It is surprisingly soothing, Princess Mithian finds, to once again be in attendance at a Servants' Night. The few nights she had the opportunity to slip away in Camelot to see their own version of the event had been lovely, of course, but less filled with familiar faces, and devoid of the same childhood memories as those hosted here in Nemeth.
When she arrives with Sybil to the palace kitchens, both their hoods carefully up to keep their faces mostly in shadow, the rest of the castle staff appears to be present already.
All of the castle staff appears to be present. Stable boys, hand maidens, kitchen staff, even the serious and elderly castle steward himself, Master Farley, have all managed to squeeze themselves into the heart of the Palace kitchens. They join in a loose half-circle before the kitchen's largest and still-burning hearth. Mithian and Sybil find a spot curled up on the floor, surrounded by children and elders alike.
Warm bread and sticky seed cakes and mead still cold from the cellar passes from hand to hand among the crowd. Mithian silently and happily passes the offerings along whenever they come to her, content to have had her large meal and not intending to commandeer the servants' hard-won treats.
She allows herself instead to take in her people.
Their faces shine, ruddy and healthy, beneath the firelight. Siblings press close together, parents keep an eye on their children and bring them close for what seem to be riotously funny stories, friends joke and laugh with one another.
Her people.
Her people.
And her parents would marry her off to just any of the more promising suitors present? They were awfully complimentary to Duke Pellinor when he arrived, and Rodor led him off for a strategic conversation about Morgana who persists in plaguing Lot's lands just as he had with Queen Guinevere. They were nothing but pleasant, too, to Sir Meleagant of Caerleon, though a permanent sneer–halfway disguised as a polite smile–had decorated his face for the entirety of the royal greetings between Mithian, her parents, and Queen Annis. Her friends' reports had only confirmed the initial suspicions she harbored.
These are her people.
They cannot be foisted upon just anyone. Not the person with the most land, nor the most wealthy, nor the most popular, even. This person they endeavor to choose for her will be more than her husband: he will be a king.
These people are her people. And she would–will–give anything for them to be found in safe hands. Though she always feels it in some manner or another, the swell of pride within her chest is almost painful in its sudden fierceness. Her people.
But then she hears someone giggling, and two children are using wooden spoons to mock a battle in the empty space marked out on the floor by so many booted feet, and she is brought once more into the present and away from her tempestuous thoughts.
She settles into a more comfortable position on the floor, bringing her knees to her chest and leaning to rest her head on Sybil's shoulder. Sybil leans her own head down to rest lightly on the princess's. They sit together like that, quietly enjoying each other's company and half-listening to the conversations around them, each lost in their own thoughts.
It's familiar here, nestled against Sybil–her oldest friend and hand maiden since Mithian was only in leading strings–and surrounded by the working people of Nemeth. Comfort seeps into Mithian's bones like the heat from the cooking fires seeps into stone, and with a deep sigh, she settles deeper into her friend's side. Sybil reaches out and captures Mithian's hand in hers, running a comforting thumb over the back of Mithian's hand.
The princess breathes deeply in through her nose. It smells so wonderful here: sweet from the cooking honey and rising yeast and wisteria hanging from the windows outside, salty from the sea breeze carried indoors through the open windows, savory from the remnants of so many royal dinners, smoky from the ever-burning kitchen fires and ovens. It smells like her childhood.
She ended more than her fair share of special nights sneaking down here with Sybil, watching Master Farley, so much younger when she was a girl that his hair was more blond than it was grey. He would perform ballads and plays with his friends, still spry and good-natured. The pair of them, Mithian and Sybil, delighted back then in shared secret snacks and hidden outings and friendships with other little children, come to see their parents and siblings do incredible things for a few hours every few months.
Even now, they do the same. What a singular joy, to be among such wonderful people.
Nevertheless, here and now, removed from the sweet nostalgia of her memories, she sees too several faces of serving staff belonging to visiting courts. Their lack of salt-sprayed hair, the absence of fine scars on their hands hinting at lives devoted to fishing and hunting both, and most of all, their unfamiliarity, mark them as visitors to this land.
Yet most of them seem entirely at ease here. Most of the more obvious foreigners have an air about them much like Merlin did the first time she met him: easy, open, charming, witty. The kind of person who is not so much easy to make friends with, but rather who is by default everyone's friend. They, along with trusted members of Palace Staff, have all gathered in the heart of her castle to trade stories and songs and art with one another in the little free time they all have. Welcomed here, together, and acknowledged as one.
It feels like community. It feels like home.
As the dull roar of chatter and gossip comes to a natural lull, Master Farley himself stands and bows to those gathered. This simple gesture receives loud applause and cheers, and he waves his hand through the air and clasps and arm over his belly, bracing with the mere force of his laughter. When he calms and smiles at those assembled, it is with a fond twinkle in his eye speaking to a much younger spirit held within his aged frame.
"Welcome, one and all," Master Farley says. "And congratulations on a successful beginning to the fete."
A cheer comes from the crowd once again, and Master Farley holds up his hands to calm them enough to be heard again.
"Anyone who wishes to perform shall be able to," Master Farley says. "And I have been assured by Miss Darla that we shall have a very special guest tonight closing out our humble ceremonies tonight. Please join me in welcoming Lord Merlin, everyone."
Whispers break out among the crowd. Mithian suppresses a smile and casts her eyes about.
"Just Merlin," the man in question calls, his voice somehow retaining a cheer to it even when speaking firmly.
He sits on the other side of the half-circle nearer to the fire and amid a gaggle of giggling young women and surrounded by giggling children. He sits in front of a cramped bench, seated on the floor much like the princess and her handmaiden. To either side and behind him are the young serving maids, all looking at him adoringly. Strewn about his feet and hanging off his legs are several children, their hair ranging from strawberry blonde to deep auburn, and ages ranging from just seven to a starry-eyed fourteen.
Among the serving maids, the princess recognizes Miss Darla sitting just to his right, wearing a grin that might break her petite and eager little face. Miss Luna, the handmaiden to Princess Elena, sits on his other side. Though she seems less giddy than Darla to be seated next to Merlin, nonetheless she maintains a friendly countenance. Behind him and seated on the bench, four other of the more bold serving maids titter and glance coyly his way, even though his back is turned to them.
He gives the crowd a brief nod, then a slight wave. His smile looks to be more of a grimace to the princess, and she suppresses a chuckle.
"He cuts quite the figure, does he not?" Sybil mutters, leaning nearer her mistress so as to not be overheard.
Mithian dare not answer. Instead, she asks the next thing to come to mind, which is, "Lord Merlin has already earned quite a few admirers, hasn't he?"
She takes the opportunity of everyone's shared distraction to consider him a moment further. His long legs are stretched before him and crossed at the ankles, retaining an astonishing level of informality and comfort even as little Henry and four other children who must be his slightly older siblings, sprawl across them. After a moment, Mithian can recall their names: Reanna, Daphne, and Lilibet. Dagonet looks on fondly from a little ways away, standing along the wall with a few other friends. To Mithian, the young boy's expression seems shockingly paternal, though he is all of three years the second eldest's senior.
"You say that," Sybil mutters after a moment to her queen, "as if you yourself had no hand in it."
Mithian does not answer, and instead occupies herself by indulging in yet another moment of study of this man who had so easily become her dear friend.
Sybil isn't wrong. Mithian had encouraged their traveling party to tell stories around the fire, and Merlin had already told all of them so many that conversation almost always turned to his tales. Then, upon their return to Camelot, Sybil had mentioned that she had taken to using Merlin's transcribed stories to teach some fellow servants and young siblings their letters.
Mithian had seized upon the idea. Transcribing familiar stories into text is a wonderful way to learn how to read. Songs and poetry could teach children to talk, after all, and learning letters could be made easier by attempting to read already familiar pieces. So Mithian had begun having some Royal Scribes take to the task of transcribing in very clear handwriting some of the most popular ballads and tales in Nemeth, and having the copies distributed to those with a wish to learn their letters.
It had taken off like wildfire. People began hiring scribes to transcribe all sorts of things, including the pieces Mithian had originally chosen–a ballad about a prince and princess, two poems popular among courting couples, several fairy tales oft recounted by parents to their children, and one or two of Merlin's escapades that he had so thoughtfully provided.
But it was not as if Mithian had chosen the tales for anything other than their merits of familiarity and ease of comprehension. Many already had heard of those stories one way or another, from merchants traveling from Camelot or visiting parties or itinerant troubadours. It seemed an obvious choice.
Mithian frowns at the man across the way from her. He seems–he has always seemed–a puzzle. A peasant, a lord, a servant, an advisor, a friend, an ally, an open book, a frustratingly hard nut to crack.
He hasn't changed since after his arrival earlier in the day, but has chosen to shuck his jacket. Reanna wears it about her shoulders much like a cloak, her tiny shoulders swimming somewhere beneath the black fabric. The sleeves of his white shirt are tied securely about his wrists, yet billow out in the arms. Only his gray and silver vestment hints at a lean and muscled form, and his neckerchief–the one Mithian had ostensibly bartered for him all those months ago–hangs loosely about his neck.
And his chin is dark, she notices. A dusting of stubble, left from a day of travel and socializing. His hair looks haphazard, and somewhat windswept, though she knows it is more likely an effect from the man pushing his fingers through it when nervous or exasperated than from riding. His hair is longer now than it had been during her visit to Camelot, and has gone from slight and irregular waves to gentle curls with the added weight and length. She considers his hair, then decides that it makes him look somewhat older.
He is a different man than the boy she met when courting Prince Arthur. A different man, even, than the one who made her most recent stay in Camelot so remarkably pleasant.
And she watches as his eyes, so piercing and so knowing and so blue, flit across the room.
He finds Princess Mithian with ease. It is if he already knew where she was, and only needed confirmation by actually laying eyes on her. As she watches, his eyes crinkle as a small smile flits onto his face with an enviable ease. It is at once conspiratorial and mischievous, as if he is including her in a joke that only he knows.
She feels her own lips quirk in response.
Then Master Farley begins speaking again, and both their attention is pulled away. She pulls herself slightly away from Sybil and sits straighter, smiling instead toward the castle steward as he welcomes anyone who so wishes to come before the hearth and perform for the group.
And they do. A few people tune lyres and lutes and flutes and perform a song. It ends all too soon, so they start another one. A stanza or so in, across the room, a young woman begins singing a jaunty tune. She is soon joined by a few others, and before long, the entire room sings together as one company.
Not long after, Greta and Roderick go to the center of the floor. The band plays for them something slow and sweet, and they turn the cramped space before the hearth into a dance floor that rivals every ball Mithian has ever attended in its sweetness and clumsy nature, both dancers tripping over each other with shared timidness before morphing into more comfortable and sweet spinning and swaying.
Mithian looks away after a moment. She feels as if she is intruding, watching them dance together like that. They have eyes only for each other.
A storyteller comes next, and weaves for those assembled an ancient druidic tale of love and loss, one that sounds more poetry than story. Mithian feels her eyes threaten to grow wet as the story goes on, and she finds herself blinking rapidly to keep tears from actually falling. As the story comes to a close, the princess glances toward Merlin. She cannot help the smile that forms on his face when she watches him wipe at obvious tear tracks on his cheeks.
Then a poet, recounting the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, and then a servant who can successfully copy a move or two conducted by acrobats, then a musician who sings of seaside cliffs and salty sunshine and ice-capped mountains, describing their beautiful home.
Two boys come onto the stage and act with surprisingly good recollection of a bard's story, modeled after the successful coup staged by King Rodor of his cousin's tyrannical reign. They even pull some audience members in, meant to play the shrewd Queen Adelaine or the stalwart Sir Fred. Even Merlin joins in, happily feigning a dramatic death on the battlefield at the hand of "King Rodor."
And then, finally, when more time than normal passes between one performer and the next, Merlin carefully pries the children from his legs and moves before the hearth.
He sits, folding his legs beneath him, no doubt marring his fine black trousers with ash and spilled food from the hearth. He places his severe chin in his hand and looks about the room, as if looking for inspiration.
Then he begins.
He chooses to tell the story of the Curse of the Unicorn.
It is a familiar one. It is, in fact, one of the first Merlin had transcribed for Sybil and the princess herself. One of the first told around campfires during their travel. One of the first performed here, in Nemeth, upon their collective return. One of the first Sybil shared with friends, so they could copy the transcription.
After a few months, children all around Nemeth were hearing it for bedtime stories, practicing their letters with it, transforming it into abstract games of their own between small chores or errands for their parents.
But here and now, listening to the tale told by Merlin himself, it… gains something else.
Stripped away are the humorous and fantastical tales of adventure. In its place is a tale of hubris, desperation, and humility. A tale glorifying his prince, and alluding to himself only when endeavoring to make a funny observation or draw a comparison between Prince Arthur and a mere servant.
All around Merlin, the light and shadows created, cast, and carved out of the palace kitchens become starker and more pronounced when contrasted against one another.
The light plays on his angular face until it is fragmented into smiling and wistful triangles when recounting the appearance of the unicorn, and the shadows deepen against his face until it is cloaked in darkness as he leans forward and describes it falling from the arrow loosed by his then-untested and arrogant prince.
The shadows deepen and the stone floor beneath him reflects the red light of the cooking fire behind him as he describes the plague, and the drought, and how everything worsened.
He describes their long journey to the lands contested between Camelot and Nemeth, their journey through the Labyrinth, their encounter with Anhora, and the final test that faced him and Arthur. As he talks about Prince Arthur's courage, and selflessness, his voice–which had until then been alternating between dark and light and funny and flippant and serious–wavers.
This moment had truly touched him. And now, it has touched all of them, too.
The story ends. For a few moments, his tale hangs in silence, the last memory of his voice hanging in the night air, before it finally smooths into real and lasting quiet. It takes a heartbeat for his audience to remember where they are, and another for the applause to begin.
Merlin stands and bows. As he straightens, his eyes flick over the crowd to land on Princess Mithian again. He gives her a small smile, which she returns.
The crowd begins moving as one and flooding toward the doors, ready to finally deem the night over.
Mithian joins them, squeezing Sybil's hand as she pushes forward in the crowd. Before they fully part, Sybil twists her wrist so she can to the same to the princess. Both young women leave for the place they call home after that, a silent understanding having come between the two.
The princess, as she gets further from the kitchens and deeper into the servants' passages that wind all the way up to her rooms, thinks about the day.
She dimly remembers the man introduced as Duke Pellinor, notable if only for his sheer size and being the only major lord sent by King Lot to the celebrations. It makes sense. Pellinor is a bear of a man, and while he had been most pleasant when making introductions to the royals, carries about him the impression of a man quite used to fighting. Perhaps even one who relishes in it. His clothes are fine, and his assurances that he will find the witch Morgana roving over his lands seemed genuine, and even a bit too… passionate for Mithian's taste.
Prince Caradoc, of course, had greeted her with geniality, but being a fellow conspirator–and knowing his reasons for acting as such–he bears little thought in her mulling-over of her suitors.
Prince Bedivere is interesting. He had largely hung back during the greetings, instead preferring to allow his father to handle most of the ceremony. His elder brother, Prince Ector, remains in Mercia with his new wife, the Princess Enid, and so King Bayard and Prince Bedivere had attended the celebrations in his stead.
The young man had left little impression upon Mithian thus far. She cannot lay the blame entirely on him, however: they had so little time to greet one another, and only after a long day already of travel for him and court responsibilities for her.
Duke Bors had been introduced, of course. His hair already greys at the sides, but he was a pleasant enough man, and handsome, too.
She thinks that, all in all, her potential suitors should have stood out to her more at introduction.
As she thinks over this, she takes a turn in the servant's passages, and runs directly into someone.
The breath leaves her lungs, and even as one hand goes to her chest as if to calm her racing heart, the other goes to her side, where so often she could find a dagger. Her hand finds no such blade, and curses herself for the oversight. She had thought it frivolous and obvious when she was to be surrounded by friends and staff for the entire night.
And even as she thinks this, and goes to look more fully at the person she ran into, the person she runs into yelps, stumbles backward, and falls on the ground.
"Lord Merlin?" Princess Mithian asks, taking a step toward him.
Merlin looks up at her from his new seat on the stone floor, eyes wide.
"Princess Mithian!"
"What…" Mithian begins, then looks at Merlin's helpless face and incriminating smile.
"I'm lost," Merlin tells her apologetically. "I could have sworn this was the way back to my rooms, but…"
Mithian shakes her head and laughs, then extends a hand to help him up. He accepts it gratefully and stands once more, dusting off his trousers.
"You are deep in the servants' passages," Mithian informs him once he is upright once more. As she remembers where they are–and comes to a second, more scandalous realization that they are without a chaperone–she lowers her voice. "Closer to the Residential Quarters than the Visitors', actually."
"Oh," Merlin whispers, turning a full circle. Mithian suppresses a laugh as he turns back to her with a serious mien and says, "If you would kindly direct me, your grace, I shall see myself gone."
"I would not send you defenseless into this maze of a castle," Mithian says. "I will show you the way."
Merlin makes a face. "I do not think it would be wise to be seen traversing the castle so late at night with me and me alone, your grace."
"I am aware. That is why," Mithian tells him, picking up her skirts, "we shall have to be very subtle indeed. This way, my lord."
The princess takes off down the hallway. She smiles when she hears him scramble behind her to catch up. She takes them into a narrower corridor and find themselves, amazingly, still alone together as they do so.
"I am terribly sorry to bother you at such an hour," Merlin finally whispers.
"It is no trouble," Mithian tells him. She leads them toward an exit which empties into a much wider, more well-lit hallway. As they do so, she stops and mouths the words, "Wait here."
Merlin comes to an abrupt halt and gives her a nod, but does poke his head around the corner when she leaves. He watches as she walks up the hallway to a door guarded by two men, both of whom snap to attention at her approach. She nods at the both of them and disappears inside. But a few moments later, she leaves again, this time with a small box and pouch in her hands. Merlin quickly rearranges himself behind the wall to appear inconspicuous.
Mithian marches past him and into the servants' corridors again. As she does so, she whispers him, "You weren't being very subtle, were you, my lord?"
The warlock chuckles. "I was trying, your grace."
"Sure," Mithian replies. Merlin can imagine the smile she must be wearing based on the way she says it.
"So I am assuming those were not my quarters you were just in, with the guards outside?" Merlin asks as conversationally as one can manage when making an effort to be sneaky and quiet.
"Astute observation," Mithian teases. She slows her pace slightly until they walk side by side. "No. I just needed to fetch something."
"Oh?" Merlin asks.
Then, with little warning, he pulls at her sleeve. Mithian comes to a stop, opening her mouth to question him, but Merlin taps at an ear, then down the hallway. The princess hesitates, then listens. A pair of footsteps approach, and quickly.
Merlin inclines his head back the way they came, but Mithian shakes her own in response and takes them both more toward the side of the hallway. A statue stands there, ensconced in a large alcove in the stone wall. But, as Mithian squeezes between the statue and the stone wall behind it, there appears a larger space–large enough, at least, to hide two people comfortably.
They wait and listen quietly as the footsteps come nearer. Merlin's eyes are trained carefully in their direction. Mithian's own stay on his, searching his face for some kind of reaction other than calm focus.
The footsteps recede.
"Were you fetching the poison you intend to kill me with?"
"Of course not," Mithian says. "You drank that much earlier tonight, at dinner."
Merlin laughs, then quickly lowers his volume at Mithian's warning–yet amused–look.
"Actually," Mithian says, fiddling with the edge of the box, "I was fetching something for you."
She shoves the box and its accompanying pouch over to Merlin as they walk. He raises an eyebrow, then opens the pouch and looks in it. There appear to be many stones, some white, some black. The box itself is simple in design, yet exquisitely made: a grid pattern is carved into its smooth top, and the edges fit together seamlessly. It seems to glow and shine beneath the torchlight as they walk.
"I met the old man again," Mithian tells him.
"What did you give him for this?" Merlin asks.
Mithian shrugs a shoulder as she leads them quietly up a set of stairs. She whispers back, "Not much. Just the last shell I pocketed from the beach, one true fact, and the orange color of a sunrise I saw in my youth."
"Marvelous," Merlin says delightedly. He carefully closes the pouch and grins at the princess, his excitement shining through his fatigue. "What is it?"
Mithian laughs softly. "It is a game set, Merlin. It is called Abrytan."
"Abrytan…" Merlin says. Then he goes quiet.
He knows the word. It is a familiar one to him, one he has seen before in a very specific book. Abrytan in the old tongue means capture.
"Is Abrytan… popular?" Merlin asks quietly as they move through another hall.
"Quite," Mithian tells him. "Especially among the nobles who've a higher mind than just for dice."
Merlin raises an eyebrow. "Have you played dice?"
"Have you?" Mithian asks.
Merlin grins and tells her, "However do you think I earn my bonuses from Arthur?"
Once again, Mithian must smother a laugh. They listen closely for any more sound coming from the hallway. All is quiet. Mithian carefully slips from between the statue and the curved walls of the alcove, Merlin following behind her.
She takes them from the Servants' Passage finally and into a deserted hallway. She places a finger to her lips, looks up and down the empty corridor, then leads the way tiptoeing down the passage. Merlin follows her as quietly as he can manage until he finally waves her down in front of the door he recognizes as his own.
He opens it and slips inside, then bows to the princess. "I thank you, your grace. I trust you will get back to your chambers safely?"
"I should think so, Lord Merlin," she tells him, providing a curtsey.
"I am happy," Merlin says, "that you led me back to my chambers."
Mithian smiles and says, "Well, it wouldn't do to have such a friend spend their first night in my fair castle sleeping in the kitchen."
Merlin shrugs. "As long as I am in your fair castle, my princess, I daresay that I will be happy no matter where I lay my head."
"Good night, Merlin," Mithian whispers, giving him another small smile, and she leaves quietly back up the hall.
Merlin watches her go until she disappears around a corner, then quietly closes the door. His head thumps quietly against the wood. Then he does it again.
"I'd be doin' just the same if I were ya," a voice says from behind him.
The warlock jumps about a foot into the air, then whirls around, chest heaving. Dagonet leans against Merlin's writing desk, his eyes wide but a lopsided grin on his face. In his arms is a very visible white duck, with large orange feet and a shining orange beak.
"Dagonet," Merlin breathes, relaxing slightly. "And Sir Quackenfell. I see that I can see you now."
Sir Quackenfell gives him a quack that Merlin takes as some sort of creative, fowl insult.
"I don't need the lip from you right now," Merlin snaps.
"I didn't say anythin' yet," Dagonet complains.
Merlin rolls his eyes. "I wasn't talking to you, Dagonet."
"Oh."
"But you were going to say something?"
"Right," Dagonet says slowly. "I just… what were ya thinkin'?"
Merlin's face falls. "I know. The princess and I were walking unaccompanied–"
"Yeah, an' you let her walk back alone?" Dagonet asks. "Without even sayin' anythin'... romantic-like?"
The warlock furrows his brow. "Why would I do that?"
"Because–" Dagonet begins, then looks flustered. "You're not here to court her highness?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?" Merlin asks.
Dagonet looks closely at the older man. The warlock appears to be completely and genuinely taken aback by the question. Baffled, even.
"But you an' her–"
"I was lost," Merlin admits. "She found me and walked me back here."
"Nice of her," Dagonet comments.
"Quite," Merlin says. Then he frowns. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at home?"
"I went to find ya," Dagonet huffs. "You went and slipped off after the performances. So I came here, but you weren't here. And just as I was about to leave, there was a weird sound like–"
"Like if a sneeze could also be a honk," Merlin guesses tiredly.
"Right, and then this smell–"
"Lilacs and pine, or sometimes mint–"
"And this other noise from elsewhere in the room–"
"Always from just behind you, yeah. Sounding like many tiny bells, is what the queen told me once, but it's actually a snippet of fae song–"
"And then I heard a quack and looked at the basket and. Well."
Dagonet lifts up the duck to Merlin for inspection. Merlin rases an eyebrow, then studies the duck. After a moment, having found nothing out of the ordinary, he takes a stone out of his pocket, the middle of which has been worn away to provide a small natural hole. Merlin holds this up to one eye and squints the other closed, then studies the duck from it. He then switches the rock to his other eye and peers through that one at the duck.
The warlock reaches forward and snaps his fingers in front of the bird's face. It attempts to nibble at him gently, and produces a somewhat admonishing quack when its inspector bats the attempts away. Merlin runs his fingers over a few feathers.
"How odd," Merlin mutters.
"Just you wait," Dagonet says solemnly. He sets the duck on the ground. Sir Quackenfell looks up at him. Dagonet looks down at the duck. A few seconds pass by like this until Dagonet finally demands, "Well, go on then. Show 'im."
Sir Quackenfell waddles away from the servant and toward the sleeping chambers. As it walks, Merlin sees nothing much the matter. Then, it passes beneath a patch of light thrown from the dying fire. There appears, shimmering on the stone, a perfect trail of webbed foot prints glowing faintly blue and marking the path of the little duck.
"Fascinating," Merlin says.
Dagonet nods. "I hope ya don't mind, Merlin, but I borrowed some paper–"
"You took notes?" Merlin exclaims.
Dagonet nods sheepishly and hands out a piece of parchment. Merlin takes it and looks it over. The boy has too-large and somewhat awkward writing, but he spells well enough and thought to even include a crude illustration, complete with labels and descriptions.
"Dagonet," Merlin says, "I think we will be good friends."
Dagonet grins.
"Put it with the others, please," Merlin says. He begins to say more, but the serving boy interrupts him.
"You've kept other notes?"
Merlin grins and goes to the dining table. From on top of it, he picks up a large leather-bound notebook, as well as a stack of loose papers larger than the book itself bound in cord. Merlin's tight, scribbled shorthand–a far cry from the elegant script he can produce when allowed time for the effort–covers every page.
"I assure you," Merlin says, "that Sir Quackenfell's illness is taken very seriously by me."
"Oh," Dagonet says, then crosses the room uncertainly and hands his page to Merlin.
The warlock thanks him and places it atop the pile of loose papers.
"Thank you for trying to find me," Merlin says. "But now it's time for you to go home. Get plenty of rest. I will start first thing in the morning by reviewing your notes more fully, and then will–"
"Ya can't do that," Dagonet says.
"Why not?" Merlin asks.
"Well, that's why I were tryin' to find ya," Dagonet says quickly. "You've an invitation to break your fast with Prince Caradoc and Prince Bedivere."
"I have a what?" Merlin asks, blinking.
Dagonet gives him a sheepish look. "Ya couldn't exactly turn it down, so I accepted it for ya. They're all meetin' in the gardens tomorrow mornin'. You're to be there two hours after dawn."
Merlin sighs. "Are you going to make this acceptance of invitations a habit?"
"I'll try not to," Dagonet says. "But I already did it again. Twice more, actually."
"What else–"
"You're then goin' to trainin' with Sirs Fred, Galahad, Gwaine, and Leon–"
"I'm not going there just to tote swords–"
"No, they're preparin' for the melee and said they want your sharp eye. Then you're havin' luncheon with Lady Lian, Lady Fara, and another lady, and Duke Bors."
"Why the luncheon?"
Dagonet shrugs. "And then after that, you're goin' to the Grand Feast, but everyone's goin' to that."
Merlin shakes his head. "Fine, then. I will continue my studies between the luncheon and the feast."
"Well, by then you'll probably be wantin' to–"
"Dagonet," Merlin says, the fatigue finally showing in his voice. "If you encourage me toward one other social gathering tomorrow, or accept another invitation, I swear that I shall send you in my stead and force you to talk to nobles all day."
Dagonet cringes, at which Merlin sighs.
"When did you even have time to accept these invitations?" Merlin asks.
Dagonet points to a pile of correspondence on the writing table.
"It's only what were handed to me personally, Merlin."
"When?" Merlin asks.
Dagonet shrugs. "Writing letters seems to be fashionable, I guess. I dunno. Whole flood of 'em came before an' after the Servants' Night."
"Very well," Merlin says with a sigh. "I suppose I'll just go through these before bed."
Dagonet grins. "See you in the morning, my lord."
"Merlin," the warlock says tiredly, walking the boy to the door.
"Sure," Dagonet replies, and takes off down the hallway.
Merlin turns and surveys his rooms, then plunks himself at the desk and opens his correspondence.