myriad approaches to the first competition."
"So we split into groups, each beginning at a different entrance to the labyrinth," Guinevere says, "and then each group should follow a different potential suitor?"
"Yes," Merlin agrees. "But there should also be a group heading directly toward the middle, preferably with Princess Mithian, to ensure she reaches the rose first. While I do not doubt her capabilities, not all those in attendance may act with honor."
"Nor should we underestimate an opponent's intelligence," Mithian agrees. "But perhaps instead of heading toward the middle as a single group, those with an eye toward seeing me win the first rose–myself included–should perhaps go alone."
"But–" Merlin begins.
"I agree with Princess Mithian. Not everyone endeavoring to find the rose will be a potential suitor, first of all," Elena interrupts. "Single men and women looking to be married will search for it desperately, as they will want to establish themselves as clever, strong, and capable. We cannot possibly keep all of them from finding the rose unless at least one of us finds it first."
"'Tis a good idea," Sybil says, finally joining in the conversation. Though her voice is timid, many eyes turn to her, and most of them are encouraging while the rest are simply curious. She proceeds, a little louder, "Splitting up increases the chances that one of you finds the rose first. At that point, whoever has found the rose if it is not the princess herself should endeavor to keep the rose hidden from the next person to come upon it. Unless, of course, that person is the princess."
"I shall endeavor to follow the bastard Pellinor," Gwaine announces cheerily. "I will ensure he gets nowhere near the middle."
"A noble quest," Sir Fred says.
Gwaine reaches over to tap his tankard against Fred's. Dagonet moves as if to go and refill their tankards, but a warning look from Queen Guinevere and a severe hand-across-the-throat motion from Merlin disabuses him of such intentions. The boy quickly goes back to quietly waiting behind Merlin, who has not yet touched his own goblet.
"Then I will ask Sir Kay to escort me through the maze," Elena says. "Polite though he may be, I assure you that nothing of his demeanor shall escape my eye. Lady Lian would make a most suitable chaperone, I should think."
"That sounds like an excellent plan," Lady Lian agrees, bowing her head toward the princess. Elena sends the viscountess a nod of acknowledgement.
"I will endeavor to align myself with the Bedivere, then," Gwen announces. "And shall take Prince Caradoc as a chaperone."
"Then I will attach myself to Sir Bors," Galahad says. "I will at first endeavor to make friends with him, and then follow him if all else fails."
"And I to Sir Meleagant," Sir Fred says. "I will follow the miscreant and ensure he comes nowhere near that rose."
"Greta, Dagonet, and I shall keep an eye on all those nobles who do not venture into the maze," Sybil offers. "As we serve them, we will keep alert for gossip and bets among those not participating and report back."
"Very well," Mithian says. Her dark eyes land on Merlin once more. "That would leave you and I, Merlin, continuing toward the center of the maze."
"Indeed," Merlin says. "I will pick an entrance and go toward the middle. If I make it there before you, I will try and make it so that you are the second to arrive."
"And I will find the golden rose first," Mithian says surely, a smile playing on her lips, "and absolve you of any such duty."
Merlin grins back at her.
After a moment, Elena coughs politely and asks, "What of the second event?"
"A tournament," Sir Fred says happily. "I am organizing it myself."
"But not just any tournament," Galahad informs them all.
"Of course not," Fred harrumphs. He is obviously slighted at the implication otherwise, and only gives a slight nod when Galahad holds his hands up in a gesture of peace.
"There shall be more than a joust?" Elena asks pleasantly.
"A joust," Sir Fred says. "And a melee, and an archery competition. A caber toss, wrestling, knife-throwing, horse racing, foot racing–"
"Myriad competitions," Lady Lian says pleasantly.
"The top award for each of which," Sir Fred informs them, "is a golden rose."
"Well, I shall obviously compete in horse racing," Elena announces, sitting back in her chair. "And win that golden rose."
"And I in the archery competition," Mithian says. "Which will hopefully make for my second golden rose."
"I will sign up for wrestling, jousting, and the melee, of course," Gwaine says as if it should be obvious.
"And I in the jousting and melee," Leon says.
Caradoc shrugs. "I am a fair shot with a bow and knife both. I shall enroll there."
"I am too involved in the planning, along with Sir Fred," Galahad says. "I shall not be competing."
"There are enough of us, I should think," Gwaine says, smiling. "We will keep a good handle on the golden roses between all of us, I'd wager."
"Lord Merlin," Leon says suddenly, turning toward the warlock. "You are fleet of foot, are you not? Perhaps you should sign up for the footrace."
"Perhaps," Merlin says, and that is all he says on the matter.
Elena nods at each of them, then turns back to the dark-haired princess. "Very well. And what of the third event?"
"The fox hunt," Mithian says. "It will take place in the woods just beyond the citadel. Twenty foxes shall be let loose. Whoever earns the most will get the golden rose."
Leon shakes his head. "So back down to one winner alone."
Mithian nods.
"I should think it best to work in teams," Sybil says. "As you plan to do for the labyrinth."
"Very well," Guinevere says. "Then perhaps we should determine our order and grouping later on, depending on the results of the first two weeks."
"Wise indeed, my queen," Elena mutters.
"And then finally," Mithian says,, taking control of the conversation once again, "will be the ball. "
"We should endeavor to have you dance with only the most favored suitors who will emerge after the initial three weeks," Merlin says, "but perhaps you should not fill your dance card entirely."
"I agree," Elena says with a nod. "Reserve your dances for those you wish to communicate to the rest of us are viable options, and we shall work the courts in their favor that night."
"A most agreeable plan, indeed," Guinevere says, taking a sip of her wine.
Mithian nods. "It is decided, then. We shall endeavor to have me learn more of Sir Bors, Prince Bedivere, and Sir Kay, and shall endeavor to oppose any courtship from the Duke Pellinor or Sir Meleagant."
"A wise plan," Merlin says. He glances back at Dagonet, then at the princess. He stands and bows. "I am sorry to announce, Princess Mithian, that I am expected elsewhere soon. I beg of you your leave, and must reiterate again my immense pleasure and gratitude at having been included on these plans to establish your agency amongst your court."
"It has been my honor, Lord Merlin," Princess Mithian returns, bowing her head toward the manservant-turned-advisor. "Of course, you are permitted your leave."
Behind Merlin, Dagonet bows energetically and deeply. The liquid in the pitcher the serving boy holds sloshes dangerously, but Dagonet manages to avoid spilling a drop.
Merlin clasps his hands behind his back and gives the rest of a group a perfunctory nod and stiff yet polite bow, then leaves through the large oak doors. Dagonet is just a breath behind him and already muttering observations and questions to his new master beneath his breath as the pair take their leave.
The doors close behind Merlin. He is, after all, expected in the Servants' Quarters for a story or two. By now, it is certain that Darla has passed along word of a special visitor to the nightly tradition, and no doubt many are already waiting for him.
Mithian smiles at those remaining in the dining room.
"I believe we have conducted enough business for the night," Mithian says. "I will bid you all a good night, and hope you receive adequate rest here in Nemeth to herald the rest of your enjoyable stay here. Though we are united in conspiracy, I hope we can be united as well in a mutual pleasure at enjoying one another's company."
A susurrus of agreement comes from those gathered. Mithian dips into a curtsey, then takes her leave of those gathered. Sybil follows along quickly behind her while Greta stands, yet remains, poised to help clear the remnants of the dinner.
Just a heartbeat after the doors close behind the princess, Gwaine slumps in his seat. He holds his hand up in the air as if asking permission of a tutor to ask a question.
"Are we all in agreement that Merlin and the princess are the most ideal match among the choices we have presently?" he asks, his tone bored.
A noise of agreement comes from those gathered. Elena similarly slumps in her seat and pinches the bridge of her nose.
"Finally, someone says it," she grouses.
"But the pair of them seem…" Galahad begins tentatively.
"Oblivious to what is so obvious to the rest of us?" Lady Lian supplies, spearing a blackberry with her dessert fork.
Guinevere nods once and most genially. "Often what is obvious to others is anything but to those in the thick of it. Why, were it not for Merlin's interference, I doubt Arthur and I would have ever admitted feelings for one another."
"Our interference is obviously and sorely needed here, just as it was necessary during your courtship with the princess," Gwaine declares. "Those two wouldn't know up from down right now if it were not for us."
"I wouldn't go that far," Caradoc says, but nonetheless he smiles even as he disagrees. "But surely, some action on our part is merited. Lord Merlin is prominent enough that he would be considered by the newer or younger nobility as a viable option for a princess, especially after King Arthur and Queen Guinevere's marriage set such a precedent–"
"And more importantly," Elena says, "she and Lord Merlin are obviously already attached to one another. You should have heard him earlier today talking to Rosaline and me, waxing poetic about her various strengths and attributes."
"To be fair," Gwaine says, pointing at the princess with the turkey leg now securely back in hand, "he does the same for the princess."
"Arthur," Gwen explains with a sigh. "He means King Arthur."
"Right," Gwaine says, as if just remembering.
"You are proposing a love match," Lady Lian says slowly, "between Lord Merlin and Princess Mithian?"
"Merlin and Mithian have been sharing correspondence for some time," Guinevere says reluctantly. "More so than myself and Princess Mithian, to be sure."
"And he is a war hero," Leon says, pushing his bowl of melon away from him.
"And a folk hero," Galahad reminds his wife mildly.
"And a champion of servants," Greta says, emboldened by the other attendants' assertions.
"A fine man all around," Gwaine declares.
Lady Lian holds up her hands and tells them, "I only wished to clarify."
"If this is to be our true plan," Fred says, "it will require more forethought than I had originally planned. Lord Merlin is, after all, not known for his speed or martial prowess."
"There's more to our mad bastard than initially meets the eye," Gwaine says confidently and fondly, dropping the bone of the turkey leg to his plate. "He'll do just fine on his own. Having us there to accelerate rumors is just helpful, is what it is. Nevermind the challenges of the labyrinth and the tournament and the foxhunt. Mark my words, Merlin will capture Princess Mithian's heart before the end of this if he hasn't already."
"So we'll do our best to push the two together," Caradoc says with some finality, "and to elevate Lord Merlin in the eyes of Nemeth's court."
"Exactly," Gwaine and Elena say simultaneously. They share a momentary, terrifying, shared grin.
"It is decided, then," Gwen says, standing. "But I believe myself to be most fatigued, and will retire now. Until the morrow, good ladies and gentlemen."
The party thus disperses, but now of one mind.
Far away in the castle, traveling toward the Servants' Quarters, Merlin makes up his mind as well. He decides to do whatever is in his power to help the princess win the roses herself.
Not far away, also traveling to the Servants' Quarters and dressed in an inconspicuous cloak, the Princess Mithian resolves to do much the same.
In the meantime, however, she resolves to attend once more the nighttime stories offered by the secret warlock to the serving staff. She walks with purpose and purposeful silence toward the kitchens, followed closely by an eager Sybil, and the princess resolves to allow herself one more night of distraction and enjoyment before the trials of the next month begin.
For now, it is time to enjoy a story from an old friend.