Summary
Under the cover of darkness, Merlin and Galahad carry out a restorative magical quest to renew Camelot's land ravaged by Queen Morgana.
Chapter 32 The Wizard & The Sorcerer
The crescent moon provided scant illumination as Merlin's horse trotted out of the lower town and into the Darkling Woods towards the abandoned mill house, Galahad at his side. His eyes flashed gold periodically, creating a faint path of magical light to guide their mounts at a brisk but safe pace. The night air was bracing, carrying the earthen smells of damp soil and decaying leaves.
Merlin's mind raced as quickly as Chestnut's cadence over the astonishing events of the past weeks – the heated council meeting where Arthur proclaimed Emrys an ally, the intense debates over magic's legalization and Lord Badawi's arrest, Escetir's unexpected threats, sighting Mordred lurking in the castle, the grisly murder of an innocent sorcerer. All of it pumped an uneasy combination of exhilaration and caution through his veins, and Merlin couldn't settle on any one emotion, especially knowing the enormity of what was still to come.
Soon, the whole of Camelot would know his truth – that he was Emrys, sorcerer of sorcerers, revered by the druids. His appointment as the kingdom's court wizard was now inevitable, his magic soon to be laid bare for all to see, and applied solely for the protection of the realm. A part of him still worried over how the people would receive this revelation, though Arthur had proclaimed the matter settled. And while Kilgharrah deemed their bold strides ambitious, the great dragon also cautioned that the risks they tempted could well outweigh any advantages.
Merlin swallowed hard as flashes of his own past deeds played in his mind's eye, the dense forest canopy cloaking them in inky blackness between each flare of his guiding light. He'd taken severe, even brutal measures at times to eliminate threats against Camelot and Arthur's destiny. Would history judge some of those actions as the cold, calculating brutality of a power-hungry kingmaker? Or would it see the noble intentions of a warlock committed to protecting the Once and Future King? And how much should be made known, he wondered with no small amount of trepidation? Or should he continue to guard those darker deeds in secrecy, consequences be damned, for the greater sake of Arthur's reign and the forging of Albion?
"Merlin," Galahad said, breaking the silence as their horses trudged along the golden-laced path, "I've been giving thought to what we discovered about there possibly being other dragonlord bloodlines that survived Uther's Purge."
Merlin nodded, his lips spreading into a smile now, his emotions tilting in the other direction toward joy. "It is startling news. For so long, I believed the dragonlords were eradicated save for my inherited abilities. I might not be alone."
"Indeed. Uther was ruthless in his efforts to exterminate magic users," Galahad said. "But some dragonlord lines may have slipped through the cracks, especially descendants of ancient ones where the dragonlords' offsprings may have outlived their dragons and continued to pass on the gift down their lines."
"Kilgharrah thought the same as well," Merlin agreed, focusing on guiding their mounts along a narrow, winding trail. He illuminated the path again, avoiding the low-hanging branches and exposed roots. "Uther seemed focused on destroying just those who openly practiced sorcery, but he may not have rooted out entire bloodlines destined to inherit magical abilities – which is why he only targeted the eldest dragonlord sons specifically."
"That's assuming the power passed strictly to them," Galahad hummed thoughtfully, his brow furrowing at the implications as Merlin shot him a glance.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his curiosity piqued as they picked their way across a small creek.
"What if there were second sons, or the power passed anomalously down other lines?" Galahad posited. "I don't think we should dismiss those possibilities. Merlin, there could even be women dragonlords."
Merlin recoiled slightly at the notion, his brow furrowing in skepticism – a female dragonlord was one not even Kilgharrah had broached. "That – that can't be," he said, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice as he pulled Chestnut to a halt. "The dragonlords have been an exclusively male tradition since the dawn of time. Surely if women could inherit the gift, Kilgharrah would have mentioned it in all his centuries of wisdom." A chorus of crickets and night birds serenaded their brief respite. Galahad shrugged, his eyes glowing gold this time to lighten their path as he eased his horse forward. Merlin followed behind, his thoughts swirling over this unprecedented idea of potential female dragonlords.
Galahad gave a measured nod as he continued. "The Old Religion works in mysterious ways, Merlin. Just because we've never encountered female dragonlords does not mean the ability is restricted solely to men. And who is to say the great dragon is aware of every single secret of the arcane world after so many centuries and much knowledge being destroyed?"
Merlin opened his mouth to protest further, but clamped it shut as Galahad's words gave him pause. As much as it unsettled his core beliefs about dragonlords, he could not claim to grasp the infinite complexities of the Old Religion and its mysteries.
"Perhaps the Triple Goddess foresaw this eventuality as a way to preserve the dragonlord legacies when all seems lost to the world." Galahad's eyes widened, emphasizing the revolutionary potential in such an idea.
As the trail began ascending and chastened by his mentor's wise perspective, Merlin fell silent, mulling over this extraordinary idea, centuries of ingrained tradition difficult to upend on a whim. The horses' breaths came in labored pants as they climbed the gradual incline, twigs snapping and leaves rustling under their hooves. Merlin and Galahad leaned forward in their saddles, encouraging the mounts onward.
"Well, then how might we begin tracking down these potential survivors?" Merlin asked, the cool night air raising prickles on his neck. "Dragonlord abilities lie dormant until awakened, so what else will awaken them?"
"I don't know, so back to the library, I suppose," Galahad grumbled with a sigh, wiping his brow. "Ancient genealogies may yet offer clues. But specialized knowledge will be required – scrying spells, arcane divinations. Even reveal incantations, but each of these could prove disastrous if attempted haphazardly on such a wide scale. Are you aware of anyone versed in dragonlord lineages and legends of old?"
Merlin shook his head solemnly. "Gaius has some knowledge, but I doubt he knows anything concrete about this." He exhaled heavily, a plume of vapor dissipating in the chill air. At the crest of the hill, they paused, the forest surrounding them rich with the musty scents of damp earth and decaying leaves. "Still, I'll ask him and find out what he does know. How about your former mentor in Catha?"
"A prudent step. The library and other resources are vast there. I'll send letters to Master Lysandros and the Citadel historians first thing."
"This gives me some hope," Merlin said, his emotions heightening again, their possibilities of finding answers increasing. "I think we should still scry or try other reveals to seek out the descendants, but on a small scale."
"Even on a small scale, those spells can be perilous without full mastery," Galahad cautioned, his tone hardening as he leaned forward intensely in his saddle. His jaw clenched with disapproval when he leveled Merlin with a stern glare.
Merlin thinned his lips, refusing to wilt under his mentor's piercing gaze. He met Galahad's eyes unwaveringly, his own blazing with determined resolve. "I must try, Galahad. I'll research thoroughly before attempting anything. Without other dragonlords, the dragons may not be able to return. I don't know if I can control them all."
Galahad nodded gravely and sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained from his posture. "Very well," he finally agreed, the haunting calls of an unseen owl echoing through the trees. He fell silent for a beat, betraying his lingering apprehension at Merlin's risky intentions. He'd always shown great wisdom and prudence when studying or executing any kind of magical workings, taking the same meticulous precautions that any good mentor should impart.
After a moment, his expression softened, a glimmer returning to his eyes. "But it's exciting, isn't it? Another vital quest to reunite the dragonlords," he mused, unable to mask a hint of wonder in his tone. "It could be a profound achievement – a true return of magic's majesty to this land."
A sigh escaped Merlin's lips even as he nodded in agreement. He knew how difficult it had been for Kilgharrah to find the lost dragons that Arthur was so certain still existed. The great dragon's disappointment yesterday had been so tangible that Merlin could feel it, and guilt crept back in knowing that he had done little to help. "It won't matter if Kilgharrah can't find the other dragons," he lamented after a moment, casting a solemn glance to Galahad. "All this might be for nothing."
"Do not lose faith, my friend," Galahad replied, that familiar spark of hope in his eyes, the corners crinkling with reassuring warmth. "Kilgharrah is wise and determined. If any dragon could uncover the others, it is him."
He winked at Merlin, a half smile on his face. "We'll do our part and focus our efforts on locating the lost dragonlord lines after tonight's adventure."
Merlin gave a resolute nod, Galahad's assurance reinvigorating his resolve. "Just one great quest after another. Will there be no end?" he quipped, holding his mentor's gaze for a moment before spurring his horse onward into the night.
The disheveled mill house soon came into view, its weathered slats creaking in the cool breeze. Merlin slid off his horse, boots sinking into the damp soil and scattered leaves. He secured the reins to a gnarled post, running his palm along the animal's flank. Glancing at his mentor, he saw certainty etched in Galahad's expression – a tightness to his jaw, an intense gleam in his eyes showing no traces of hesitation for their vital mission ahead.
Merlin's heart thrummed with purpose as he inhaled the earthy scents of the forest floor. He would transport north to the withered orchards and vineyards while Galahad went west to the fallow grain fields and vegetable patches. Their magic would merge somewhere in between, spreading across the ruined soil like healing rains. Any vegetation on their edges would benefit too, blossoming anew with vibrant life. Merlin hoped that their deed tonight would prove to all of Camelot the nobility in sorcery.
Looking overhead, an infinite tapestry of stars winked through the canopy's breaks above. The thin crescent moon was partially visible, providing little illumination from below the trees. "Well, it's time," Merlin said, rubbing his sweaty palms against his pants. "Ready?"
Galahad chuckled, smiling wryly. "I should be asking you that. Take calm, Merlin. You'll be alright."
"I know," he replied, tingling with the magic building within him. "It's just that the day has finally arrived." He inhaled deeply, and nodded. "I'm ready. Begin the spell as soon as you arrive and then return here. Ride back to the castle without me – it might be best if we don't return together anyway."
Galahad flashed a small grin. "Then try not to have too much fun without me. See you at the castle." Merlin met his gaze steadily before Galahad whispered the white spell incantation and disappeared instantly before his eye, like Anhora had done all those years ago, displaced air rushing in where the sorcerer vanished.
Taking a deep breath, Merlin closed his eyes, the blighted orchards forming in his mind. His pulse quickened as power surged through his limbs. Then, with a thunderous exhale and his enhanced white magic spell, he too disappeared in a cloud of vapors and whipping winds.
At the orchards, bare rows of trees stood like ghastly creatures frozen in agony, branches twisting in silent screams toward the indifferent sky. Skeletal boughs clawed up from ashen soil, rendered shades of ghostly grey beneath the meager landscape. The stillness and decay sank unease into Merlin's heart – even the accustomed night songs of insects did not dare disturb this grim tableau where no new life had sprouted in well over a month. It seemed a desolation not even magic could mend. Merlin smacked his lips, mouth gone dry as if the very air was leeched of life.
"So begins the dawn of a new age," he said aloud, then chuckling at his foolish attempt at profundity.
Kneeling, Merlin placed his palms on the burnt soil and recited the spell with perfection, his eyes turning gold, his fingers tingling with magic. He and Galahad discovered that enriching the soil would spread the magic thoroughly and completely, nourishing the roots much faster than treating each tree or bush or plant individually. He'd assured Arthur that it would be done by first light today, and by the rate that the magic sprang out from his fingers into the soil, it would not take that long.
As if water and sunlight provided their nourishing elements, the soil turned rich black and sparkled with colorful, twinkling light. Merlin sucked in a breath and sat back on his heels, his eyes wide with awe. Scorched bark revived as magic touched it and sprinted up the trucks into the branches, leaves bursting with vibrancy and fruits springing out in brilliant colors. The trees, now heavy-laden, released some fruit to the ground, soft thuds reaching his ears all around him.
His knees wobbled as he rose, euphoria gripping his very being. Bracing himself, he moved to the closest tree and reached for an apple, red and glossy. Biting into it with a crunch, juice dribbled down his chin, the flesh the sweetest he'd ever tasted. Taking another bite, he wondered if all the restored fruit and vegetables would be just as tasty.
Merlin gazed at the magic still stretching outward through the soil as it touched more and more trees. He wondered once it reached the outlying villages if they would take notice and alert the castle guards before first light. Would they sound the alarm before Arthur was ready? Wiping his chin with a sleeve, he bit into the fruit again, relishing the rich flavor.
After finishing the apple and discarding the core, Merlin magicked himself to the wasted vineyards a half league away, his heart racing with pure delight. He knelt before gnarled vines twisted in pain, shriveled grapes long rotted still clinging in mockery of bounty lost. Row after row extended lifeless, skeletal vines under the uncaring crescent moon.
Chanting eagerly, precisely, Merlin set magic flowing through the dead boughs. He gasped – before his eyes, buds swelled then burst into plump grapes, dark skins glinting. The vines awakened, leaves fluttering until laden anew, heady sweetness scenting the air.
Then something rustled behind him, and Merlin froze, his heart hammering. Had he been discovered? Was it bandits? Or Camelot's patrol? Should he transform into Emrys? The sound grew louder, closer. He held his breath, magic at the ready to... until a family of rabbits burst from the brush.
Merlin let out a shaky laugh as the rabbits disappeared into the night without ever noticing him. He was alone again, with only his racing heart and wandering mind for company. Turning back to the vines, now heavy with restored grapes, he whispered "Hoppan."
A ripe grape detached and floated gently into his open palm. He savored the sweet juice that burst on his tongue – more heavenly than any palace wine. Closing his eyes, Merlin allowed himself a moment to appreciate the simplicity of this restored fruit and all it represented – life, hope, and the future of magic itself.
But duty called once more, for there was no time for self-glorification. With the learned whispered words, he spun thin tendrils of mist from the moist land until an opaque veil obscured all evidence of revival. There – prying eyes were now thwarted well past dawn's first creep. He smiled. He did it.
There was still so far to go, he knew, many battles left to fight. But tasting the goodness of what he helped to grow, Merlin felt his faith unbounded. No matter how long and winding the path, his gifts would be used for light and prosperity for all.
With a renewed spirit, he used the white magic spell to whisk back to the mill house – no sign of Galahad nor his horse upon his return. Merlin climbed onto Chestnut and set off through the darkness toward home, toward Camelot – the kingdom he loved and believed could be made whole again with a few single acts of kindness.
Galahad glanced sorrowfully over the vestiges of Morgana's vindictiveness and man's ignorance. Barren rows stretched under cold stars once holding vegetables that fed kingdoms. Shriveled vines snaked across cracked soil, husks of bounty lost mocking Camelot's barren larders – this crisis carved solely by hatred. But no more.
He had no doubt of Merlin's success tonight in the northernmost fields. But he now wondered if he could revive so vast and wasted an area. Was he truly skilled enough? Galahad gnawed his bottom lip, yet he knelt reverently, summoning his courage to invoke the revitalization spell.
Palms to the ground, he whispered words of rebirth. The parched soil blossomed fertile and dark once more. Dormant seeds awakened under new sunbeams of magic – green shoots erupted, leaves unfurling as vines reconquered the expanse. Plump carpets of cabbage and squash, potatoes and parsnips bloomed under the dark sky. The people would not starve again for closed minds, he thought, nor the kingdom to rely on the kindness and generosity of other realms. Today, Camelot would remember abundance.
His eyes beheld the marvel of power flowing freely for the first time in ages, and joy swelled in him. His gifts brought renewal, not destruction. But not all with magic had shown such mercy. Sorcerers twisted by vengeance had brought Camelot much agony and fair reason for fear. For too long the mindsets of men on both sides had brought ruin upon the land. Now diminishing in small measures, fear and bias receded for those like himself – those who wished only to heal and spread prosperity.
Galahad closed his eyes. Inhaling the rich scents, he reveled in the magic awakening nature's bounty today. The people would see it was no curse, but a conduit of life's sacred essence. All the years of longing, of guarding secret sprouts had come to fruition. The land was renewed; his faith in a better tomorrow rewarded. Galahad now dreamed of crops thriving in this soil year after year in the fortune of Camelot. This new era with Merlin surely heralded paradise regained.
His exultation dimmed, however, as he readied to depart the restored vegetable fields. Though fulfilling in a familiar and special way, lingering sadness dampened his victory, this feat a solitary experience without the deeper connections he once had with his Clarwick comrades, friendships he feared he'd never be able to restore.
Nonetheless, the grains must rise next, he thought, as more and more sorcerers will rise from the ashes of oppression. He teleported to the wasted grains and stood before the barren rows. Galahad knelt once again and pressed his palms onto the starved soil.
He chanted low over the barren rows, soil warming at his call. Awakened seeds burst forth racing green shoots. Stalks steadily rose taller until crowned with full bristling barley, wheat, rye – their heads heavy with plump amber grains.
An ocean of rippling life now shushed golden in the nightly breeze, ready for harvest – the people's bread and seed-stock restored. Enough surplus for markets again rather than meager rations that left hunger's ghost behind glassy eyes in young and old from castle to outlying village.
As Galahad brushed fingertips across the standing stalks, his heart soared picturing the relief and wonder soon to dawn on so many faces spared deprivation's shadow, the magic people once cursed now lifting pallid cheeks with rosy hope. This new era could perhaps banish distrust as Camelot won magnificence once more.
Galahad smiled triumphant, his gaze wandering over the bounty. "Time to go," he told himself, satisfied in his works. "Bedyrne ús, Glenmill! Astýre ús þanonweard!"
As the dilapidated structure appeared, Galahad saw that he'd completed his mission before Merlin, both horses grazing lazily nearby. He glanced at the mill house, wondering if his friend was inside.
"Merlin, you there?" Galahad called, his nostrils filling with the earthy scent of the forest.
After no answer, he incanted a few words to release the reveal spell inside the structure and then entered. Not what it was when he and Merlin had first decided to use this location, they'd crafted a workshop where magic need not hide. Though shabby planks still sagged outside, inside candles lit shelves of arcane texts and curious instruments, a fire's glow revealed workbenches for potions and research – a place where generations might one day be nurtured back from the brink of myth with the wizened Merlin-Emrys.
And he was a small part of it, too.
Yet, his joy diminished as fleeting as the candlelight's dancing shadows, his free thoughts always turning to matters closer to heart. He would return to the barracks soon – a place where he was shunned by his former brothers. Their fists had taught him some painful lessons and his innocent oversight had made him an outcast among them.
Galahad wasn't accustomed to the rejection that falling out had created. Perhaps that was why mentoring Merlin this last month had fortified him so. He felt less alone, with kindred purpose. Merlin had changed much already, he mused, thumbing through an opened spell book, a faint spark of happiness stirring within him again.
He was happy that Merlin's magic became stronger after daily training sessions, his confidence flourishing in his abilities and increasing knowledge. And he probably shouldn't have teased the wizard about his future as the greatest sorcerer this land would ever know, embarrassing him enough for Merlin to lose his concentration for the rest of the lesson. But it was always in good fun, though hard study and practice still a must, and Galahad was optimistic that Camelot would unite under Emrys' wisdom and Arthur's leadership despite Merlin's humility and the ripples of unrest erupting within the kingdom. If change could come to kings and great wizards, then others might pierce the myths that separated them.
Closing the spell book, Galahad sighed sadly. His time as mentor would end soon too, and he would return to his beloved Clarwick with lord and fellow knights, but the sting of being ostracized was still fresh and the outlook for reconciliation dim. It might be best if he detoured to his family's manor at some point, he considered, and take a leave of absence to give them all more time to think and adjust to their new dynamics.
Galahad exited the mill house – still no sign of Merlin, but he didn't harbor any concerns at his friend's success. Concealing the building's interior once more with magic, he retrieved his horse and mounted it. Steering towards Camelot, a small smile returned to his lips. One day, perhaps, the name 'Galahad' would stand alongside Merlin's, representing his own soul's highest calling too – whatever noble path that might be.