Summary
Galahad and Merlin confer with sorcery masters Iseldir and Alator to discuss the threat to King Arthur posed by Mordred and Dodd.
Chapter 72 The Curse of Three
Their horses secured among the silver birch saplings in the Darkling Woods, Galahad walked beside Merlin as they approached the druid encampment about half a league from the northern walls of Camelot. Like other knights who visited the sacred grounds, he'd traded his chainmail for a high-collared tunic and green cloak—a gesture of peace that had become custom these past weeks. Merlin cut an imposing figure in his fitted black attire, the elegant lines reflecting his renewed resolve. The transformation suited him well beyond his display of power at the council meeting days ago. His magic had scattered papers and toppled candles at Sir Gwaine's accusations, yes, but Galahad had watched his former student grow into something far greater—a bridge between the Old Religion and the crown itself.
Activity ceased as the druids noticed their approach, and one by one, they knelt before Merlin, heads bowed and palms raised in reverence.
"Oh no," Merlin mumbled, acknowledging his followers with crisp nods as they passed. "I really wish they'd stop doing that."
"I'd think you'd be used to this by now," Galahad teased, nudging Merlin with his elbow, amused at the great Emrys squirming under such adoration.
Merlin shot him a wry look. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this."
After paying homage to Merlin, the druids returned to their tasks, their auras flowing like gentle streams into the forest's own magical currents. Venturing deeper among them, Galahad's eyes roamed their active encampment. Children in brightly colored robes scampered about, their laughter ringing through the air like a joyous melody. Their auras, vibrant and pure, flickered and danced around them like tiny, playful wisps. Galahad couldn't help but smile at their unbridled enthusiasm, the sense of peace and harmony permeating everywhere.
The scent of herb-infused stews and fresh bread mingled with sage and sweetgrass from nearby fires. The rhythmic clash of practice staves carried from a training circle, while the soft murmur of spellwork drifted from meditation groves. Clusters of people gathered in quiet discourse or focused on their crafts, their daily routines a testament to their thriving community. Only Catha and the Isle of the Blessed rivaled such concentrated magic, though their power manifested differently than this harmonious blend with nature.
A workshop tent drew Galahad's attention, where artisans fashioned talismans and charms. His magical sight revealed the intricate layering of enchantments—how gold and silver chains captured and amplified the gems' natural properties, while braided cords bound the spells in place. Each object sang with its own magical signature, from protection amulets glowing steady as stars to healing crystals that pulsed like heartbeats. He paused to study their work, recognizing techniques that differed fascinatingly from Catha's more rigid magical structures.
A craftswoman with silver-threaded hair bent over the small table, her gnarled fingers moving with precision as she wove enchantments into the piece before her. Through his magical sight, Galahad observed how she merged the intuitive energies of moonstone with lapis lazuli's celestial properties, binding their combined power through braided leather cords.
"May I?" Galahad asked, indicating a finished talisman as Merlin leaned closer to study an assortment of unfinished charms, their cores still thrumming with raw potential.
The older woman looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of Merlin. She began to raise her palms, but Merlin nodded his head first, halting her worship of him. Still smiling, her hands settled onto her lap, a warm shimmer in her delicate aura.
Galahad's fingers tingled as they encountered the protective runes. "Ah, aventurine," he exclaimed, identifying both the stone and the runic symbols etched into its polished surface. "The druids' preferred crystal for defensive enchantments."
"Yes, my lords," she replied, her expression alight with amazement. "Green aventurine shields its wearer from emotional negativity—stress, anxiety, self-doubt. The runes cultivate the stone's protective properties, fostering inner peace and balance."
Galahad turned the amulet over in his hands, admiring how the craftsmanship enhanced the stone's natural properties. He imagined how the gem might complement Mistress Jacinth's features—the aventurine highlighting her porcelain skin and vibrant red hair. Their recent encounters in the physicians' chambers during the seer's work with Sefa had revealed a softer possibility between them, though he understood her heart remained uncertain. Perhaps such an extravagant gesture would only widen the gulf between them, but with time, the right moment may present itself for such a gift.
With a thoughtful smile, he returned the amulet to the table. His gaze lingered briefly on the rose quartz and pink tourmaline—stones of heart healing and emotional harmony—before he offered the craftswoman a grateful nod and continued with Merlin toward the center of the encampment where the masters awaited.
To Galahad's trained eye, the runes revealed themselves—courage, wisdom, and most troublingly, love. His training at Catha had taught him the profound responsibility that came with wielding such power. The thought of using a love talisman to sway Jacinth's heart sent an uncomfortable chill through him, his magic rejecting the very notion. If he were to earn her regard, it would be through truth and time, not artifice. He turned to Merlin, seeking his wisdom about the boundaries between sorcery and matters of the heart, but their discussion yesterday about finding Morgana a more suitable sanctuary reminded him that Merlin wrestled with his own moral quandaries. Before Galahad could broach either the ethics of talismans or his friend's concerns, a shout split the air.
"Emrys!" The familiar voice called, drawing their attention.
Galahad looked to see Master Iseldir approaching from a joining path, his power emanating from him in waves of silvery-blue, steady as moonlight on still water. The druid's grey robes caught the morning light as he walked toward them, his unhurried stride reflecting the same serene control as his magic. When he arrived, he knelt with fluid grace, raising his palms in the traditional greeting.
"Welcome, Emrys," he said. "It is an honor."
"Rise, Master Iseldir," Merlin said. "You and your people continue to greet me warmly. Thank you."
Iseldir rose, acknowledging Galahad with a nod. "It's good to see you again, my lord. Welcome."
Galahad bowed his head respectfully. "The honor is mine, Master Iseldir. To see your people thriving so near Camelot's walls brings hope for our future."
"A sign of changing times," the druid agreed, his magic brightening with quiet satisfaction.
"Your numbers seem to have grown since our visit just days ago," Merlin observed, surveying the expanded encampment.
"More clans arrive daily to help rebuild the Grove of the Ancestral Spirits," Iseldir explained, his aura pulsing stronger at the mention of the sacred site. "Each new arrival strengthens the bridge of trust between our peoples."
"That's incredible news," Galahad said. "I'm sure King Arthur would be pleased..." The words died in his throat as their purpose here crashed back into focus, Arthur's absence smothering like a suffocating fog. Merlin's shoulders tensed, his many-colored aura fracturing with distress.
Iseldir stepped forward, a gentle touch on Merlin's arm. "Come, Emrys. Master Alator awaits in the council tent. Let us discuss the grave matter of the king at once."
Galahad's heart quickened as they approached the center of the encampment, anticipating his second encounter with the High Priest of the Catha. Alator's reputation had filled many teaching hours during Galahad's studies—his mastery of ancient magic, his fierce devotion to the Old Religion, and his formidable abilities as a warrior-priest. Now in the presence of such revered figures—Alator, Iseldir, and Emrys himself—surpassed Galahad's most ambitious dreams.
The central tent loomed before them, its canvas walls adorned with intricate symbols that seemed to dance and shimmer in the filtered sunlight. The air around it thrummed with living energy, signaling the power of the man who waited within.
Iseldir moved forward, drawing back the tent flap, the fabric whispering as it parted. He bowed his head in deference. "My lords," he murmured.
They entered the tent, and Galahad felt the outside world dissolve into a realm where magic and destiny intertwined, the fate of king and kingdom hovering like a blade's edge. An energy crawled across his skin, raising the hairs on his arms and neck, igniting the magic in his blood. As his vision adjusted to the shadowed interior, wisps of exotic incense and candle smoke embraced him, their ethereal fragrance infused with ancient rites.
Master Alator sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his pure white aura illuminating the space around him like dawn's first light. His closed eyes and still posture suggested deep meditation, while before him rested a tome of copper plates bound with gold wire and adorned with unknown symbols. Scrolls of silk and bamboo surrounded it, their ancient surfaces holding secrets of foreign magic. The bald man's clear blue eyes opened at their approach, his smile welcoming them to this sanctuary of knowledge.
"Emrys," Alator greeted, inclining his head, his rich brogue rolling through the tent like distant thunder. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss." They settled onto the mats opposite Alator, Iseldir joining them, the simple woven fibers anchoring them to this sacred moment.
"Queen Guinevere again expresses her gratitude for your willingness to meet with us and offer assistance," Merlin said sincerely to the elders. "She deeply appreciates the support of the magical community during this difficult time."
Iseldir lowered his head in acknowledgment. "The queen's gratitude honors us both. Camelot shall not stand alone against this threat," he replied, each word a binding oath.
"The eastern incense burning in the censer today," Galahad noted. "We used the same blend during advanced training at Catha."
"Ah yes, I remember learning that well..." Alator smiled, running a hand over his bare head, "back when I had hair." The comment drew brief smiles, offering a breath of lightness before their grim purpose reasserted itself.
Iseldir turned to Merlin. "Emrys, we have information on the three objects you believe Mordred stole from Camelot's vaults."
"Yes," replied Merlin, shifting to rest his arms on his crossed knees. "The tourmaline brooch, the jet pendant, and the opal circlet. You found something substantial?"
"Indeed, we did," Alator said, his brogue inflections turning grave. "These artifacts also come from eastern lands—their arcane origins and rare magic making knowledge of them scarce in our realm. But the combined resources of Catha's libraries and our distant allies have revealed their true nature."
He leaned in and picked up one of the scrolls, using tender care to unroll the delicate silk before passing it to Merlin. The fabric was gossamer-thin, yet the metallic ink remained vibrant, shimmering as if newly brushed onto the material. He lifted the tome of copper plates, its cover adorned with intricate carvings of mythical beasts and ancient markings, the weight of centuries resting in his hands as he gently handed it to Galahad. Unlike the fragile silk scrolls, these metal plates retained their luster, each sheet bound to the next with fine gold wire. Alator then retrieved a scroll of bamboo slips strung together with bronze rings, its surface bearing the patina of time, and also passed it to Merlin.
"These three items," he continued, "each hold their own dark power. The opal circlet—the Lumīn-shu or Reacher, as we call it in our tongue—draws forth even the most deeply buried memories. The tourmaline brooch, known as the Ming-zhi, Destiny Stone. The jet pendant, the Soul Chest or Yīng-po, completes the trinity, trapping the souls of those remembered, capturing them as death claims them." He gestured to the items in their hands. "These texts speak of their creation. The artifacts themselves may have traveled west centuries ago, perhaps through ancient trade routes."
"That would explain their presence in Uther's vaults," Merlin said, glancing at his silk scroll. "He seized anything magical without understanding their true nature."
Galahad's eyes roamed over the copper plates, his fingers tracing ancient creatures he did not recognize circling its edges. Inside, elegant eastern script flowed across the metal in graceful columns. Though his studies at Catha had introduced him to several foreign tongues, this dialect lay beyond his knowledge.
Iseldir nodded soberly. "The tome you hold, Sir Galahad, references the Destiny Stone. It is the most troubling of the three. While their individual properties may seem harmless, when combined with the other two gems on the circlet, they become weapons of terrible power. It can force the victim to relive the deaths of those individuals repeatedly, experiencing their final moments as if they were their own. The pain, the suffering, the fear – it would all feel terrifyingly real."
Merlin's fingers tensed around the gossamer-thin silk, his brow furrowing as magic flickered around him like disturbed water. "Morgana warned that if they were imbued as one…"
"She is correct. The process of combining these artifacts requires powerful, Old Religion magic." Alator reached for another silk scroll, this one bound with intricate knots of gold thread. He set it before them with grave purpose. "This text reveals the exacting steps. One must master the ancient eastern language to cast the proper spell, understand the precise placement of each gem, and achieving the proper heat needed to reveal the hematite core within the opal. Most crucial is knowing how to channel the gems' curses through the copper and gold band."
Iseldir shook his head. "Such intricate preparation lies beyond Mordred's current abilities."
Galahad's heart stuttered in his chest as he eyed the foreign scroll, a jolt of apprehension surging through his body. "But not beyond Dodd's."
"You spoke of this man as Mordred's accomplice," Alator said, his brogue deepening with concern. "A shape-shifter. Trained sorcerer. The fact that he could translate these eastern incantations and understand their magical principles indicates formidable scholarly knowledge. Combined with his power in the Old Religion, he would be capable of bridging these traditions. Such fusion of eastern and western magic creates a dangerous tool indeed."
Gold filled his eyes as he raised his hand, palm facing upward and whispered a spell. A shimmering green light began to coalesce above his fingers, taking shape of a circlet. The copper and gold-entwined metal pulsed with otherworldly energy, the tourmaline blazing with power. The opal with its hematite core and the jet stone flanking it amplified the light, their combined power casting spectral shadows across the tent's walls. Galahad's magic retreated from the image, sending a bone-deep shiver through him.
"King Arthur may be forced to relive his worst nightmares, trapped in unimaginable cycles of his deepest fears and regrets – perhaps something even worse." Alator's voice resonated with power, spiking tremors in Galahad's own magic. "If the repeated exposure to malevolent mental stress does not kill him, I fear his spirit would be broken, his mind shattered beyond any hope – perhaps even to that of magic – leaving him a mere shell of the man he once was."
"Lost forever to the abyss of his own torment," Iseldir added, his eyes flicking to Merlin, whose face had drained of color. "In Mordred's hands, the former is likely the case: King Arthur will surely die."
An unspoken understanding, as ancient as the secrets of the Old Religion, flowed between the masters and Merlin. It settled in Galahad's core, a leaden weight that dimmed the ember of hope he'd harbored for Arthur's survival.
"The tourmaline is now at the center, not the opal," Merlin noted quietly, studying the manifested circlet.
"Dodd would need to reset the opal with the tourmaline for this spell to work," Iseldir replied. "We must cling to the hope that the magic can't be done, despite his knowledge. To have even found information on these items is an enormous feat within itself."
"At least there is that," Merlin replied dryly.
"And if it could be done, what fate awaits Albion?" Galahad defied, his voice rising above their calm demeanors. "The hard-fought unity of the kingdoms? If Arthur falls or his mind fractures beyond repair, will his dream of a united land crumble to dust?" The questions leached the warmth from the tent, each possibility a specter of dread.
The circlet faded as Alator lowered his hand, sorrow etching new lines in his features. His piercing blue eyes met Galahad's. "The destiny of Albion cannot be denied, Sir Galahad. Its threads are woven into the very fabric of our world, bound to prophecies beyond counting."
"With or without the circlet, the prophecy of Mordred slaying King Arthur may come to pass," Iseldir said, his voice laden with wisdom and sadness. "Their tragic paths have been known to the druid elders for many centuries, yet even if he succeeds, Albion's destiny will not change – only the players to bring it about will alter."
The meaning behind their shared glances crashed over Galahad, a scoff catching in his throat. He turned to Merlin, desperate for any shred of hope, but found only resigned certainty on his friend's face. "Merlin, please," Galahad whispered, his voice raw with dawning horror, "what is he saying?"
"That Arthur's legacy will endure," Merlin said darkly. "And believe me. This was one prophecy I wish I'd never heard."
"The king's role in Albion's destiny cannot be overstated," Iseldir declared. "His choices and tireless efforts have laid foundations that will remain beyond his time. The alliances he's forged, the vision he's inspired—these will guide those who follow, even if he falls to Mordred. Though the crown may pass to another, Albion's path remains unchanged, shaped by Arthur's dream of unity."
Galahad's brow furrowed as he glanced at each of them, desperation threading through his voice. "There's nothing we can do? Arthur's fate is sealed—that he dies and Albion rises without him?"
Merlin inhaled deeply, his aura shifting and taking on an ancient quality that matched the timeless wisdom in his next words. "What we are saying, Galahad, is that the path of prophecy is not ours to control. Fate will not be deprived, no matter how much we may wish it otherwise. We must trust in the wisdom of the gods and the strength of our own resolve."
Galahad turned away, his mind filled with visions of Camelot's people—the queen bearing Arthur's heir, the knights who'd sworn their lives to him, the common folk who'd finally begun to trust in their king's dream of unity… How could light pierce such darkness ahead? How could hope survive without the heart that had taught them all to believe? The depth of such inevitable loss pressed against his ribs, pushed the air from his lungs.
"Take comfort, Emrys, Sir Galahad," Alator said, his aura flaring with conviction as his brogue rang through the tent. "The future is not set in stone. While the prophecies may guide our steps, it is our actions and choices that ultimately shape the world we live in. We must have faith in ourselves and in each other, for it is through our combined strength that we will face whatever the Triple Goddess has in store for us."
Alator's assurances did little to ease Galahad's fear. Arthur was more than his sovereign—he was the king who'd trusted him with Camelot's secrets despite his own struggles with magic, who'd welcomed a knight skilled in sorcery into his inner circle. "What is a golden age without Arthur's guiding light?" Galahad whispered, his gaze falling to the tome in his hand. "It makes no sense to me."
The question lingered in silence, only their breathing an answer. Merlin turned his gaze to Master Iseldir.
"Arthur's necklace," he said, swallowing hard as hope slipped further from their grasp. "Anything?"
"I'm sorry, Emrys. Where ever they are, strong magic shields them from our sight."
Merlin scrubbed his forehead, his eyes closed before he looked at Alator. "Is there anything you can do to help locate Arthur?" he asked, his voice raw and strained. "Any whispers of dark magic that might lead us to him?"
Shadows deepened the lines of the master's face. "Dark magic speaks every day," Alator warned, his voice dropping to a foreboding murmur. "There are many places it dwells, hidden in the crevices of the world, some in plain sight."
Iseldir shook his head, his mouth set in a stern line. "Too numerous to count within and outside the kingdom. It is like trying to find a single drop of poison in a vast ocean."
The scent of burning incense, once comforting, now took on a bitter edge, as if tainted by the very mention of the magical forces they sought to combat. Trepidation coiled in Galahad's gut like a restless serpent, his skin prickling with an unnerving sense of foreboding. He looked at Merlin, whose shoulders bowed as if Atlas himself had surrendered his burden, as he carefully laid the silk scrolls on the mat before him. Following Merlin's lead, Galahad set the copper tome down with reverence.
They rose, Iseldir placing a hand on Merlin's arm. "You have the support of the druids, Emrys. We will do everything in our power to aid you in this fight."
"I will send word to our network of allies," Alator said, his white aura brightening with power. "Continue the search for Mordred and Dodd. They cannot hide from us forever."
"But how much longer does Arthur truly have?" Galahad asked quietly. Tense glances were exchanged, another ominous question that none could answer.
"Thank you for your efforts," Merlin replied, letting out a slow breath, his voice low with disappointment, yet firm. "Our queen would appreciate whatever assistance you can provide. So would I."
As they emerged from the tent, unease clung to Galahad like morning mist. The masters' vast knowledge had yielded nothing to help locate Arthur. This truth settled in Galahad's stomach like cold iron, made heavier by what these stolen artifacts could inflict upon the king. He dreaded bringing such bitter findings to the queen.
The encampment's magic, which had so enchanted him earlier, now seemed to withdraw from their passing. His magical sight dulled, the once-vibrant auras of the druids now appearing distant and faded. The camp's familiar sounds—children's laughter, the clash of practice staves, the murmur of spellwork—reached him as if through water.
Merlin walked beside him, nodding stiffly to his druid followers, masking the despair Galahad had witnessed in the tent. Their footsteps fell soft against the earth, each step carrying them further from hope and closer to the pressures of futile duty that awaited in Camelot.
"Merlin," Galahad said, his voice as empty as a deserted cathedral, "the queen – she must be told."
Merlin's jaw clenched, his anxiety rippling through his aura like heat waves. "No," he replied, the word sharp enough to make Galahad pull a breath. "Not…all of it… We learned nothing good here today. Gwen has enough burdening her heart and mind already. But…"
When Merlin fell silent, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, as if afraid to voice the shadows in his thoughts, Galahad halted and faced him. "But…?"
"It's been four days now for Arthur." Merlin swallowed, his words tight with emotion. "How many times have they used the weapon on him, do you think?"
The thought of Arthur subjected to such horrors left Galahad hollow, as if something vital had been drawn from him. "I don't know, Merlin," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I dare not think what they're doing to the king or what horrors we'll find when we rescue him. But if Mordred and Dodd's magic can thwart even the masters' attempts to locate him..." The unspoken question burned between them—what chance did they truly have against such formidable power?