Dawn breaks over Nemeth, gilding the waves so far below with pure gold and the castle's cliffside a misty blue, before it seeps into a light, buttery peach color. The air retains some of its nighttime sweetness, carrying with it the heavy scents of hay, smoke, salt, and rain against the sultry air.

Servants have been bustling about for over an hour now, rushing to and fro about the castle. In the heart of the palace, great stone hearths work like hearts, pumping heat and life into the rest of the castle. Serving staff line up outside for their optional bowl of gruel before rushing off to attend to their assorted duties.

As the first gold of sunrise fades into the vivid blushes and deep indigos of early morning, servants sweep into chambers across the castle to attend to fires and breakfasts and clothing and baths.

Across the castle from the Visitor's Wing, deep in the Residential Wing of the palace, an older lady–perhaps mid-sixties, with grey hair worn in a bun and a scarf of muter colors to match her apron covering that–hurries into a large set of ornate chambers.

The senior maid ignores, as much as is proper, the figures slumbering in the bed, and instead tends to the hearth first. Once the fire looks promising, and at least more substantial than the embers they had been burning at prior to her near-silent ministrations, the maidservant quietly places a large black kettle over the growing fire and looks about the room ei

Another servant, younger by perhaps two score, hurries into the room and silently places several plates on the table. The older maidservant shoos her away, but not without a grateful look as she goes.

The older maidservant opens heavy curtains to let in the morning light. She opens, too, the windows, to allow in the last of the cool, sweet night air. It washes over the pair in the bed, and is enough to rouse at least the woman from her sleep.

"Good morning, my king," the woman says, pushing her arms into a stretch that effectively pushes at the man.

"Good morning, my queen," King Rodor grumbles. He catches one of Adelaine's hands as it pushes on his chest and raises it to his lips for a quick, chaste kiss.

"Good morning, Agatha," Queen Adelaine calls a little louder.

"Agatha," Rodor says, rolling over in bed, but keeping a tight hold on his wife's hand.

"Your highnesses," Agatha says quietly.

"What is for breakfast this morning, dear?" Adelaine asks.

Agatha smiles at the endearment. "Tuna an' poached eggs, with a cream sauce an' rye bread fer yer grace. An' mushroom pasties and sausages fer his grace. With spiced wine an' pickled cauliflower fer the both of ye."

"Wondrous," Adelaine declares, and pulls herself from bed and the reticent hand of her husband. She pads over to the set table and sits with as much elegance as a woman in her sleeping clothes can muster.

"So, my dear," Rodor says, stretching, "what do you think so far?"

"So far," Adlaine says, carefully scooping a bite of egg onto a piece of bread, "I am most impressed with the least advantageous suitors. It is concerning."

Rodor gets himself out of bed and murmurs a quick thank you to Agatha, who moves quickly and quietly behind him to begin making the bed he just emerged from. He plops himself down at the table, and begins cutting at his pasties.

"I fear I must agree with you," Rodor says, taking a bite. "But I am not sure if it is for the same reasons."

Adelaine frowns. "Well, who stood out to you?"

Rodor considers this, chewing thoughtfully. Then, he answers, "I suppose Sir Kay, when he finally arrived, left an impression."

"He attempted to skewer himself because Queen Annis neglected to introduce him to us in a timely manner," Adelaine replies.

"Like I said," Rodor tells her, eyes twinkling, "he left quite an impression."

Adelaine sighs. "You cannot possibly–"

"He is from a good family," Rodor returns. "Scion of Caerleon. Well-liked by his people and well-loved by his aunt, the queen. So what? I say let him prove his mettle."

"And who else would you see prove their mettle?" Adelaine asks, though she sounds more interested than annoyed, as a less experienced servant than Agatha might expect.

While the servant tucks the bedclothes into crisp lines, she sees the king shrug from the corner of her eye.

"I suppose Prince Bedivere is not out of the question."

"There are… rumors," Adelaine says carefully. "About his–"

"It was an accident, dear," Rodor says softly. "By all accounts, a terrible tragedy all around. The boy carries on nonetheless. Perhaps just a little different than before. But how is that different from the rest of us, really?"

"Is his… condition…" Adelaine begins, "known to many others?"

Rodor sighs. "I don't believe so. Not yet, anyway. Even I do not know the true nature of the affliction, and neither does most of their own court. Bayard endeavored to keep it mainly unknown for a long time. Pushed the boy to get him over it. By all accounts, this is his first courtly appearance after the incident."

Adelaine nods. "Anyone else?"

Rodor looks at her more closely and asks, "Is there someone you are hoping I will mention?"

"Perhaps," Adelaine says after a moment of hesitation. She puts her knife and fork down.

Behind her, Agatha endeavors to listen closer, even as she bends to polish an already shining leather boot.

Not far away, Sybil wakes her mistress.

Mithian yawns and sits up, rubbing at her eyes. Sybil opens the curtains and windows to allow in the refreshing air, and Mithian sits amongst her blankets and soaks it in as her servant bustles through the room, laying out food and clothes and missives and reports.

"Wonderful morning, is it not, dear Sybil?" Mithian asks.

"Yes, madam," Sybil replies.

Mithian frowns and looks at her servant. "Whatever is wrong?"

Sybil sighs and pauses as she sets out the princess's breakfast. "My lady, if I may speak freely–"

"Always," Mithian tells her, pulling her legs beneath her so she can sit up more attentively on the feather mattress.

"I think this plan of yours, to find a man–"

"That's not the entire–"

"Well, I think it a bit foolish," Sybil spits hurriedly.

Mithian pauses.

"You do?"

"Yes, m'am," Sybil answers, staring at the silver cutlery clutched in her hands.

"Why?"

Sybil sighs. She looks at her princess.

Mithian sits curled among her many warm blankets and her many warm pillows. The golden locket hangs low on her chest. The woman had worn the jewelry even through the night. Sybil knows without checking what the princess's pillows will smell like, and what object will first catch the royal's attention when she goes to her desk. She knows her princess, her friend, and has for most of their lives.

Therefore, Sybil knows to be tactful when broaching this subject.

"There was a… bouquet… found outside your door this morning," Sybil tells her. "The guards couldn't tell who it came from. They believe someone snuck it on your threshold during the shift change, but there is no certainty."

"A bouquet?" Mithian asks.

The servant studies her mistress. The princess is attentive, yet not alarmed. Not at all perturbed at the news that a flower was found outside her door.

Not delivered. Not announced. Not so much as a note had been left with it. Instead, it had simply appeared, without the guards having noticed any person coming or going during their shift change. A gold and green ribbon, impossibly woven together from different kinds of grasses found in Nemeth.

"Yes, m'am," Sybil says slowly.

"What kind?" Mithian asks.

"Lavender, your highness," Sybil tells her.

Mithian frowns. "May I see it?"

Sybil gives her princess an inscrutable look, then pokes her head into the hallway. A moment later, she returns with a simple bundle of lavender. Mithian studies it.

"Do… do you think it's magic in some way?" Sybil asks uncertainly, turning the bouquet over in her hands.

"Probably not," Mithian answers with a frown. "Take it out, I suppose. And tell the guards I expect them to keep a sharper lookout from now on."

Sybil nods emphatically and disappears out the door.

Mithian sits down to her breakfast and thinks. After just a little while, the thinking turns to dread.

After all, the dreaded Royals' Luncheon is soon, and Mithian will only have Guinevere, Elena, and Caradoc on her side while surrounded by suitors and her parents.

A nightmare.

So, for the next little while, Mithian focuses instead on answering correspondence, reading reports, and trying to ignore the growing pit in her stomach and the lingering scent of lavender.

Across the castle, in the Visitor's Wing, a pair of servants creep and tiptoe about the edges of a room. In the middle of it, strewn across various pieces of furniture, are the Duke Pellinor and Sir Meleagant.

"Kind of you to host me, your grace," Meleagant says, raising a cup. "What fine chambers you have, indeed."

A servant dashes forward to fill it, then melds back into the shadows with practiced hurriedness. Meleagant sips at his wine without so much as a glance behind him to acknowledge the servant's presence. Across from him, Pellinor sniffs and does much the same. His cup is similarly refilled with expert silence and quickness.

"Quite fine indeed, Sir Meleagant," Pellinor says. "I wonder, do you hunt often?"

"Of course," Meleagant says, stretching an arm behind his head. "I am a knight, after all. In the absence of a battle, what is one to do with their time if not hunt?"

"Indeed. I must ask you, then, Sir Meleagant: have you ever before found yourself competing with someone else–or perhaps many people–for the quarry?"

"Like, as in a foxhunt?" Meleagant asks. "Sure. Many times."

"And do you find yourself more successful working alone, or when you have another hunter aiding you?"

"I've brought down all my quarries by myself since the age of eight," Meleagant returns somewhat derisively.

Pellinor sighs. "Yes, yes. Very good for you, Sir Meleagant. What I suppose I am asking is whether you would consider working with another hunter in pursuit of a spectacularly rare quarry. Something very important."

"Something like a white stag?" Meleagant asks, frowning.

"Even more valuable," Pellinor presses, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

Meleagant's frown deepens. "According to that measly little man who accosted you yesterday, unicorns are bad luck to kill, and that's what I think of when I think of something more valuable than a white stag. I don't think I'd want to risk a curse. He's probably lying about how bad it was though, to make his prince out better. Don't you think so, your grace?"

"I don't know, Sir Meleagant," Pellinor snaps.

"Perhaps a bear. I took down a bear once, you know. Many wild boars, too, nasty ones that were plaguing our villages. And I took myself and my men down, and we took down two apiece every day we were out there, with me taking down at least three every day. Can you believe that? A scourge, they are."

"What I'm asking is, Sir Meleagant," Pellinor interrupts, feeling his companion losing the thread of the conversation, "if you found yourself competing with many others in pursuit of a similar goal, would you consider an alliance?"

The duke does well to cut himself off before insulting the long-haired knight lounging on his furniture before him.

"Maybe," Meleagant says, raising a shoulder. "Depends on why that would be an advantage, I suppose. I'm a skilled hunter, I wouldn't normally see working with others as helpful to me."

"I'll bet so," Pellinor mutters.

"Great with a bow, and a knife," Meleagant informs him, pausing slightly between the declarations to burp. "Killer with a sword, too, but I don't hunt with those. Mainly with the bows. Longbows, crossbows–"

"Yes, I'm sure you are a very accomplished huntsman," Pellinor assures him, voice straining to remain level. "Sir Meleagant, do you understand what I am asking you?"

"You asked about hunting–"

"Forget about the hunting," Pellinor snaps.

"You asked about it, your grace," Meleagant mutters, taking another sip of his wine.

Pellinor sighs again. "It is my understanding, my lord, that I, along with a number of other males attending this celebration, are here with a common goal in mind. A collective quarry, if you will."

"Oh," Meleagant says, eyes widening. He sits up slightly, elevating himself from a dashing lounge to a more attentive slouch. "A rare and valued prize."

"Precisely," Pellinor says with some relief.

"Well, again, your grace, and with all due respect," Meleagant says slowly. "I still do not understand how it would be advantageous to work with others, if only one can claim the prize."

"A wise insight, my lord," Pellinor tells him, pasting on a smile. "To that, my answer is simple: there are many in pursuit, and one to pursue. Having everyone as an enemy, while perhaps manageable, does not do much to increase your individual prospects in such a hunt."

"So it would be better to have at least one alliance than many competitors," Meleagant surmises.

"Precisely," Pellinor says.

Meleagant shakes his head. "But this particular quarry is known far and wide for its shrewdness and cunning. Not just its beauty. It would be difficult to outwit both the prize and the competitors."

"All the better to secure an alliance, then, I would argue," Pellinor says.

"Are you going to make public your intentions, then?" Meleagant asks slowly.

"I will," Pellinor tells him. "And therefore have another advantage in this whole endeavor. You understand that being a duke, I am… more well suited to pursuing this quarry than some others."

Meleagant's cheeks tinge red. Pellinor watches him closely. While innocent enough a statement, the duke is aware that acknowledging their difference in social status could be enough to set the knight into a rage.

However, he watches as Meleagant sucks on his teeth, considers the situation before him, and finally, gives a short nod.

"If you were to receive help in this endeavor, and you win your desired quarry and enjoy all the things that come with it–" Meleagant begins.

"I will remember those who helped along the way," Pellinor tells him. "I am sitting here due to a similar understanding between myself and the King Lot, anyway. I should do what I can to pass along such noble comportment."

"Very well," Meleagant says, leaning forward to stick out his hand.

Pellinor takes his hand and gives it a strong shake.

"Good hunting, my lord," Meleagant tells him, and drains the last of his wine. He looks disapprovingly at the empty chalice for a moment before holding it out once more and barking, "Wine!"

A servant melts from the shadows to silently fill the goblet once more.

"My lord, we're late," Dagonet cries, flinging himself through Merlin's chamber doors.

A pile of new bedclothes, laundered clothing, and a few pairs of freshly polished shoes totters precariously in his arms as he flies into the room, the door banging shut behind him. He bustles to the table and casts his entire armload across it, furiously sorting through items to find what he is looking for.

"How late are we?" Merlin shouts from his bedchambers.

"We're crossin' from almost to just barely," Dagonet huffs distractedly. "Get up an' washed an' shaved, my lord–"

"Merlin–"

"And I'll lay out your clothes an' boots as soon as I feed that damned duck–"

An affronted quack sounds from somewhere in the room.

"Yes, you, an' then I can attend to that hair–"

"Dagonet–"

"But then we'll already be late by an entire candlemark!" Dagonet laments, finally locating a sack filled with various seeds and vegetables, as well as a clay bowl.

"Dagonet, will you just–"

"And that's not even factorin' in, my lord–"

"Merlin, for the sake of the–"

"–the time it'll take to find this bleedin' place. I'm from, Nemeth, my lord–"

"Mer–"

"Yes, fine, but my point is, even I don't know where the bloomin' apple blossoms next to the roses is. Are? Anyway–"

Two strong hands grab Dagonet's shoulders and pull him up short. Dagonet finally has his eyes torn away from his work to see Merlin, eyebrows raised with an expression equal parts exhaustion, concern, and amusement.

"One deep breath."

"My–"

"Dagonet, I swear by the gods–" Merlin says, then closes his eyes. "See? Like this."

The warlock takes a long, deep, steadying breath in. He holds it until he hears Dagonet do the same. Then, the warlock releases his breath in one large gust of air. The serving boy does the same, and seems to deflate somewhat beneath Merlin's hold.

"Right. So. If you would be so kind as to find and collect your wits, you will realize that I am already washed up and dressed. We can leave at any time."

Dagonet blinks, then looks the warlock up and down. Merlin gives him an exasperated sigh.

True to his word, the warlock is already dressed, and smartly so, at least in Dagonet's estimation. Today he has chosen tan leather gloves, which tuck neatly into his plain yet fine navy blue brocade jacket. He wears a white tunic beneath, and a red neckerchief embroidered with little golden dragons. His breeches are deep blue as well, and tucked into a pair of smartly polished boots. The only pair, Dagonet notices, that the serving boy had not taken from the room on his way out the night prior to polish for today.

"How'd you do that?" Dagonet asks.

Merlin immediately looks alarmed. "You must tell me this instant what about my demeanor has made you think me incapable of dressing myself."

"No, no," Dagonet says, shaking his head and working to pry Merlin's sudden tight grip off his shoulders. "I know ya can dress yourself."

Merlin relaxes somewhat.

"I just didn't know ya could dress yourself well, is all," Dagonet finishes.

Merlin reaches out to swat at him, but Dagonet dances out of the way. He lets out an impressive yelp, however, when another voice comes from inside the very same room.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Prince Caradoc tells the servant.

Dagonet recovers himself enough to give the prince a bow, then a pleased smile.

"And I as an insult," Merlin grumbles, plucking the duck food from Dagonet and crossing the room.

The duck lets out a happy little honk and waddles over to the warlock. He carefully pours the food into the little clay bowl, then sets it on the ground. He turns his head slightly, then stoops to go onto all fours.

A trail of slightly shimmering footsteps had been left on the ground where the bird walked, visible only where the light from the fire in the hearth touched. Caradoc spares Merlin a glance, then shoots his manservant a significant look. Dagonet sighs, then moves across the room. He pulls slightly at Merlin's arm, which incurs a slightly annoyed look on the warlock's part.

"C'mon, now, m'lord," Dagonet says.

"Merlin–"

"You'll dirty your clothes before breakfast. By the gods, you're worse 'n Henry!"

"I really don't need you mothering me, Dagonet," Merlin grumbles, brushing off the knees of his trousers.

"Obviously, someone must," Dagonet returns, brushing harshly at Merlin's elbows. "I mean, really–"

"And who is late this morning, Dagonet?" Merlin asks haughtily. "I was up and ready–"

"That's because your master never slept, Dagonet," Caradoc complains, pushing himself off of the wardrobe against which he had been leaning. "Did you know that?"

"I probably should've guessed," Dagonet grumbles. "Was it the duck?"

"Of course it was the duck," Merlin replies absently, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket. "It was also the invitation to this break-fast, and the training, and the luncheon–"

"I thought you were an expert at navigating the waters of court," Dagonet teases.

Merlin sighs. "I can identify things well. Characteristics, motivations, alliances, those kinds of things. But I've never been so directly involved in it before. Not much, anyway. I'm more of a person comfortable working on the edge of things."

Caradoc nods sympathetically. "I imagine the past few weeks in Camelot have been spent fighting for legitimacy in the eyes of King Arthur's Court."

"No," Merlin says grimly. "They've been spent fighting for legitimacy in the eyes of King Uther's court. Or the remnants of it, at least. And now, I have more than just the reputation of being Arthur's clumsy servant following me around."

"You're an international man of intrigue," Caradoc teases.

Merlin flushes. "Saying such things does not make me more at ease, your grace, despite what you may be thinking."

Caradoc shrugs. "Look, my lord. It is a simple fact that the more power you are perceived to have, the more people will want to listen to you. And the more people will want you to listen. As we are here to help the Princess Mithian find a suitable match and avoid disfavorable ones–"

"And to establish her–"

"As a monarch in her own right, yes, Lord Merlin. What I'm saying is that your newfound reputation can be used to your advantage here. Both to the princess's advantage, and your country's. You've seen others use their power as tools to achieve a particular end. Now is the chance to do it yourself, and for something noble."

Merlin makes a face, but does not argue. Instead, he turns to Dagonet and asks, "Why were you late, would you remind me? Should I be sending you home earlier?"

"I'm not a child, m'lord." Merlin goes again to correct his manservant, but Dagonet glances out the window and continues, "We should probably walk an' talk, my lord, your highness. We wouldn't want to be late to break your fasts with Prince Bedivere."

"Oh," Merlin says, sighing, "I suppose not."

He and Caradoc follow Dagonet out of the chambers at a brisk pace. Sir Quackenfell abandons his breakfast in favor of following the little group, every so often beating his wings so as to catch up with their long strides.

"I was late 'cause I was talkin' with Ger," Dagonet whispers as they begin along the route that should take them to the Grand Hallway.

"Who's Ger?" Merlin asks.

"Prince Bedivere's manservant," Dagonet explains quickly. They take a short flight of stairs onto the main level of the castle and continue onward. "I'm takin' your advice, my lord"

"Certainly not my advice to call me 'Merlin' instead of 'my lord,' though, hm?" Merlin asks with a slightly exasperated tone.

"Obviously not, my lord," Dagonet answers with a grin. "No, I'm takin' your advice to listen to castle gossip. And that Ger is a chatterer, my lord."

"And what did you learn?" Caradoc asks lowly as they enter the Grand Hallway of the palace.

Dagonet takes them further into the structure and away from the large ornate doors of the castle entrance.

"A great many things, your grace," Dagonet tells him excitedly. It is apparent that he is struggling to keep his voice down, and he clears his throat a few times before continuing in a lower tone and volume, "For instance, Duke Pellinor hosted Sir Meleagant in his chambers for wine this mornin'."

Caradoc makes a face. "That's an unlikely and foul alliance."

"That's what everyone else is thinkin' too, your highness. Apparently, they was talkin' about huntin', but in a round-about way, talkin' about the princess, too. I didn't really understand most of that bit, though."

Caradoc manages a peek over at Merlin. The warlock's face is kept carefully blank.

Advisor, indeed.

"Anything else?" Merlin whispers.

Dagonet takes them through a few different hallways, then to a large set of doors. They open to spill out onto a large white-stone courtyard, which stretches into a bountiful and seemingly endless garden.

Merlin spies no apple trees nor roses in sight. Instead, it is largely carefully trimmed trees and fragrant plots of native flowers blossoming here, throwing sweetness into the sultry morning air.

Dagonet pauses for a moment, then set off into the garden with such purpose that Merlin and Caradoc simply choose to follow.

"Not anythin' else about those two, no," Dagonet tells him, still keeping his voice lowered as he takes them down a path paved with large river stones that winds further into the gardens. "But more about other rumors."

"Such as?" Caradoc prods.

"Well, they're sayin' that a bouquet was found at the princess's door this mornin'," Dagonet says slowly. "Lavender. Just appeared there, durin' shift change, they're sayin'."

Merlin finally breaks his calm facade to frown. "That's not great news. Are they doing anything about it?"

Dagonet shrugs. "I think doublin' the guard, but us servants don't mingle much with the guards unless we can help it."

Merlin nods his understanding. "Do they know who did it?"

"No idea," Dagonet says. "Made some folks uneasy, but apparently the princess is blamin' it on the nature of the fete, and is not concerned."

"That's concerning," Merlin says, frown deepening.

"Any other reports?" Caradoc asks.

"Well, yes," Dagonet says, coming to a slow stop. "Not somethin' I heard from Ger, though. It was from Agatha, the maidservant to Queen Adelaine."

Caradoc raises an eyebrow expectantly. Dagonet takes a deep breath.

"It's about the Prince Bedivere," Dagonet tells them. "Apparently, there was some kind of… incident… a few months ago, when Morgana was strayin' into Mercia."

The warlock leans forward, intently focused now. "What kind of incident?"

"Well, no one really knows," Dagonet says quickly. "But there are all sorts of rumors about the prince now. Some say he's been disfigured, others say he's been cursed. Some say he's a sorcerer himself. But no one really knows what happened."

"So what of the rumors of what happened, then?" Caradoc asks.

Dagonet takes a deep breath. "The story is that he was helpin' to evacuate some druids from near the border when the witch an' her forces came across them an' she ordered them all killed. Only Bedivere survived the attack, but he was gravely wounded. He was carried back by a young village boy who lived nearby, and the boy stayed on to help nurse him back to health. He hired the boy on as his manservant, an' this is his first real foray into polite society since… well, since the incident."

"I haven't heard of any of this," Merlin says, frowning.

"Yes, well, not many people have heard of your recent grevious wound from Morgana," Caradoc points out.

"Your what?" Dagonet demands, just as Merlin asks, "Now, how in the world did you hear about that?"

"Dagonet and Ger are far from the only gossip-mongers in attendance at the fete," Caradoc sniffs somewhat dismissively. When both Merlin and Dagonet look ready to interrupt, the prince continues quickly, "It is interesting, though, that this is the first most are hearing of this at the celebrations. Perhaps we can delve a little further into the truth on this occasion."

"If only we can find the occasion," Merlin grumbles, reminding the three of their predicament. "I see no apple blossoms, nor roses."

There is a soft quack at their feet, and then Sir Quackenfell waddles forward. He takes off at a brisk–for a duck walking, of course–pace down a forking path of river stones. Merlin glances at his companions, then takes off down the path. Caradoc follows soon after, with Dagonet following closely behind.

Sir Quackenfell leads them further into the gardens until they are so far from the castle and so near the edge of the sprawling landscape that they can hear the wind whistling past suddenly-near cliffs, and can much better smell the salt and surf on the misty morning air.

The duck leads them past a wooden arch heavy with blossoming wisteria, then comes to a meandering stop in a little area with grass growing somewhat tall to mimic a meadow.

A low wall barricades the edge of the gardens from the edges of the cliffs. White and red roses choke the sun-bleached stone with thorns and blossoms. The orchard starts here, too, spanning along the cliffside to the east, and the apple and cherry trees here are in heavy bloom.

A small, circular table has been set up quite near the wall and beneath the drooping boughs of an apple tree. Sitting at one of the three chairs is a young man. He wears no circlet nor crown. His clothes, while fine, are as plain as Merlin's. And instead of wearing a sword at his side, the young man carries instead a small book on a chain, attached to his belt. Emerald green eyes, hinting at intelligence and more than a little interest in the new-comers here, are set deep in a pleasant and freckled face. He has a large, sturdy nose and a sharp chin, and auburn curls fall across his forehead to dust against strong brows.

When he properly takes in the visitors, the prince stands and waves a hand in the air.

Standing behind the prince, at an impassionately attempted yet miserably failed rigid attention, is a young boy. He has blond hair cut raggedly short, and brown eyes peering from a pinched face. He is quite the sight for a teenage boy: gangly and sharp and lengthy in all the wrong places, as if the gods attempted to assemble a boy from various sharp twigs.

Merlin decides this must be Ger, who Dagonet had mentioned earlier.

"Good morrow, gents," Bedivere calls.

Caradoc and Merlin grow closer, then each dip into a bow.

"Prince Bedivere, I presume?" Caradoc asks.

"At your service," Bedivere says, sweeping into a bow himself.

Caradoc offers his hand for a shake, which Bedivere accepts happily.

"Prince Caradoc of Gawant at yours," he says jovially.

"The pleasure and honor is mine," Bedivere says. He turns to Merlin. "And you must be Lord Merlin, is that right?"

"Entirely correct, your highness," Merlin says pleasantly. He shakes the prince's hand as well.

Bedivere grins, even as his sharp eyes rove over Merlin. He quickly spares a glance behind him, then informs his guests, "This here is Ger, my manservant."

"Hello, Ger," Caradoc says.

"Hi, Ger," Merlin says brightly, He offers his hand to Ger as well.

The young boy looks back at him evenly, and says,"It is an honor and pleasure, my lord."

Merlin stiffens.

Because Ger had not only said those words out loud.

No, he had also projected them. The echo still rings in Merlin's head, clear as day: It is an honor and pleasure. But Ger had not called Merlin my lord in mindspeak. No, he had addressed Merlin as Emrys.

Ger is a druid. Ger knows who Merlin is. And Ger is the personal manservant to Prince Bedivere.

Merlin finds suddenly that he staggers rather than walks to his seat at the table. He sits in it heavily, fighting valiantly to keep from staring at the prince or his Druid manservant. For the first time in a long time, he offers a prayer to the heavens: Please, let me get through these next four weeks alive.

He hopes that something out there heard his plea.

Just judging from the small cough coming from slightly behind him in Ger's general direction, however, he's suddenly fairly certain that at least one person did.