Summary
Iseldir and his people travel to Camelot with a special petition, but also deliver grave news to King Arthur.
Chapter 49 The Druids' Petition
Iseldir led his people along a winding path through the Darkling Woods, his elder staff a comfortable companion in his grasp. Flanked by a few of the other elders, he glanced over his shoulder, a gentle smile crossing his face as he took in the sight of the many druids following behind. Their brightly colored robes breathed life into the deep greens of the forest, a living tapestry of his people's enduring spirit. These woodlands, a place where they could commune with nature's splendor and praise the goddess for her sustenance, were their home. Today, however, was special, compelling them to leave their refuge and travel to Camelot for a greater purpose.
The kingdom's renewed acceptance of magic kindled hope in Iseldir's people. They yearned to rebuild their shrines, long destroyed by ignorance or eroded by time. The possibility of establishing permanent settlements, once a distant dream, now seemed within reach. Yet, apprehension still dwelled in their consciousness. Old habits and distrust lingered like frost on spring leaves, slow to thaw even as the warmth of change approached.
"Are you sure this is wise?" Madoc asked, his long robe stirring the dried leaves beneath his feet as they advanced toward the great city.
Iseldir glanced at him and wondered if the elder had intruded upon his thoughts, but quickly dismissed the notion. All druids held privacy sacred and eschewed eavesdropping, especially those naturally gifted with perception of others' emotions and thoughts.
"The Pendragons have persecuted us for almost thirty years," lamented Gethin, another elder. "Why stop now?"
Iseldir's footsteps whispered against the forest floor, each pace careful and unhurried. His blue robes flowed with his movements, a river of calm in the sea of uncertainty around him. Accustomed to the skepticism of both Madoc and Gethin, he'd learned long ago to value his friends' opinions, whether he acted on them or not. While their caution stemmed from past pains—Madoc's intuitive wariness and Gethin's hard-earned distrust—their perspectives sharpened Iseldir's own convictions. In the delicate balance between hope and hesitation, he always found the wisdom to navigate their uncertain future.
"I bear no ill will toward King Arthur despite his past transgressions," Iseldir replied, hood drawn over bountiful grey curls, gripping his staff with surety. "The young Pendragon has shown remarkable flashes of his virtue over the years, and though he's not without moments of fallibility, he is not Uther. Remember the prophecy, brothers, and believe. It's unfolding right before us, signaling a new era for both our peoples."
Iseldir stared ahead, his lips thinning. Another prophecy, darker and known to few, pierced his heart. Despite Arthur's past kindness in protecting and safely returning young Mordred years ago, a grim future loomed. The king's valor and kindness would not prevail in the relationship yet to unfold between them. Mordred was destined to be King Arthur's bane. Iseldir, bearing the horror of this knowledge, understood all too well the futility of fighting prophecy. Fate, he knew, would not be denied its inexorable call.
He pushed aside the somber reflections. More recent events kindled hope. With the council meeting of magic practitioners called by Alator of Catha – which was itself unprecedented – discussion on the meaning of Camelot's repeal of magic stirred great unrest, with dissension burning hot among them.
Then, in a turn of events that left them all in awe, the legendary Emrys appeared. His presence alone was extraordinary, but what followed was truly unfathomable. Emrys counseled unity and called for understanding between those with and without magic. The power emanating from his frail frame left them spellbound as he vowed to speak on their behalf with the king, proposing to formally organize a special council of sorcerers. Sorcerers with autonomy to oversee their own! If it came to pass, the possibilities and expanded freedoms for his people were beyond imagining.
"I'm optimistic King Arthur will grant us even more liberties," Iseldir affirmed. "There are many benefits for both sides that surely outweigh any obstacles we may encounter. Be certain he'll proceed with caution, my friends – it will take time for any of this to happen."
"If it happens at all," Madoc grumbled.
Iseldir sighed. "May the goddess be with us."
Cresting a hill, Camelot's castle emerged on the horizon, its white stones magnificent and gleaming, a beacon of power even from afar. Towers pierced the sky, and pennants fluttered in the breeze, a testament to the kingdom's might and splendor. While the elders exchanged guarded glances, the children pointed and chattered excitedly. Once a symbol of fear for any sorcerer, the castle now represented a tentative hope.
Iseldir's thoughts turned to the hours of travel still before them as the group resumed their journey. With each step, anticipation grew, intertwined with a creeping nervous tension. After descending the hill and losing sight of the castle, he raised his hand, signaling the group to halt. Deciding this was as good a place as any to make camp, he waited as his people gathered around him.
"Never before have we journeyed towards Camelot with purpose and in such numbers," he declared, taking in the sight of his clan. "I see shadows of fear on some faces, while innocent joy lights others. Both have their place this hour as we stand at the threshold of change."
Iseldir gripped his elder staff, sunlight glinting off its druidic carvings. "For nearly thirty winters we've wandered the forests and woodlands, magics suppressed, fear and persecution following our steps like vicious wolves. Yet we kept ancient faiths alive through our hearts' perseverance. That faith now stands poised to reignite magic's golden age, fulfilling destinies long foretold."
Murmurs rose, and Iseldir let hope's swell build before raising a hand for silence. "The prophecy remains clear, though shadows and light wrestle for dominance. But we druids know true power abides not in weapons' might, but in courage of conscience. If we meet uncertainty with open hands, seek first to understand, then trust can take root. Have faith, my children – this peace we shall nurture together."
Iseldir moved among his people, his presence a balm to their anxieties. Together with the other elders, he helped set up the camp, his hands working alongside theirs to pitch tents, prepare fire pits, and erect perimeter wards. Through it all, he offered a reassuring touch here, a nod of solidarity there, his eyes meeting each of theirs with unwavering resolve. As the camp took shape, imbued with both physical comfort and magical protection, he gathered them once more.
"I must leave you for a time to seek audience with King Arthur. I pray you will bless him and that we return with good tidings within a few days. May the goddess be with us."
At midday, he set out with Madoc and Gethin from their temporary camp, walking in companionable silence, each lost in thought about the momentous task ahead.
As the afternoon sun hung lower in the sky, they emerged from the dense forest into a wide clearing, the sudden openness almost dizzying after hours under the canopy. For some time, they had glimpsed the castle through the trees, but now its full majesty was unveiled, its walls and northern gates imposing before them. Madoc drew in a sharp breath at the sight, perhaps feeling the magnitude of their mission – the same as Iseldir felt. Two armed guards stood at attention below the raised portcullis, and followed their approach with wary curiosity.
Iseldir stepped forward, his voice clear and steady. "We are druids, seeking audience with King Arthur."
The guards motioned them through right away, seeming indifferent to his introduction – perhaps even annoyed that he'd spoken to them at all. But upon entering the upper town, Iseldir smiled, a wave of elation washing over him as people went about their day, untroubled that druids walked freely among them. A dream blossomed before his eyes. How long had his people yearned for acceptance without fear or disdain marring faces?
Caught in wonder's grip, he drifted slowly down the main lane at a dreamlike pace, savoring the moment. Each footfall was purposeful, as if treading on sacred ground. His eyes, bright with a youthful wonder he hadn't felt in decades, drank in every detail—the play of light on cobblestones, the mingled scents of cooked food and summer blossoms, sun-drenched merchant stalls and shops glowing nearly ethereal. Chatter and laughter graced the air, unburdened, unaware of destiny's pivot at Camelot's gates this golden hour.
He breathed deeply, storing each precious sensation like a preserved flower between the pages of memory. A profound sense of contentment filled him, even as a part of him recognized the rarity of such perfect moments. If Emrys and the young Pendragon could deliver unity as promised, then every lost soul was now found. Every broken dream given bold new shape. Suspended between past and future, Iseldir moved towards the citadel, cradling this glimpse of bliss.
Then, something fluttering on the breeze caught Iseldir's attention – a leaflet with fine print landing at his feet. Bending to retrieve it, he read the words upon its surface:
"People of Camelot – do not be fooled by the Crown's honeyed words!
Our rulers preach abundance and celebration, yet ignores the poison at the root of this 'benevolent gift of magic.' Have you forgotten so quickly the atrocities committed by sorcerers? The vicious curses, torture of the innocent, loved ones slain for spite or vengeance! Magic brings only suffering! Its wielders know no truth, no remorse!
The throne dares to mention 'lingering wounds' while welcoming the very vipers who inflicted them into the court! Even now, sorcerers walk freely in our halls of power, whispering their lies into royal ears. How many more lurk among us, some brazen in the open, others still concealed, their 'magic flowing through the earth' – or through our children?
The Crown claims to see our pain, yet chooses to 'move forward' by embracing those who caused it. This is not unity – it is betrayal!
Do not be deceived by talk of 'tending wounds.' The only salve for our suffering is justice! Instead, these murderers and deceivers now roam unchecked, their crimes forgiven by royal decree.
Where is the compassion for those of us who lost everything to magic's perversion? Our leaders speak of brotherhood, yet extend their hands to our tormentors.
Camelot's greatness indeed lies in her people – those who remember the truth, who refuse to bow to sorcery's seductive lies. Stand firm against this corruption! Remain vigilant against the wickedness.
For the sake of our children and our future, we must root out this evil before it takes hold once more. No quarter for sorcerers! And be wary any who stand in defense of these monsters!
Camelot for her true people!
-Loyal Citizens Against Magical Tyranny"
Iseldir's brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he fought to maintain composure. His eyes darted around the square, suddenly aware of more loose papers drifting among the seemingly content townsfolk. The euphoric haze that had enveloped him moments ago dissipated like morning mist, revealing the city's true face – a patchwork of unease beneath a veneer of normalcy.
"What does it say?" inquired Gethin, looking over his shoulder. Madoc scooped up another leaflet and began reading in silence, his expression growing grave.
"It says that harmony here is but a thin veil over deeper troubles," Iseldir replied, his voice weighted with concern.
Gethin's face darkened as more of the pamphlets swirled through the streets, each one a seed of discord taking flight on the breeze. Iseldir watched with growing disquiet as people around them began to snatch the leaflets from the air, their eyes scanning the inflammatory words. Some faces contorted with anger, others with fear or confusion. Iseldir tucked the parchment beneath his twined belt as he gathered his thoughts, acutely aware of the shifting atmosphere around them.
"It seems there are those who wish to poison the well of peace before it can even be dug," Madoc grumbled, his eyes following the trail of loose parchments as they now tumbled through the streets like harbingers of a storm. He folded the leaflet and inserted it into the pouch slung across his shoulder. "Tread carefully, Iseldir. The jaws of the wolf may yet hide behind its friendly gaze."
Iseldir nodded solemnly. "There will always be dissenting voices, brothers. Change seldom comes without struggle, and sometimes it's very painful."
His heart ached as he witnessed how swiftly suspicions could take root. These words had the power to provoke the angry and bitter, to sway the weak-minded or the undecided, but most dangerously, to rekindle the pain of those harmed by magic. He set his jaw and continued forward, his steps quicker and less buoyant than before. If the people of Camelot could not reconcile with magic users, then all their dreams were but ephemeral mists, destined to evaporate in the harsh light of reality.
In the main square, the courtyard hummed with the bustle of castle life, none seeming to take real note of Iseldir and his small party. The leaflets had not reached this peaceful area yet, but given time, it too would be tainted by the venom of hatred slithering not far behind their steps.
As they moved towards the palace entrance, a figure descended the citadel steps, striding purposefully towards them, a Sidhe staff in his hand. Iseldir's breath caught as he recognized the man – Emrys, appearing as his youthful self. Iseldir's companions followed his line of sight.
"It is he of the legends," murmured Madoc with trembling voice, "born of magic itself."
" Mae'r tywyddwr wedi dyfod," Gethin gasped, breathless. "The prophet has come."
"Welcome to Camelot," Emrys greeted, coming to stand before them, his voice carrying softly on the breeze.
"My lord, Emrys," said Iseldir, his heart racing as he knelt immediately with Gethin and Madoc, bowing their heads in reverence, open palms raised toward the sky in Emrys' direction. "We are honored by your presence."
"Please, rise," Emrys requested, a note of tension in his voice. As Iseldir and the others stood, Emrys fidgeted uncomfortably, glancing around. "That… really isn't necessary."
"But, my lord," Iseldir said. "We must. Emrys is the cornerstone of our prophecies, the beacon of our hope. Since he is revealed and magic has returned, we must respect our rituals and practices."
Iseldir watched as Emrys shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers tightening around his staff. The young warlock's eyes darted nervously to the castle, around the square, then back to the druids, a faint flush creeping up his neck. His voice, when he spoke, carried a hint of strain. "I would prefer that you do not. Please, kindly speak to your people about this."
Studying Emrys, Iseldir felt his admiration for the young sorcerer grow. Here stood a figure of legend, a man of extraordinary power that seemed to hum in the very air around him. Destiny cloaked him like a second skin, hinting at a future that would reshape the very fabric of their world. Yet, despite all this, he sought no adulation.
"As you wish, Emrys," Iseldir replied. "We shall refrain from kneeling, but permit us at least to hail my lord as befits your station."
"If you must." Emrys' shoulders relaxed slightly, a small smile then coming to his lips. "It's good to see you again, Master Iseldir." He paused, his expression growing serious once more. "There are pressing matters I'd like to discuss later – the sorcerers' council, and... a concerning incident involving Mordred. But first, let's focus on your audience with the king. Follow me, please." He turned, striding boldly before them, his staff clicking against the cobblestones in time with his own.
It did not surprise Iseldir that Emrys desired to speak on the sorcerers' council – he'd given it a great deal of consideration himself. But Mordred. That was unexpected, a deep concern. What had the young druid done? More importantly, why was he in Camelot at all?
As they ascended the palace steps, Madoc leaned in with a whisper. "The threads of fate are delicate, Iseldir. One pull could unravel all we're working toward."
Iseldir straightened his robes, steadying his nerves, again wondering if Madoc had read his mind. Prophecy foretold this bold new world – he must trust in destiny's course as he had urged his people. And in the men like King Arthur, Emrys, and those brave souls standing beside them to illuminate rather than obscure the path ahead.
…But Mordred…
The guards at the citadel check-point eyed them warily but allowed them entry with their staffs at Emrys' behest. Iseldir sent a silent prayer as they stepped inside. Castle inhabitants bustled past them in the hallowed halls, paying little heed to their presence. Iseldir's keen eyes searched the faces they passed, wondering how many among them were kindred spirits of magic. And how many harbored feelings of resentment like the writers of the disturbing pamphlet tucked in his belt?
As they neared imposing wooden doors left ajar and flanked by vigilant guards, Emrys turned to them. "We're here. Are you ready?"
His mouth suddenly dry, Iseldir nodded before they proceeded inside. He had never before entered a hall as grand the throne room, with light streaming in abundantly, gold glistening from high arches, making it difficult to imagine the darkness that once permeated this space. He stepped onto unfamiliar ground today, approaching a monarchy that had once been hostile and dreadful to all things magical. His knees weakened beneath his robes, but destiny and hope steeled his resolve, refusing to let him falter.
As Emrys led them towards the dais, Iseldir scanned the chamber, taking in every detail. He spotted the druid Ruadan among the audience, his stoic face a mask of neutrality. While Emrys' and Ruadan's presence was expected, the sight of his daughter, Sefa, serving quietly behind the queen came as a revelation. This scene before him confirmed one truth from the divisive leaflet: magic users were indeed integrated within the great citadel's walls.
His mind raced with implications. How far-reaching was this acceptance of magic, and would it bolster the king's support for their proposed special council? Or would the venomous words spreading through the city streets jeopardize all they hoped to achieve? The significance of these questions pressed upon him as they approached the throne.
Reaching the foot of the dais, Emrys bowed deeply. "Your Majesties, may I present Master Iseldir, chieftain of the Taeron druids, and his companions."
Iseldir and his brothers followed suit, bowing low before the royal couple. As he straightened and faced the monarchs, Iseldir couldn't help the feeling of awe that gripped him. King Arthur watched him with guarded curiosity, the weapon at his side thrumming with an unmistakable magical energy. Queen Guinevere's gaze, filled with genuine interest, swept over them. Iseldir noticed a glow about her, reminiscent of what he'd often seen in some of his clanswomen.
Magic, indeed, all around, Iseldir mused, the realization both comforting and intriguing.
"Noble druids," King Arthur greeted. "Welcome to Camelot."
"Your Majesties, we are honored," Iseldir began, his voice steady despite the magnitude of the moment. Removing an emerald amulet from around his neck, he presented it to the king. "Please accept this emerald as a token of appreciation. It symbolizes growth, life, and renewal, and represents the hope for a new era between Camelot and the druids."
He extended the gift and a giant knight stepped forward to retrieve it from him, taking it to the king. Arthur glanced at it only a moment before handing it to his queen.
"It's lovely," acknowledged Queen Guinevere, examining it in her delicate hands.
"Thank you," King Arthur expressed with a brisk nod.
"We thank you in your wisdom on lifting the ban on magic, sire," Iseldir said. "My people and I wish only to live peacefully alongside your other subjects. If it would please you, great king, I humbly petition to settle my people near your city for a time. We require but a modest plot to rebuild our nearby temples and tend our sacred grounds."
Murmurs and astonished whispers followed this bold request, rippling through the throne room. The king cast a discerning gaze over Iseldir and his companions, contemplation in his expression.
After King Arthur raised his hand for silence, he solemnly declared, "Camelot could only thrive from the rich diversity your culture will bring to us. We welcome you and your people in peace. My engineers will help with any provisions you may need to rebuild your structures."
The tension in Iseldir's shoulders eased as he gazed upon Arthur, sensing a bond of mutual trust. "You are merciful and just, my king. We shall embrace the chance to work freely alongside your men and perhaps eventually to live amongst all peoples of Camelot, bound by harmony."
"That is our desire as well," King Arthur replied, a subtle smile gracing his lips. "Please take food and respite after your journey. Guest quarters have been prepared for you and your companions."
"Your Majesty is most gracious," Iseldir responded, his voice warm with appreciation. "We humbly accept your hospitality."
King Arthur's expression softened. He glanced at Emrys, who responded with an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes conveying approval and respect. Turning back to Iseldir, his tone carried a note of sincerity.
"Then it's settled. Sir Merlin will see to your comfort during your stay. Fair day, Master Iseldir."
Iseldir shot Emrys – Sir Merlin – a glance, pondering the young warlock's title and his enduring humility. A sorcerer elevated to nobility in Camelot; more than a personal achievement. It was a tangible step towards the prophecy of Albion's golden age.
Arthur then stood, and taking the queen's hand, they descended the dais, followed by their attendants and guards. As the king and queen approached his position, Iseldir pressed a hand against his belt, one burden lifted from his frame while another gnawed at his conscience. He wet his lips, his pulse racing.
Before the royals passed, he stepped forward. "Great king, I must inform you –" Iseldir pulled the pamphlet from his belt, holding it out. "Not all seek this mutual bond we build today."
His Majesty eyed it curiously, a hint of suspicion creeping into his features before he met Iseldir's gaze. Taking it with caution, Arthur read it, his face remaining impassive, though a muscle feathered in his taut jawline.
"In the streets of your vibrant city near the northern gates, my lord," Iseldir replied to the king's unasked question. "I believe they were just now released in the lanes."
After reading the flyer, Arthur's face hardened. He handed the parchment to another man behind him. "Lord Geoffrey," he ordered, his voice steady, "read this to the court."
As the stout lord read, a profound tension filled the room. Iseldir observed the varied reactions among the assembled courtiers. Some nodded in approval, while others whispered urgently behind raised hands. Calculating eyes darted between Arthur and Iseldir's small assembly, while a cluster of older courtiers huddled together, their furrowed brows and tight lips betraying their unease. Even Ruadan and his daughter exchanged glances, the girl's hands wringing nervously while she looked to her father. The air was charged with as much anticipation as it was fraught with uncertainty. Once the words had been read from the leaflet, King Arthur raised his hand for silence.
"People of Camelot," he began, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "I hear your fears. I acknowledge your pain. The wounds of the past run deep, and healing takes time. But I stand before you today to reaffirm my commitment to all citizens of this realm – those with magic and those without."
He paused, surveying the room.
"In the coming days, I will address these concerns more fully. We will not hide from difficult truths, nor will we allow fear to divide us. Camelot's strength lies in our unity, and together, we will forge a path forward that ensures justice and safety for all."
Arthur then turned to Iseldir. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. Your courage honors us."
" Ei fid addfwyn i ti," Iseldir replied, meeting the king's gaze. "Blessed be your path, King Arthur."
Any joy the king had at the fresh prospect of Iseldir and his people settling nearby seemed to have left him. He soberly departed his great hall, his queen beside him, the dangling emerald pendant glistening in her hand. A hushed murmur spread through the cavernous chamber, following in their wake.
As Iseldir and his companions trailed Emrys through the castle's winding corridors, he struggled to steady his trembling hands, his heart racing, his mind daring to hope. Yet the weight of three decades of persecution lingered, its echoes reinforced by the leaflet. The parchment served as a cold reminder that the past was not so easily forgotten, neither by his kin nor by those who once hunted them. Memories of fleeing Uther's men, of his people slaughtered, of years spent hiding even from Arthur himself, threatened to overwhelm him. Still here they were, on the cusp of change, walking the edge of a blade between a painful history and a tentative future.
After a journey that seemed both endless and fleeting, they arrived at their assigned quarters. Emrys parted the double doors and led them inside. Iseldir's eyes widened at the sight of the opulent chamber, with its intricately woven tapestries and plush furnishings. A few servants moved quietly about, arranging a table laden with an array of unfamiliar delicacies.
Emrys turned to him, his expression grave. "Arthur requires my presence now. I believe he means to address the leaflet issue."
"A concern for us all," Iseldir agreed, his brow furrowing.
"The hour is late. The High Steward will arrange a meeting between you and the engineers tomorrow." Emrys paused, then added, "May I speak with you privately, sometime before you depart the city?"
Iseldir nodded solemnly. "Of course. Whatever assistance I can offer, you need only ask. Our fates are intertwined in this new era."
Emrys gave a grateful nod, then left them to settle in. Iseldir turned to his brothers, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. "This is a sign. Emrys stands at last at Pendragon's side, a man of nobility. The prophecies are coming to pass, and a new era dawns for all our kin."
"And Mordred…?" Madoc inquired, scanning the table of food. He seated himself as a male servant approached to serve him.
Iseldir swallowed, his spirits dampened by his friend's thorny question. "We haven't seen the boy in several years – not since he chose to leave us." He paused, his gaze distant. "Mordred's path, like our own, twists in shadows we've yet to pierce. His actions, whatever they may be, are but one thread in future's tapestry."
Gethin nodded soberly, curious eyes still exploring the spacious chambers. "And that tapestry grows ever more complex," he intoned. "Discord simmers."
"True. Our mettle is being tested from all sides." Iseldir paused, looking at each of his companions in turn. "But in my heart, I know this will pass. May the goddess bless us all, and guide our hands to nourish the sapling of peace."
