22. Part 1: Poisoned/Drugged

("The Poisoned Chalice" from The More Things Change)

As Bayard and Uther bent ceremoniously in turn over the momentous treaty they were signing, Merlin watched Cara – first out of a purely masculine enjoyment of a pretty girl, and then with growing interest at the concentration she was putting into the moment, staring at the two rulers pledging their mutual support and protection.

Her expression, it was as if he could see two of them superimposed over one another, like two pages held up to the light, blended together. One was a sweet and slightly vacant smile. The other was the look of a dangerous predator, waiting the best moment to strike – or expecting someone else to strike?

"And as a sign of our intended good-will and fellowship," Bayard continued, waving a hand officiously. Another attendant stepped forward with a hinged wooden box, opening it to show two engraved silver chalices resting on a dark-blue velvet lining. "A gift – Uther Pendragon, and Arthur."

"This calls for a toast," Uther declared.

One of Camelot's own servants moved forward with a pitcher of wine to fill the goblets – a glint of vindictive triumph shone naked on the girl Cara's face; her eyes were fastened to the goblet box almost greedily.

What? Merlin moved without thinking, waylaying the servant with the pitcher with as much grace as he could summon and moving to perform the pouring-out duties himself. Uther's lip twisted with annoyance, and Arthur's with amusement, but neither said anything in front of their visitors. As Bayard turned to accept his own filled goblet, Merlin's hands trembled slightly, filling the chalice held by the king, keeping his head lowered so Uther would not be offended by the stray gleam of unauthorized golden magic - which detected nothing. So there was no plot against Uther's life. Merlin turned to Arthur, praying he was wrong.

As he poured, he concentrated, and Bayard spouted a long and flowery toast. Arthur met Merlin's eyes to give his own an exaggerated roll, and Merlin, in grinning back, almost missed it.

The slightest of taints. A stray wisp of black. A smell of old blood – blood magic. Had been used on Arthur's goblet.

Arthur lifted his goblet in the toast, and brought it to his lips.

Merlin lurched forward, gasping, "Stop! Don't drink it! It's poisoned!"

How or why or who, he could not say, but that it was poisoned, he knew for sure, and snatched it away from his friend. He sent a confused glance around for Cara and did not see her. Gaius moved forward, scowling, as Uther clamped his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"You accuse me of poisoning my own wine?" the king growled, his glare icy.

"What? No, of course not," Merlin said. "It's Arthur's chalice – the gift. It's been poisoned."

Both Pendragons turned to look at their visitor.

"This is preposterous," Bayard proclaimed. "I have come to sign a treaty of peace – why would I want to harm either of you?"

"Perhaps someone else had access to the vessel?" Gaius proposed reasonably.

"No," Bayard denied emphatically. "It has not been out of my possession."

Merlin looked around for the girl who was not really a girl, but she wasn't there. If she'd left the room, she'd have left the citadel – if it was her magic, it was strong magic and she'd have no trouble escaping. Whether she was allied with Bayard or not…

Bayard stepped forward, reaching for the goblet. "I'll prove it," he suggested to Uther. "It's perfectly fine, I assure you."

Merlin stepped back, believing instinctively that Bayard was innocent as well. No one should drink of it – he thought wildly of dumping the contents of wine out on the ground, but realized that wouldn't satisfy Uther.

"No, if it does prove to be poison…" Uther turned and pinned Merlin with a gaze. "He'll drink it."

Merlin stared back, the king's expression so complex it frightened him more than a little.

Arthur stepped forward, reaching for his father's shoulder. "But if it is poisoned, he'll die," he protested.

"Of course not," Uther said dismissively. "He's a powerful sorcerer, isn't he? But even sorcerers must prove their claims."

Bayard said, "And what if there is no effect? The insult must be answered for."

Uther shrugged, "If he lives, you have my apologies, and you may do with him as you will."

And that was a yawning abyss of black possibilities. Bayard would theoretically be free to kill him or carry him off to Mercia in slavery – except that as a sorcerer, he had the ability to fight back, to prevent it – to cause war between Camelot and Mercia, to be banished from Camelot forever… He vaguely heard Gaius pleading with the king to reconsider, and Uther snap at Gaius to remind him of his responsibility for his apprentice's actions.

As he lifted the cup to drink, Arthur shouted and lunged for him, Merlin stepping smoothly out of reach.

It tasted like wine, twisting pleasantly in the back corners of his mouth, a faint aftertaste not unlike lavender. Or dogwood, maybe? That was an odd flavor for wine. All eyes were on him, expectantly awaiting the verdict.

"It's fine," he said, with a little surprise.

So he belonged to Bayard now. He wavered on his feet, feeling his throat beginning to close in fear, and blinked to try to clear his vision. He would not cry in front of everyone, and besides, what was there to cry about? But blinking didn't help.

The taste that filled his mouth was metallic-bitter, foul and dark. He lifted his hand to his throat, his collar was too tight, his fingers too clumsy – Arthur's eyes were horrified – and his legs collapsed under him.

…..*…..

Merlin on the ground and unconscious simply did not happen. It meant that something had gone horribly wrong, and it froze Arthur's blood uselessly in his veins as the old physician knelt over his apprentice.

"Merlin, can you hear me?" Gaius called.

The rest of the room was silence, even the two rulers seemed faintly ashamed. Good, Arthur thought vindictively, and then he was able to kneel also.

"We have to get him back to my chambers," the old physician told Arthur, and as he reached to pull Merlin's body over his shoulder, out of the corner of his eye he saw Gaius scoop up the chalice.

As he carried his friend down halls and up stairs, Arthur thought he'd never known Gaius to move so fast, not even when he was a child and the old man twenty years younger. The red tunic he'd given Merlin to wear earlier flapped at the side of Arthur's face, and the echo of the younger man's pleased surprise flitted through his mind, I'm gonna be at the banquet? His naïve simplicity, as he gestured at the red shirt and plain brown trousers and jacket that were his habitual garb, Won't this do?

Arthur wished now that he hadn't been so eager for Merlin's presence at the banquet. If it had been him to drink from the poisoned cup, Merlin would probably have had no trouble healing him.

"Lay him on the bed, quickly," Gaius directed him, and Arthur tried to follow the order as gently as possible. He noticed that Merlin's feet hung off the edge of the short bed – he really had gotten taller in the last five years since they'd met as boys, far to the north on the king's last campaign. "He's struggling to breathe," Gaius said shortly.

Arthur watched him a moment, the wrinkle between his brows, the hollow in his throat as his body fought to draw air in. "Is he going to be all right?" he asked softly. "My father said–"

"His magic won't do much good healing without conscious direction!" Gaius snapped. "It might be able to keep him alive, but only just… He's burning up."

Unbidden, Arthur turned for the water bucket and a clean cloth, laying it out wet and cool across the top of Merlin's head. "You can cure him, can't you, Gaius?"

Gaius was back at the goblet, examining it. "I won't know until I can identify the poison – ah, there's something stuck on the inside."

"What is it?" Arthur asked.

Gaius turned to his shelf of books, quickly scanning the identifying marks on the bindings, and pulling one out. He leafed through it quickly, Arthur craning to see. He couldn't tell if there was any organization to the pages, but after a lifetime of studying and practicing medicine, he was sure that the old man was probably familiar with every page.

"Ah, the petal comes from the morteaus flower."

Arthur began to pace as the old man described the effects of the poison – slow and painful stuck in his mind. Merlin's magic might prolong the result, delay the inevitable, but would also draw out the sensations of pain. The leaf was the antidote, found on the roots of the tree, which were evidently accessible in a cave…

"Sounds like fun," he declared at last, and strode from the room ignoring the physician's protests of the danger.

22. Part 4: Poisoned/Drugged

("Pure of Heart" from The More Things Change)

Arthur halted his mount on the hilltop overlooking the Labyrinth. He'd forgotten how very extensive it was, and a sort of anticipation he would not call nervousness or uncertainty rose up under his breastbone.

Merlin's parting words to him still rang in his ears – I'm coming with you.

Not this time.

It did make more sense for him to come alone. Merlin's talents were better used in service of the people in Camelot, not selfishly hoarded for his own safety, especially when the dire circumstances were of Arthur's making. He knew that Merlin privately assumed some of the blame, wishing his reflexes had been a bit faster to stop the crossbow bolt, but it had been Arthur's decision to split their hunting party into three separate positions, allowing for the two brothers' ill-advised decision and the critical division of Merlin's attention, also. He'd taken responsibility for the killing of the unicorn, and it had been his failure of the second test that had kept his land under the curse.

He pressed his heels into his horse's flanks to start it down the hill toward the pillars delineating the entrance to the maze, trying to forget Merlin's rationale for together.

You're not much good separated, are you? a witch had once observed. He resented that, a little, and at the same time, felt it essential to pass a test on his own. It bothered him to wonder if the outcome with Evan the ostensible thief in the woods would have been different with Merlin standing right there.

And if this quest did include risking – or giving – his life, he'd prefer not to have to worry about Merlin's immediate reaction, in the situation. The younger man's sense of loyalty always overcame that of self-preservation, and sometimes that of rationality. If Arthur's life was required, then it was required, and Merlin's insistence on saving him could only complicate such a situation.

Not knowing how long this might take him, he hobbled his horse near the entrance, so the animal could forage but not wander far. He hoped he'd need it again, in the not-too-distant future.

Arthur stood at the pillars of the entrance, hands on his hips, for some moments. The tests, he'd been privately disappointed to note, were not of strength or skill, not for physical prowess at all, but he'd dressed in his chainmail as a precaution, and for traveling alone, the weight of his sword reassuring at his side. Perhaps there were threats hidden in the labyrinth's walls – not all magical creatures were friendly, after all. Perhaps it was a test for endurance – how long might he be required to wander? - or cunning – perhaps he simply had to make his way through?

Hells, he felt lost without Merlin. Shaking off the thought and the feeling, he entered the maze.

He knew as well as anyone that to get through a maze, one simply had to place one hand or the other on one of the walls, and never remove it. In one of this size, however, it would take weeks to traverse, that way.

So Arthur relied on instinct, keeping his footsteps quick enough to follow a new path, take a new turn, without conscious thought. He was aware, also, that he'd failed the second test because he'd allowed his temper and his impatience to get the better of him. If he'd been thinking logically, he might have questioned the strange young thief's jibes targeting his insecurities as a crown prince and as a son far too well for an ordinary stranger.

So he walked at a quick stride, alert for immediate threat – and waited. The first test had come to him, and he'd passed without conscious effort – the second he had sought out, and failed.

Arthur smelled salt on the breeze, and turned his face toward the sun as he approached the end of the row. His steps halted for one surprised moment – instead of the leafy green wall he'd come to expect, there was a gap in the hedge. And sand, and surf.

He paced warily to the break in the wall, taking in the rocky shore, apparently deserted but for Anhora. In his white robe, the old man nearly blended into his sun-bleached surroundings; half a dozen paces behind him, Arthur could see the corner of a low table, the stump of a tree positioned for a seat.

As he left the hedges of the labyrinth, circling to keep his distance from the old sorcerer as he would when facing any other opponent, he saw that he and Anhora were not alone. The other end of the low table was occupied.

"Merlin?" he said, finding himself wearily unsurprised.

"I'm sorry," the young sorcerer said. He seemed nervous, though, and that put Arthur on edge.

Arthur addressed Anhora. "Let him go. I will take your test, but not until you've released him."

"His release is no longer possible," the old man answered mildly. "Merlin chose to participate of his own free will, and he is now part of the test. Please sit." Arthur put his hands on his hips, glaring at both sorcerers equally. "If you refuse the test you will have failed, and Camelot will fall," Anhora added.

"I told you to stay at home," Arthur said, crossing the rocky beach to lower himself to the vacant stump opposite Merlin.

Merlin shrugged, leaning over his crossed arms as if highly uncomfortable. "He asked if I wanted to help."

Arthur snorted and looked back at the old man, "All right, let's get on with it."

"There are two goblets before you," Anhora explained, gesturing to the pair of drinking cups in the center of the rough table. "One of them contains a deadly poison, the other a harmless liquid. All the liquid from both goblets must be drunk, but each of you may only drink from a single goblet."

Arthur leaned forward to see inside both cups – the liquid was exactly the same, in appearance no different than the water rushing and retreating in a background sigh beside them, each filled to the halfway mark. He took up the one nearest him to sniff at it; Merlin dipped his fingertips into the goblet closer to him and rubbed them together.

Well, that does it, Arthur thought to himself. I'm not drinking that one. "What is this meant to prove?" he said aloud. "If we can't even tell which one is which?"

"What it proves is for you to decide," Anhora said. "If you pass the test, the curse will be lifted."

Arthur was watching him, and noticed something – the old man's gaze was on the two goblets, not on either prince or sorcerer. What if Anhora's instruction addressed them both?

He looked at the goblets. Across the goblets at the focused gaze of his friend, which turned gold momentarily, before Merlin made a sound of annoyance and sat back. Arthur figured he'd tried to discern the poison with magic, and couldn't. He leaned his forearms on the table. There had to be an answer beyond simply choosing which one of them was to die at random. That proved nothing… and something about this whole arrangement bothered him. A test, to prove himself – themselves? – not to Anhora, but to magic itself.

"There must be a way around it," Merlin said slowly.

Arthur made a noise of agreement. "We have to find a way to determine which goblet has the poison."

Merlin bit his lip, narrowing his eyes, and began to mumble, as was his way when he was trying to think something through. "If I drink mine first… no, that won't work… but if it's not and I then drink… no, each is only allowed to drink from one."

Arthur drummed his fingers on the table. There was a solution, that he believed; this was only the first part of the test. It was what came after the poison was identified, that was the problem. He closed his eyes and concentrated on how the sound of the water blended with his friend's murmuring.

In both tests, he'd been in control, held a man's life in his hands. The first test he'd chosen to let the man go free; the second time he'd tried to kill him.

Was that it? He had to choose to let Merlin go free. It was the clever solution – Merlin was a powerful sorcerer, and could probably… probably… heal him. He'd thought something similar after Merlin had drunk poisoned wine in his place, several months ago now. Although, Gaius had said more than once that poison was a tricky thing even for magic. So he couldn't necessarily count on Merlin's magic to save him.

His thoughts returned to the tests, to the words of the young man who called himself Evan. Your father would never have been fooled… the first test, Arthur had made a choice far different than the king would have, in his place – the second test, he'd reacted as his father would have counseled, to arrest the thief, to demand satisfaction for the insults to his honor. If Uther sat across from Merlin at this moment, there was no doubt in Arthur's mind that the king would allow, even encourage, the sorcerer to give his life that the ruler of the land might live.

"I've got it!" Merlin said, his eyes alight with satisfaction at having solved the riddle. "We pour all the liquid into one goblet, and then we can be sure it's poisoned – then all the liquid can be drunk and from a single goblet!"

So there it was. Merlin must go free. Arthur must not allow Merlin to die in his place.

Only – what did it prove to magic itself, if he were to die?

"What if," Arthur said slowly, "We pour both liquids into one goblet, then share it back out again?" Merlin's eyes met his. "If the poison is halved, could we not expect to survive it?" He glanced aside at Anhora, who was impassive as ever.

Merlin shook his head slowly. "Without knowing what it is," he answered, "we can't guess that. A single drop might be fatal."

He reached out for the goblet nearest him, and slowly began to pour the liquid into the second cup.

Neither of them needed to say anything. Of course Merlin expected to be the one to drink, would fight and argue and use magic on Arthur – would Anhora allow that? - to be the one to drink. And of course Arthur would answer back that the whole mess was his fault, his responsibility to pass the test, to lift the curse.

But you're the prince, the future king, his friend would say.

Don't, Merlin, be a hero. Not again.

The last drops trickled from the cup in the sorcerer's hand. Steady, Arthur noticed; Merlin had no qualms, no fears.

His own belly was tied in knots. He said casually, as a sort of farewell that would not alert Merlin to his intention, "You never cease to surprise me – you're a lot smarter than you look."

His friend's lips quirked in a answering smile. "Is that actually a compliment?" he teased back.

Swift as thought, Arthur shifted his gaze over Merlin's shoulder and widened his eyes in alarm. "Look out!" he said.

And as Merlin twisted to face whatever threat might be coming on them from behind, Arthur's hand shot out to grasp the full cup. Knowing that he would use magic to stop Arthur - in spite of Anhora or the rules of the test - Arthur gulped the mixed liquids, even as Merlin turned back, in horror too late.

"No!"

The taste was foul, but Arthur drank it fully, without even stopping to breathe.

Tears shone in Merlin's eyes. "What have you done?" he whispered, his arm stretched across the table as if he'd tried to reach for the deadly cup.

The world faded to a bright blur. He felt himself falling… falling…

22. Part 2: Poisoned/Drugged

("A Cup of Poison" from The Emrys Strain)

"Those two pints are worthless, contaminated with the fentanyl."

"Can't you purify it somehow? I don't think you realize just how precious that boy's blood is."

"You've reminded me quite clearly just how valuable it is to you. It will take time, effort, and significant funds to remove the impurities introduced by the incapacitant, none of which we have. The blood loss will act as an adequate sedative. We will be able to draw pure blood soon enough. Patience, Doctor."

He couldn't see. Couldn't move. It wasn't dark, not at all, it was – painfully bright. He tried to speak, and couldn't. He began to panic.

Something was wrong. Something had happened. Maybe he was paralyzed. That's why there was no pain, only… the sense that he was so terribly, lamentably, dangerously slow.

Arthur. Always his first thought, his first question. Where is he? Is he all right?

He couldn't move. He couldn't see. He couldn't speak. But that didn't mean he was helpless.

He reached down, deep down, where his magic immersed his soul and cradled his body, and drew on his reserves for healing magic, though it was next-to-useless to perform on himself.

The brightness blinked. Dark to light. Then again. He heard the quiet beeping that made him want to turn his head, locate the origin of the sound, assure himself it was an audible fact, and not some random glitch in his brain.

"Doctor, he's fighting the tranquilizer. He's trying to regain consciousness."

"That's impossible."

Pause. He struggled harder. It was like knowing he was dreaming, trying to pull his eyelids open and wake.

"Maybe, but that's what he's doing."

Blink. Blink. Light, then dark, then flickerflickerflicker.

"Isn't it fascinating? He's not even aware he's doing that! What an incredible specimen!"

The beeping sound increased in intensity, frequency. Locked inside himself, his pulse raced and he began to pant. No! he screamed, beating on the brightness as he had once battered against the walls of a cave, keeping him from his Arthur, keeping the magic crystallized and remote.

"Draw off another half-pint. That'll keep him quiet until we get the hippocampal electrodes attached and functional."

The bright place glowed, and he lifted, floating in midair, in deepest space. There was nothing to see but light, but somehow it all swirled around him, sucking him back down – or up, maybe? it was all one, in this place – into oblivion.

22. Part 3: Poisoned/Drugged

("Unleashed" from The Artorius Blade)

He felt no pain. He felt nothing.

No, that wasn't accurate. He felt a touch of anxiety, like dreaming he was in school again and had forgotten to do an assignment or how to open his locker combination. Something forgotten, something important.

Was it Arthur? No, he remembered Arthur. King Arthur of Britain. And he himself, Merlin the greatest sorcerer…

He struggled for his magic, sensing it but unable to touch, to grasp, to use. Light, dammit, light! He could see nothing but images on the back of his eyelids, and fought.

Surged kicking and screaming against the great weight of lethargy in his mind, in his body, in his blood. Right there, his to grasp, almost within reach – his very soul stretched out…

He wrestled harder. I have magic – I use it for you, only for you. But he couldn't speak, couldn't argue. He felt rough hands, on his face on his head, he was floating in blackness, with no way to tell up or down, alone alone–

Something fumbled at his feet and he kicked out reflexively, ineffectively, his sense of balance tipped, a feeling of movement joining the disorientation of the whole. Dread began to sift through him like hot sand onto his chest – was it only his mind that was bound? Would he ever escape this place?

He began to thrash as much as he was able, and it felt like tumbling down a painted-concrete school staircase. Utter disruption of equilibrium, blows coming from all sides at once. He retreated, curling mind and body to protect what was vital. He was alive. Arthur was alive, he had to be.

His current efforts were getting him nowhere, he needed more information, and the capacity to act. More sensory input to join him in whatever cage he'd been locked into. Wait, and recover.

Maybe he slept. Maybe he passed out.

He could smell the faint odor of gasoline, feel the rough nubby material of industrial-type carpet. He retained the sensation of movement - a vehicle. He focused and found he couldn't open his eyes or his mouth, couldn't hear anything but the rush of blood through his veins. Lines of pain cut through his wrists at the small of his back, causing hands and arms to begin throbbing. Again, or still, or whatever. His knees were bent, there was soft, solid surfaces closing him in, but he shuffled around enough to believe that the ability to move had returned.

Magic? Was there, creeping toward him little by little like incoming tide. Close, close – then withdraw. But closer the next time until – there. It reached him, trickled into him, soaked into him.

He concentrated, and it felt like his head would explode, like veins would break – and then the obstruction in his ears shifted. Again, then again, working free. He twisted his head cautiously, and the plugs dropped away. His hearing was back.

He heard voices. "Taking him to headquarters?"

"Police have already been there, they won't–"

"Not our problem. Just… money…" They mumbled, they whispered, they didn't hold his attention.

Next. He moved his fingers awkwardly, identifying the zip-ties binding his hands behind his back. Impossible to untie, even for magic; they'd have to be cut. Fine.

He rubbed his face against whatever surface he laid on – floor or seat or cargo area – not a trunk, the voices were too clear for that possibility. Rubbed and rubbed. He felt the edge of tape on his face come free, lose it's stickiness gathering lint or dust, roll so slowly away from his mouth. He worked the muscles of his face to free them, and gulped deep breaths of air.

Not entirely clear-headed, yet. Tranqs and hallucinogens and – he still did not know what had happened to Arthur. He was not here in the car, at least.

How long would the ride last, and where would he end up, and what would be done to him there?

He experimented, reaching out with the magic, but without sight. He tested his control, his will, on familiarity first, and the music from the vehicle's radio came on, came up. Old country.

This ain't my first rodeo… This ain't the first time this ol' cowboy's been throwed… This ain't the first I've seen this dog and pony show… This ain't my first rodeo…

Yellow light – but control of the brake didn't seem sufficient. They'd get out and walk – or, if they suspected his involvement, they'd hit him over the head with some other injection.

No. He steeled himself and reached out. Maybe he'd seen this on movies, defenses against car-jacking – but that was backwards, wasn't it? He was the one jacking the car… He ruthlessly yanked the wheel, right or left, didn't matter. He allowed no emotion – no fear, no pity, no apology – and floored the gas pedal from his position in the back seat.

The vehicle lurched – someone yelped – and Merlin's body lifted briefly before he was once again tumbling down that long dark staircase of all-encompassing pain.