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Chapter Text

When Agravaine grew up, magic was, if not a normal part of life, an accepted one. There had been a sorcerer at the Cornwall who conjured butterflies at feasts, and peddlers hawked charms and amulets in the streets by Tintagel. He did not share the same idiotic, ignorant fears as the Pendragon king whom Ygraine had wed, and he prided himself that he was too intelligent to tremble at the mere presence of a witch.

All the same, he was deeply uneasy. This cave was a dank hole in the earth, all worms and cold dirt. There were no furnishings or signs that someone lived there — Agravaine had to use a rock for a seat, and even that was covered in grey lichen that seemed to squirm beneath him. The light from his torch, stuck in the ground beside him, was all that illuminated the den.

Still, he had promised his Lady he would seek out the Burned Witch, and so he set his teeth against the goosepimples on his arms and did not draw his sword.

Morgana claimed that this woman was the most powerful of those who still remembered the old ways. Agravaine thought that any woman with more power than his Lady ought to have been able to at least find herself a hut above-ground instead of living here.

He also thought that Morgana would have made a better emissary than him, but the witch was said to have a vendetta against Pendragons. He could scarcely imagine why.

He could only hope that she hated Arthur worse than Morgana.

She sat naked across from him, legs crossed and arms limp in her lap. There was no seduction in her manner. This witch was less than human. Her flesh was charred black as coal and hung loose off her bones, a corpse held together only by a hatred of the Pendragon regime that must have burned hot as the fires of the Purge.

Agravaine was intimately familiar with the feeling. In the years after Igraine’s death, he might have flung himself from the battlements where they’d played as children if his hatred for her husband hadn’t kept his blood afire.

It was a hatred which they held in common, and one which, in the absence of Uther, who had always been surrounded by guards and a fine swordsman besides, would need be satisfied by his far more foolish son.

“You mean to kill Arthur Pendragon,” the witch rasped. She was sitting in the dirt. Worms writhed over her thighs and her calves, and tiny beetles nestled in what Agravaine supposed had once been toes. She had no eyes, and her mouth was a gaping hole in her skull, as black inside as out.

“Don’t you?”

“I am a husk living in the deadest patch of earth in Albion,” she responded. In truth, Agravaine questioned even calling this creature a woman. No doubt her feminine parts had burned with the rest of her, either in the early days of the purge, during the mass-burnings, when corpses were tossed in the ravines behind Camelot for the animals to devour, or later, when Uther led his knights to hunt users of magic like sport. Morgana hadn’t been able to explain her origins, only that she was powerful. She had to be, to have clung to life, even in this form. “I suck enough magic from the roots of the trees to keep myself alive, no more. My reach does not extend above the ground.”

“My Lady has no such problem,” Agravaine said. “And yet each attempt we have made on the King’s life has failed.”

“Poison him.”

“His servant tastes his food, and Arthur would fall into a red rage if the boy came to any harm.” Morgana would welcome Merlin’s death, but they both knew better than to infuriate Arthur. His Highness was curiously protective of the whelp.

The woman burst into croaking laughter. It sounded like bats wings fluttering. “Would he now?”

Agravaine clenched his fist. “The boy doesn’t matter. Can you kill the prince?”

“No.”

“Then the tales Morgana heard of you were grossly exaggerated. He is one mortal warrior.” Agravaine wished he believed his own words. There were moments when Arthur’s luck seemed nothing short of divine, and it frightened Agravaine deep in his heart.

“I don’t deny that,” the witch rasped. “Arthur Pendragon is a mewling infant who stumbles along with his head bobbing side to side, sure to blunder into peril no matter where his idiocy takes him. But he is guarded by more power than you fools know.”

“The knights are formidable,” Agravaine agreed grudgingly. He hadn’t been half the swordsman Sir Gwaine was when he was that age, nor as strong as Sir Percival, nor as quick as Sir Elyan, nor as steady as Sir Leon. “But the guards are incompetent, and he must sleep. He’s surely as vulnerable in bed as any man.”

“But neither you nor your lady dare stab him while he sleeps.” She chuckled again. “It seems this Pendragon has a fire his father never managed. No matter. I speak of a higher power than mortal guards.”

“Emrys.” Agravaine’s mouth twisted around the word. He’d heard Morgana whisper it in her sleep, incant it to her sacred fires a dozen times, trying to summon a face. The magic resisted her, always.

“Emrys,” she agreed. “Kill Arthur Pendragon, and the rage of Emrys will break over you as thunder and lightning, and make your fear of his knights like a bruised kneecap to a split skull. And it would be for naught, besides.”

“What?”

“Killing Arthur Pendragon could be done,” she said. Her fingers twisted, knucklebones scraping against each other. “I can think of beasts which would flay him open, schemes which would lure him unarmed from his bed, poisons which would burn up when they touched the blood of his servant but seep into Arthur and destroy him. And it would be of no consequence. The moment his soul slipped from his body, a squalling infant with golden hair and dear Ygraine’s eyes would be born somewhere else in Albion, and in twenty years he would be at Emrys’ side again, riding into Camelot to reclaim the land.”

“I don’t…”

“Of course you don’t understand.” Her voice was scornful. “I know more magic than you or your precious Pendragon spawn could possibly conceive, more than you could study if you had a thousand years and Ashkanar himself to teach you, and I know that Arthur’s soul was not meant to rest idle in this age. He will be reborn, and you will never even see it, because you will be dead before his bones cool.”

Agravaine felt the magic in the cave them. It thrummed against him, and Agravaine could feel bruises blooming over him as veins burst and his bones creaked. It was old, old as this sorceress had to be, older than Uther’s reign and older than whatever well of power Morgana tapped.

“Then there is no hope?” Agravaine asked. His throat was curiously dry.

“I did not say that. A soul cannot be reborn if it has ceased to be.”

“Speak like a mortal.”

“I am not mortal. Would you have me speak in a language I cannot fathom?” She did not wait for Agravaine’s reply, which was just as well. “Do you know of the Catha?”

“A brotherhood of traitorous me,” Agravaine said. Alator’s betrayal still rankled.

“A tiny sect of a far greater body of magic,” she rasped. Agravaine’s eyes fixed for a second on the purple stump of her tongue, and he hastily looked away. “They hail from an isle in the Great Sea, somewhere even Uther could never touch. Deep magic rests there. It is from there that the Catha draw their power. Take Arthur’s soul from his body and throw it into their fires. The flames will devour him, and the child will be born with lungs full of ash and shriveled insides. The king will reign but once.”

“And Emrys?”

“Concern yourself with Arthur’s soul. Emrys will take care of himself.”

Agravaine shook his head. “And Arthur’s body?”

“A body is nothing but blood and bones. A soul is far more dangerous. Just make sure you get rid of it. Send it far from the soul, and watch Emrys scramble to find them both. The life of the king will wither away, and when the soul burns, the body’s death knell will sound.”

“How does one…” Agravaine swallowed. This was repulsive in the extreme. “I did not know that the soul and the flesh could be unbound. And I have never heard my Lady mention such an act.”

“I expected nothing less. Morgause knew nothing, and neither did her sister, no matter that she likes to fashion herself a high priestess.” The burned witch let out another, sharper, laugh. The sound was like old leather breaking. “I know. I studied before the Purge and before Uther’s madness was clear, when the old ways still held sway and those who knew the darkest secrets still lived.” She smiled. She had to twist her entire jaw, and a tiny ragged piece of flesh slipped off her cheek to fall into the black dirt, but she still smiled. “And I was once a teacher.”

When Agravaine emerged from the cave, it was pouring rain, and thundering. He cursed. It had been dusk when he rode in, and it had looked to be a clear night. It was lucky that the burned witch’s words were seared into his mind, not written on parchment. Now it was almost dawn, and his horse had wrenched free of its bridle and galloped off.

He cursed again. It would be a long, wet, slog back to Camelot. For a brief moment, he wished that they could have stabbed Arthur in his bed while he slept, instead of this muddling with old magic and schemes.

--

It was a combination of the thunder and Merlin’s unrest which woke Arthur Pendragon. He grunted and groped for Merlin, who should have been drooling on his shoulder and making his arm fall asleep.

He opened his eyes and frowned when he realized that both of his arms were perfectly awake, and Merlin was curled up with his back to Arthur, shivering violently despite having stolen all the blankets.

“Merlin.” Merlin twitched, but kept mumbling. “Merlin!”

Merlin didn’t wake, still caught in the throes of some nightmare. Arthur sighed and moved closer, catching one of Merlin’s wrists in his hand and pressing him down. He’d had to wake his knights from nightmares before, while sharing tents on campaign. It was a task he understood, if not one he enjoyed. And it was different with Merlin.

“Merlin,” Arthur said softly. He brushed strands off black hair off Merlin’s sweaty forehead. “Wake up.”

Merlin woke with a gasp. “What – Arthur?”

“You were having a nightmare.” Arthur glanced at the windows. The storm had stopped dead, and his breathing seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room.

“Oh,” Merlin mumbled. He rubbed at his face. Arthur sighed and shifted closer, to wrap an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. He was even more pallid than usual, and looked like he might vomit. “Sorry.”

“Happens to the best of us.” Arthur hesitated. “D’you want to er, talk about it?”

“I don’t remember it.” Merlin said. He scrubbed at his eyes. “There were worms.”

“You were moaning like that for worms?”

“Shut up, they were…” Merlin frowned. “I don’t remember. It was unpleasant.”

“Worms.” Arthur flopped back on his back. “You wake me up in the middle of the night for worms.”

“Weird worms,” Merlin muttered. He curled up back next to Arthur. It had become his accustomed place after Gwen’s banishment. “Shut up.”

“I hadn’t said anything,” Arthur mumbled.

“You were about to.” Merlin closed his eyes. Arthur glanced down at him and, after an instant’s hesitation, snuggled down next to him, pressing his face to Merlin’s shoulder and looping his arms around his lover. There were a few more hours before he would need to rise and begin King’s business. He would enjoy this time while he had it.

--

The sun shone bright over Camelot that morning. It was a fine day in late summer, with a rich blue sky and a heat that spread over the entire castle, inescapable.

Merlin had fled to the cool chambers of the armory. The pleasant weather had banished his nightmares, and Arthur’s plate needed buffing. He meant to make it bright enough to reflect the crowds when they cheered for him, next tourney.

“Merlin!” Gwaine leaned in the doorway, grinning. “Why are you stuck inside on this gorgeous summer day?”

“Polishing.” Merlin held up Arthur’s breastplate.

Gwaine strolled into the room and flung himself onto the bench beside Merlin. He lazily flicked a speck of dirt off the breastplate. “I’d have thought you’d be attending Arthur.”

“It’s cooler in the armory.”

“You had a fight with Arthur?” Gwaine asked wisely. Merlin shrugged. Gwaine hmmed, but for once made no further comment. Merlin was glad of it. The fight had been foolish, and not something Merlin wanted to relive, even with Gwaine.

“Shouldn’t you be training with Arthur?” Merlin asked instead.

“The King had a special counsel session with his uncle.” Gwaine grinned and stretched himself out properly, kicking a breastplate off the end of the bench so he could put up his feet.

“That was Elyan’s, and Leon runs training when Arthur’s gone.”

“It was Elyan’s?” Gwaine settled into his languor, his feet dangling off the end of the bench. “Remind me to hide it in the stables later. You’re right, it is much more pleasant down here.”

“You didn’t answer my question about Leon.”

“Ah, it’s too hot out to train,” Gwaine said dismissively. “We’d boil in our chainmail. And Arthur left orders for the same old drills. Two step, one step, turn on the heel, cut—that and the heat’s enough to drive you mad. We lesser knights staged a revolt and ran.”

Merlin snorted. “And when Leon comes to find you? With a mace?”

“It was my hope that you, Merlin, being as you are extremely quick-witted and known for your honesty and your knowledge of the inner workings of Camelot, might see fit to tell Leon I was elsewhere, while I hide behind the bench.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “This is hiding?”

“Camouflage. Notice how the bench and I are both wearing brown?” Gwaine closed his eyes. “Wake me up if you hear him.”

“Shift, you can’t use my leg as a pillow.” Merlin nudged him.

“Ah, I suppose not.” Gwaine said sadly. “Don’t want to upset the King, after all.” He saw the look on Merlin’s face and grinned. “I’m only joking with you, Merlin.”

“You could bother Gaius,” Merlin suggested. The sickness that he’d felt ever since his nightmare was rising in his gut again, and Merlin shut his eyes for an instant.

“Cleaning a leech tank would be even worse than training.” Gwaine sat up and clapped Merlin’s shoulder. “I can be of use to you, Merlin!”

“You want to polish his gauntlets?”

“I was thinking that I could regale you with tales of me beating Arthur in different ways as you polished different pieces of armor,” Gwaine suggested. Merlin shook his head, lips pressed together. Gwaine leaned in closer, frowning. Seen closer, there was a certain mossy hue to Merlin’s cheeks, and just a trace of sweat on his brow. “You feeling alright, Merlin?”

Merlin took a deep breath. “Just a bit…nauseous.”

Gwaine hastily sat up. “And why are you in the armory?”

“Floor is so stained no one would notice if I didn’t clean up well.” Merlin rubbed his forehead. “So, I’d really advise just heading to the tavern and counting on the wenches to hide you in their skirts.”

“That’s the first place Leon would look.” Gwaine grabbed Merlin’s shoulders and hauled him up. “C’mon.”

Merlin’s head spun with a sudden dizziness. Had he been sitting that long? “What?”

“We’re going to Gaius.”

“I’m not sick—”

“You’re…” Gwaine peered at him. “Looking worse by the minute. We’re going to Gaius.”

“Armor.”

“The King will find someone else to polish.”

“Leon.”

“Ah, if it’s a choice between training and your death, I’ll take the former. I hate funerals.”

“Leech tank.”

Gwaine grimaced. “You had to remind me.”

Nonetheless, he kept an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and moving towards the armory door.

“Gwaine.” Merlin pulled away. “I can walk myself, thanks.”

“If you bolt, I’ll restrain you,” Gwaine threatened. He hovered behind Merlin, prodding him irresistibly in the direction of Gaius’s chambers. “Didn’t anyone notice that you were dead on your feet this morning?”

“Gaius was up early,” Merlin mumbled.

Gwaine rolled his eyes. “Ah, of course. And I suppose that in your fight with Gaius you never mentioned you felt unwell?”

Merlin shrugged. With his head spinning, and Arthur being a prat, it hadn’t seemed important.

-

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Gaius let Merlin’s eyelid fall shut. “Not that I can see.”

“Look at him!” Gwaine protested from his perch on Gaius’s workbooks. Merlin sat on the edge of Gaius’s bed, sweating and looking pale. “He’s clearly not well!”

“Yes, but it’s no ailment that I know of. He’s not afflicted with the sweating sickness, and his stomach is not bloated, nor his bowels cramped…”

“Oy!” Merlin objected.

“Something he ate?” Gwaine suggested, frowning.

“When I want your opinion as a physician, Gwaine, I will ask for it,” Gaius said. “Merlin’s had nothing but what I’ve cooked for him, and I’m perfectly well.”

“Don’t you taste Arthur’s food for him?” Gwaine asked.

They all paused, suddenly uneasy.

“I think I’m going to pay a call on the King,” Gaius said. “Merlin, hand me my medical bag. Gwaine, stay with him and make sure he lies down.”

“If something’s wrong with Arthur, I’m coming with you.” Merlin stumbled to his feet.

“Relax Merlin, this may only be a passing illness you’ve caught through some bad luck, and if the King is truly ill, there is little you can do to help. Stay and rest.” Gaius waved his hands at him. “Go! Lie down!”

“I’ll keep him here,” Gwaine volunteered cheerfully. It barely took a push to have Merlin back on the bed, clutching at his stomach. It worried Gwaine more than he felt comfortably admitting out loud. “I am a knight of Camelot, helping the common people is my first duty, above all others.”

“Be sure to tell me how that goes with Leon,” Merlin muttered. Gwaine flicked his head. “Ow!”

“Leon has the utmost respect for Gaius. He must understand that I had no choice.” Gwaine stretched like a cat, trying to find a comfortable way to sit without destabilizing the stack of books. “Anyway, we can’t have you rushing around after Arthur and infecting the whole palace.”

“I suppose infecting you is fine,” Merlin said. His voice was faint.

“I have an iron constitution.” Gwaine gave up on being comfortable and knelt by Merlin’s bedside, to help him from Gaius’s bed to his own. If Merlin needed sleep, better that he do so in his own chambers, no matter how infrequently Merlin really slept there these days. “Go make yourself comfortable, have a nap. Gaius will be back soon to tell us that Arthur’s fine and probably annoyed at you for sending a court physician to interrupt his council meetings.”

--

Merlin woke hours later, to the sound of voices outside his door. He pulled on his jacket and stumbled down the stairs, trying not to look light-headed. His mind felt clearer than it had all day – whatever the malady had been, it passed.

I’m telling you, I haven’t seen him,” Agravaine was saying. “There was no council meeting today, I was in my study reviewing the treaties with Queen Annis all morning.”

“So Arthur went out for a gallop, who can blame him for wanting to get out of the city?” Gwaine said. He stood squarely between the knot of people and Merlin’s chamber door, arms crossed defiantly.

“There are no horses missing from the stables, are you suggesting he walked from the city? Alone?” Agravaine asked pointedly.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asked.

Leon answered. “The King is missing. No one has seen him since he left training.”

“Unless you saw him,” Agravaine said, glaring at Merlin. “Or he indicated to you some hint of his intentions, some plan to hide in the castle? Gods know the Citadel alone is large enough for a single man to disappear in…”

“I haven’t seen Arthur since this morning.” Merlin looked from Gaius to Gwaine. “Last I heard, he was with you.”

“He never was,” Agravaine snapped. “Arthur had no plans to meet with me today, he was meant to be training.”

“All of you should relax,” Gwaine said. “Arthur will turn up, probably as soon as the heat cools off, and be horrified that the lot of you turned the castle on end looking for him.”

“No, a hot day wouldn’t keep Arthur off training,” Leon said. His worried eyes met Merlin’s. “Merlin, are you sure he said nothing to you?”

“Arthur was in a mood this morning,” Merlin said carefully. “We didn’t speak much.”

“A mood?” Gwaine asked.

“Kept muttering about going places and then saying he wasn’t going. He shouted at me to get out when I asked him what he was on about.” Merlin winced. “I thought he hadn’t slept well and was just grumpy.”

But there had been something wrong. There’d been some strange look in his eyes that morning after he ate, and he’d shouted at Merlin to get out, and Merlin had just blamed it on a lack of sleep, the same cause for which he’d blamed his own sickness. He wished he could remember his nightmare better. There had been a woman, wreathed all in red and fire.

“We should send search parties,” Merlin said.

“I have guards scouring the lower levels,” Agravaine said flatly.

“What about outside?”

“There are no horses missing,” Agravaine said dismissively. “Arthur wouldn’t walk to the woods, and wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to tell no one he was leaving the city.”

“I’m going to look around,” Merlin said quickly. “Check his favorite haunts.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gwaine said hastily, eying Leon, who would no doubt remember his desertion the second he stopped worrying about Arthur.

The two left. Gaius sighed deeply. “I’m not sure that I can be of much use here, gentlemen, and I’ve had many summons from the lower town. You know how injuries multiply in this weather.”

“By all means, go.” Agravaine dismissed him. “Tend to the people, we will concern ourselves with the king.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Gaius left, picking up his bag as he went. It left Leon and Agravaine standing alone in the room.

“My lord…” Leon said hesitantly. “You had guards search the Citadel an hour ago, and they found nothing.”

“The Citadel is large, Leon, and has many cracks which merit a second look. And…” Agravaine lowered his voice, though they were quite alone. “Should Arthur’s kidnappers have a conspirator in our midst, I did not want him to know the details of our search.”

“My Lord?”

“Who would best know Arthur’s whereabouts? Who could pass him a false message telling him to go to the council room to be ambushed? Who has access to the keys to open every door along the outer walls? There is only one suspect.” Leon stared at Agravaine in puzzlement. “His manservant.”

“Wha-Merlin? Merlin?” Leon burst into laughter. He had to reach for the wall to stay upright. “M’lord, I mean, my lord Agravaine…”

Agravaine looked highly annoyed. “I didn’t mean to jest.”

“My Lord.” Leon wiped his eyes. “Merlin has served Arthur for years, he’s more trustworthy than most of Arthur’s council. If there’s any man in Camelot above suspicion, it’s him.” Leon made to clap Agravaine’s shoulder, remembered that he was the king’s uncle, and hastily withdrew his hand. “I will conduct a search of the walls myself to see if any doors have been forced, but Arthur knows the Citadel better than most. Perhaps Gwaine is right and he is simply hiding somewhere.”

“Bring your findings directly to me,” Agravaine said, still looking severely irate.

“Yes, my lord. Merlin the traitor…” Leon headed for the door, still guffawing. “I’d sooner believe in Merlin the sorcerer…”

Chapter Text

“Arthur had best be passed out in a field somewhere. If we find him, and he’s having a swim in some spring…” Gwaine made a violent gesture and cast a dark look at the gates, as if he expected Arthur to walk in at any moment.

“He wouldn’t go alone.” Elyan fanned himself with a hand. “Show some knightly spirit, Gwaine.”

“My knightly spirit wanes whenever we have to wear chainmail in summer.” He looked across the courtyard, at the crowds gathered by the water pump. “I think I can feel my horse sweating through the saddle.”

“That’s just because it has to carry you.” Percival walked up, leading his horse by the bridle. “The woods will be cooler.”

“They had better be.” Gwaine sighed. The heat hadn’t eased much since midday, and all of them were in full chainmail, as Leon insisted. Their scarlet cloaks hung heavy on their shoulders, with no breeze to move them. It was enough to make a man envy Merlin, who was standing across the courtyard talking to Gaius. He was only wearing a jacket, and didn’t have a heavy sword weighing down his belt.

--

“Take the full bag, you don’t know what you’ll need,” Gaius said to Merlin, handing him the healing basket. “You restocked it just last week, it should have everything. If it’s only sunstroke…”

“Cool him down,” Merlin said quietly. “I know, Gaius. We’ve all got full waterskins, enough to last all day and into tomorrow.”

“I doubt you’ll need days,” Gaius said. “He was on foot, he can’t have gone far.”

“I hope not.” Merlin shook his head. “I should get back to the knights.”

“And many wait for me in the lower town.” Gaius sighed. “I’ll see you in a few days, Merlin. Try to keep Gwaine from killing Arthur when you find him.”

“No promises.” Merlin said, looking across the courtyard at the knights. Gwaine’s hair was already limp with the heat, and the knight was obviously irritable. “Arthur might have to fight off Elyan and Percival too.”

Gaius shook his head. “And be sure to look after yourself. If you’re still not well, they can search without you.”

“I’m not leaving Arthur out there alone.” Merlin settled the medicine bag more comfortably on his shoulder.

 “Yes, I’ve come to expect that.” Gaius sighed again. “Good luck.”

“Camelot rests in your hands,” Merlin replied. They both glanced towards Agravaine, standing by the stairs and speaking to Leon. Even in the blazing sun, he still wore black.

“Do try to return soon,” Gaius said dryly. Merlin nodded with perfect understanding, and left Gaius for his horse, who stood by Gwaine and Elyan’s mounts with the placid calm of an animal who’d seen far too many wyverns to be upset by a bit of heat. She stayed calm as Merlin tied his medicine bag to her saddle and mounted, finally drawing the collective attention of the knights.

“Merlin, tell Percival that he should cover his arms,” Gwaine said immediately. “He’ll be beet red by sundown.”

Percival shrugged, just a bit smug. “I’m the coolest one here.”

“He has a point.” Merlin raised his hand over his eyes. “Why haven’t we left yet?”

“Leon is still talking to Agravaine.”

--

“We may have to camp for the night,” Leon said. “But we should have the king back by sundown tomorrow, at the very latest.”

“Good.” Agravaine nodded approvingly. “I trust that Camelot’s finest will not disappoint.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Leon bowed his head. “The citadel is yours, until we return with Arthur.”

“Yes, heat riots and all.” Agravaine smiled wanly. “Thank the gods these are the last days of summer.”

“I had the captains double the guard until we return,” Leon said firmly. “The people of Camelot are used to a terrible summer, my lord—so long as the well runs steady, they will stay calm. You have nothing to fear.”

“Nonetheless, I will hope for your fast return.” Agravaine turned and began walking back up the steps into the castle, where it was cool and there were servants with endless supplies of iced wine.

They left the city at a gallop, scarlet capes flapping against their horses’ haunches. A few of the people of the lower town waved to them as they passed. They did not slow their horses, though Merlin had the queer feeling that they should have stopped a second to watch the common folk cheer, as if they would not hear such sounds again soon. Still, the city was hot, and it was a relief to escape into the fields, and even better, the forests.

It was cooler under the trees. They were thriving in the heat—there had been no drought this season, for once not because Merlin manipulated the clouds, and so a canopy of solid green was spread above them all, soaking up the sunlight. The ground beneath them was soft, and their horses’ hooves sunk deep in the loam.

There were no other tracks.

“Do we split up?” Elyan asked. “This forest rings the whole of Camelot; there are miles of ground to cover.”

“No.” Leon shook his head. “Merlin is the only one who’ll know how to treat him if he’s wounded.”

“I say we begin by checking the springs closest to the city,” Gwaine suggested.

“You just want to dunk your head in a watering hole,” Percival said. “Merlin, where would he go?”

Merlin blinked. “The forests by the Western gate. They have the most game.”

“We follow Merlin’s advice,” Leon said immediately, turning his horse’s head. Elyan and Percival exchanged looks, and Gwaine slapped Merlin’s shoulder.

“It’s good to have an expert on our King’s peculiar mind in the group. Gods only know what we’d have done if you two disappeared together.” Privately, Gwaine thought he would make sure to make a great deal of noise while looking.

Merlin ignored him, turning his horse to follow the other knights. Gwaine’s smile dimmed slightly.

The forest may have been more tolerable than the city, but the air was still sluggish. Merlin wished they could gallop, but the paths in the forest were none too stable, and it would strain the horses. Besides, there was a sense of stillness in the forest that he was hesitant to break, for fear that it would break them in return. 

“Spread out,” Leon ordered. “Don’t go so far that you can’t see the others.”

“His highness had better not be having a nap,” Gwaine muttered, peering around the trees. “Arthur! Percival, you shout, you’ve got bigger lungs.”

“No,” Merlin said sharply.

Leon, already halfway down a dry streambed, reigned in his horse. “Merlin?”

“Doesn’t the forest feel…unnatural?” Merlin twisted in his saddle. There was a discordant note hovering at the edge of his senses, and it made his teeth stand on end. His mare moved uneasily under him. When he put a hand on her neck to calm her, she was slick with sweat.

“We can’t just search for him silence,” Elyan said. “I don’t mind being stabbed in the service of my King, but I’d rather not it be him wielding the blade.”

“Merlin’s right,” Percival said abruptly.

“Eh?”

“Listen.” Percival raised a hand for quiet. “No birdsong.”

“Maybe they’re all in the shade somewhere,” Gwaine suggested.

Percival shook his head. “Birds sing in shadow and sun alike, and this is summer.”

They all paused. The forest was still, without a single leaf moving. The nerves in Merlin’s neck clenched.

“It may be sorcery,” Leon said. “Keep looking, but keep your swords out.”

“And do we whisper when we find him?” Gwaine grumbled, drawing his sword. He swung off his horse and began to walk, boots brushing past fern stalks. Elyan followed his lead, and Leon continued down the streambed. His horse’s hooves made cracks in the hard mud. Percival walked on top of the leaves with silent footsteps, eyes tracing the ground.

Merlin remained mounted, eyes shut. The discordance was jangling against his eardrums now.

“Here!” Percival called. “I found his tracks.”

“Where?” Merlin slid off the saddle and ran to Percival. The other knights were quick behind.

“Look.” Percival crouched. “The ferns are broken, and you can see the curve of a boot in the dust.”

“You’re sure that’s Arthur, and not some farmer who walked through?” Gwaine asked. He frowned down at the dirt.

“I’m sure.” Percival rose to his feet. “Merlin, bring my horse. We can follow his tracks from here.”

Merlin walked back to where Percival’s horse was standing with his mare, whinnying nervously. “Come on.” Merlin murmured, pulling them along. His mare shied back, whickering. “Come on.”

Gwaine cast a dark look at the surrounding trees. “The horses don’t like it here.”

“We were hunting in this grove just last week.” Leon pushed his sweaty hair back with one hand. His horse danced to the side and he had to grab the pommel of the saddle to steady himself.

“Then why isn’t there any game?” Elyan asked quietly.

“It doesn’t matter.” Leon gathered his reins in his hands. “We know Arthur passed this way and sorcery or no, we have a duty to find him. Lead on, Percival.”

--

They were no closer to Arthur when dusk fell.

Leon reigned in his horse. “We should make camp.”

Merlin twisted around in his saddle. “No, we need to keep going.”

Percival stopped walking. He straightened himself, wincing as he stretched. “I can’t follow a trail in the dark.”

“We can light torches,” Merlin said flatly. He looked to Gwaine. “We can’t stop and rest while Arthur is still lost!”

 “We can, and we will.” Leon swung off his horse. “Merlin, kindle us a fire—perhaps Arthur will find us.”

“But…” Merlin opened his mouth furiously, ready to protest that he could light a torch just as easily as a fire.

“Easy, Merlin.” Gwaine slid off his horse. “The King needs his rest, same as all of us. Particularly our horses.” He clapped a hand on Merlin’s knee. “And for all we know, he’s doubled back to Camelot already, and we’ll wake up in the morning to find him standing over us shouting about jumping to conclusions.”

Merlin stared down at Gwaine. “You honestly believe that?”

“I believe we can search no further tonight.” Gwaine shrugged. “Come on, I’ll help you collect kindling.” He shot Merlin a grin. “We can’t have Arthur show up only to discover that I let his manservant be eaten by wolves.”

“Every animal in this forest is huddled in a sheltered place,” Merlin said. “It’s as if they’re waiting out a storm.”

“Then the animals are fools.” Gwaine laughed. “There’s no storms coming this week—my feet would itch if there were.”

“For the love of god then, I hope the skies stay clear,” Elyan said, from where he was unsaddling his horse. “This forest feels foul enough without Gwaine taking off his boots.” He and Percival laughed as Gwaine made to throw a waterskin at them.

Merlin sighed and finally dismounted. He gave his mare an absent pat on the neck. “Are we still within Camelot’s borders?”

“I’m not sure. Gwaine, Elyan, come look at these maps.” Leon ordered, spreading two long rolls of parchment over his knees.

Gwaine clapped Merlin on the shoulder. “If a wolf attacks you, scream and run up a tree.” He joined Elyan at Leon’s side, expression sobering as they surveyed the maps. Percival, who had not travelled near so much, went to his horse and untied her reins from Merlin’s saddle. He began to unsaddle her with gentle hands.

Merlin quickly did the same, and left for firewood. He walked through the forest slowly, horribly aware of a sense of wrong pulling at his senses. It made the hair at the nape of his neck stick out, and his heartbeat patter irregularly.

We should not have stopped. Merlin thought miserably, as he bent down to pick up pieces of dry wood.

When he returned to the clearing, the knights looked grim. Gwaine glanced at him from Leon’s side. “Bad news, Merlin. We’re half a day from the border of Mercia.”

 “No fire.” Elyan added grimly. “Can’t risk a border guard seeing it.”

“What about Arthur finding us?”

“I doubt he’d like to find us dead.” Leon rolled up the map. “We have dried meat and fruit, we’ll make do without cooked food.”

“At least it’s starting to cool down,” Gwaine said. He settled back against a log, fingers linked behind his head. “And the skies are still clear.”

--

They packed the camp that morning in grim silence. Gwaine’s halfhearted jokes about the heat being more bearable fell flat as the knights folded their cloaks and hid them in saddlebags, and Merlin quietly took them out, refolded them, and hid them more effectively. They rode at a walk, as before, while Percival tracked Arthur.

“He hasn’t stopped,” Percival said, at mid-day, when the sunlight through the trees turned the knight’s bare chainmail into blinding beacons.

“What?” Leon asked. Even he had been slipping into a doze as they plodded through the trees.

“His pace has been steady this whole time.” Percival brushed his hand across a patch of dirt. “I don’t think he ever stopped to sleep or eat, or drink.”

Leon glanced at Merlin.

“I can treat lack of water,” Merlin said. “As long as we reach him in time.”

“How are your antidotes?”

“I have all I’ll need,” Merlin’s fingers twitched as he tried to recall the pages in his spellwork that dealt with controlling bewitchments. If Morgana had taken Arthur, and somehow planted a Fomorrah in his head, he could not see why she would use it to simply send Arthur away. “And he’s alone?”

“He’s alone,” Percival said, with complete surety. “I’d have seen another set of tracks.”

“Keep going, then,” Leon said. “He’ll have to stop eventually.” By Leon’s tone, he remembered well that Arthur’s mule-headed obstinacy would keep him walking far past the point where a normal man would collapse.

They kept riding in silence as the late afternoon crept on them. Their camp that night was silent, and again without a fire.

The birds began to sing again on the next day of riding, and fresh breezes rustled the leaves around them. It was not a comfort to Merlin. If the enchantment had left the forest, it only meant that Arthur was further away.

“Did you taste that?” Gwaine asked.

Elyan turned to eye Gwaine. “Taste what?”

Gwaine held up his wrist. “The wind. We’re near the sea, check your skin. It should taste of salt.”

“Good gods.” Percival peered at his arm.

“We should ride faster,” Leon declared. “If Arthur is headed for the coastline, he might be looking to sail away.” He nodded to Percival. “Mark his trail, in case we need to return here.”

Percival stood up straight and reached above his head. He pulled a branch as thick as Merlin’s waist off the tree and forced it in between the slit of another two branches, so it pointed back to Camelot.

They galloped the rest of the way to the coast, until the trees thinned and they emerged at the top of a ridge, above a trading town, built around a line of docks that stretched into the barely sheltered harbor.

“By the gods,” Leon breathed. The sea stretched out beneath them. It was a vibrant blue that day, shining in the sunlight, and it went for as long as the sky. It was a calm day, so that the only ripples in the surface were the wakes of sailing ships, galleys that dwarfed the small houses clinging to the cliffs, even as the sea around them made them into flies in the sky. Percival gaped at it.

“It doesn’t go forever,” Gwaine said, looking down at the water. “The voyage across is short.”

“You’ve been?” Percival asked. He tore his gaze away shoot Gwaine a look that was half incredulity, half awe.

“Many times.” Gwaine shrugged.

“So have I,” Elyan added.

Percival shook his head. “I can’t imagine it.”

“We should start looking for Arthur,” Leon interrupted. He nudged his horse forward, down the path to the town. “Come on.”

They followed. Merlin went last, and thought about how all waters led to Avalon.

The docks were nearly deserted at this hour. According to Gwaine and Elyan, most ships set sail at dawn or midday, and those coming into the harbor might arrive at any time. Still, there was one captain still loading his ship with barrels of wine, and who agreed to talk to them after Gwaine flipped him a gold coin.

“We’re looking for a man,” Leon said.

“What sort?” The captain asked. He was short, and swarthy, and had a bristling black beard that might have had fleas. “And why?”

“He’s our friend.” Merlin stepped forward. “He was drinking last night and wandered away.” Merlin coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “We’d rather find him before he wakes up and realizes that none of us went searching for him before noon.”

Leon shot him a rather impressed look.

“I do recall a young man.” The captain said, scratching at his beard. “Very obedient, glazed eyes…I thought he was a simpleton.”

“What did he look like?” Leon asked.

“Blonde hair, blue eyes. I suppose he was handsome, if you go for that sort. Big strong arms and shoulders. He was going up the gangplank to Letum’s ship, over at the West dock. I only noticed him because Letum doesn’t take passengers.”

“He must have been drugged,” Elyan muttered. He shot a glance at Merlin, who had been sick.

“Where is this ship?” Leon asked.

“Oh, it left port,” The captain said. “Right at dawn—they were casting off when I saw him.”

“Where were they sailing?”

“Letum’s a trader, he might’ve gone anywhere.” The captain shrugged. “He’d finished his trade up and down Albion’s coast and moved on.”

Leon looked dismayed.

“What was he carrying?” Gwaine interjected.

“Nothing so valuable as all that. Fox fur, some golden trinkets, nothing magical.” The man spat. “Thank the bloody Pendragons for that, and Camelot’s damned ability to reach all the way to the coast to kill our trade.”

“Could he have gone to the Middle Sea?” Gwaine asked. “That’s the best place to trade.”

“I suppose he might’ve,” The captain said. Gwaine flashed another gold coin. “His ship wasn’t fortified for ice. The Middle Sea or down the southern coast.”

“Then we find a boat to the Middle Sea,” Leon said firmly.

“For all the good it’ll do,” Gwaine muttered.

“What?”

“Leon, the Middle Sea’s as large as all Albion put together, and it holds a thousand different ports. All of them trade in furs and trinkets,” Gwaine snapped. He shook his head. “He could be anywhere.”

“We cannot stay here.” Leon said. “Captain—where is your vessel headed?”

“Most boats for the middle sea have left.” The captain said. “The autumn storms will come soon. I’m sailing straight across the channel and holing up in Gaul until the sea is calm again.”

“Then who is sailing out?”

The captain shrugged. “No passenger ships, for certain. Check the taverns, if you want to know.”

--

The mood in the tavern that night was grim. They found a captain who would take them across the channel, but no further. Not even when Leon pulled a sack of gold from his saddlebags and dangled it under his nose, with Percival behind him, glowering and flexing his bare biceps. The captain claimed that the sailing season in these parts was very near done, and he would rather be a poor man with his ship intact than rich and dead on the seabed. Worse, he was the only man leaving.

“The ports in Albion are small,” Gwaine explained over his tankard. They were huddled around the fire in the inn. The sea crashed outside, somehow louder than it had been in daylight. “We have little to trade, compared to the continental harbors, and the Pendragon ban on magical goods drove away many foreign captains.”

“Camelot has no seacoast,” Elyan said bitterly. “And it still manages to exert such an influence. To the reign of Uther Pendragon” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. Gwaine drank. Percival halfheartedly knocked tankards with them.

“I thought we’d be back by now,” he admitted before drinking. “I don’t like heading this far from Camelot.”

“Things are never simple with Arthur,” Gwaine said. He glanced to the side. “Isn’t that right, Merlin?”

Merlin didn’t respond. He was staring at the flames in the hearth, and had barely touched his mead. It was foreign, and thinner than the fare at home.

“Merlin,” Gwaine repeated.

Merlin’s gaze slid away from the coals. “We should have forced him to take us tonight.”

“Casting out at night is foolishness,” Elyan said.

“Unless you’re smuggling,” Gwaine added prosaically. Percival raised his eyebrows at him. Gwaine shrugged. “It’s not as it would be taking from the taxes of Camelot.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Merlin’s eyes went back to the fire. There was something dark in the blue. “Arthur is miles away, and we don’t even know for sure that we’re following him in the right direction. We should have gone faster.”

“It’s not as if we can flash the crest and commandeer a vessel,” Elyan said. “I doubt the Mercian crown would sit quietly if it knew that Camelot’s finest were leaving Albion, let alone if he had a hint of the King’s absence.”

 “Assuming they didn’t plan this.”

“You’re a bushel of sunshine tonight, aren’t you?” Gwaine lounged back in his seat. “You’ll get your King back, don’t worry.” He nudged Merlin’s calf. “Once that drug wears off, Arthur will swim back to Albion, and damn the winter storms.”

They all fell silent, remembering that Arthur had eaten nothing that Merlin hadn’t.

Leon interrupted them, sitting between Gwaine and Elyan with a fresh tankard. “I’ve found a stable for the horses. They’ll be safe there until we return.”

“That must have cost a pretty penny,” Gwaine muttered.

“I traded the gold on their saddles.” Leon said bluntly. “We’ll need the coin, if we want to barter a passage back.”

There was silence again, as every man there contemplated being trapped on the wrong side of the ocean, leaving Camelot kingless all winter.

Leon broke it again. “And I sent a bird back to Camelot. Agravaine will manage things there until we return.”

Merlin drained his cup.

Chapter Text

The warning bell woke Gaius in the early hours.

The clanging echoed throughout the city, ringing against ancient stone walls and the deep castle caverns, reverberating through every street until no one in Camelot could remain asleep. Gaius heard it and stumbled from his pallet, pushing away his thin sheets and stumbling to the window in his nightshirt.

“Merlin,” he mumbled groggily. It was half worry, half accusation. But Merlin would be with Arthur at this time of night, and if he was not sound asleep he surely could not be doing anything that merited waking all of Camelot…it took Gaius two steps in his bare feet on the cold stone floor to recall that the King was missing, the knights were gone, and Merlin was gone with them.

He went to the window, unfinished prayers jumbling through his mind. Let it have been a simple robbery, let it have been a fight on the wall, let it have been a mistake…but the warning bells were made of heavy stone, and it took no little effort to bring them to life. Neither petty crime nor accidents could prompt their thunder.

Gaius reached the window and stared down at the city in dismay.

There were fires burning in the lower town. Soldiers small as ants milled about the courtyard far below, and he saw moonlight flash against blades as the guards battled. There were servants fleeing and being cut down as they ran, and dark stains on the flagstones.

Gaius, who had seen invasions before, looked to the walls. There was no battle there. Those who ran along the ancient fortifications of Camelot walked like wolves, not like men under siege. And the great hunters of Camelot were long gone from the city.

Gaius turned and fled. He did not stop to pick his carefully folded robes from his wardrobe nor to slide on shoes. He ran as well as he was able, joints aching with every step he took, painfully reminding him why he had needed an apprentice all those years ago.

He ran, his white nightshirt fluttering around his chest and legs, and was not stopped. Not by the maids, either those who were fleeing or those who had snatched up brooms to fight with and heavy chamberpots to fling from citadel windows. Not by the wounded, who could have rightfully claimed him. Not even by the child servants, who were finding crannies in the walls in which they might hide until their elders came to claim them. Gaius might have been a ghost.

That was good. That suited his needs well enough.

In pain, and with the city falling below him, Gaius made for the rookery. He was no fool. The best defenders of Camelot were gone, and an army was invading—there was nothing to do but to call them back. Or warn them, at least.

The tower of the rookery was one of the highest in Camelot. It in itself was not far from Gaius’s rooms—like himself, it provided a service vital to all those who lived within the citadel’s walls—but the steps that led to the tower were many. Gaius’s breathing grew ragged as he climbed. His feet were sore. He thought one of his toenails had torn, for there was liquid sliding between his toes. For sure he had not trod in a pool of blood—as of now, the Citadel remained untaken. No matter what slaughter went on in the lower town, the nobles of Camelot, those who could summon allies and call to their families for aid, were yet safe.

As of now, the kingdom was safe.

His lungs burned. The smoke rising from below was scratching at his throat. His knees and his elbows were on fire, but he must keep walking. When he had summoned the knights, he could collapse beneath the bird cages until the smell of excrement forced him to move, but for now he must keep climbing.

There was sweat dripping in his white hair, but no tears. Gaius had served the Pendragon family for so many years, and done so much worse than simply walk up the tower steps to the rookery. He would manage this service well enough, and be grateful that no more was asked of him.

Gaius finally saw the door to the rookery before him. It was cracked open, so that the emblem, the golden dragon of Camelot with wings spread in full flight, gilded onto the strong wood, was half in shadow. Gaius let out a gasp of relief. He had not been the only one to think of summoning their defenders, and he would not need to manage the strong messenger birds alone.

He stepped forward, pushing open the door.

“Friend, let me…” The greeting died on his lips.

The man within the rookery was not dressed in the livery of Camelot’s servants, or of her guards. He was a tall soldier dressed in black and his hands were bloody, closed around the neck of a white bird.

“What have you done?” Gaius croaked. His breath was too short for accusations, for calls for help, even for a question of they were birds, why did you kill them all, they were only birds. It was a foolish remonstration, when men and women and children were like dying floors below them, and yet…

The rookery had been designed with intent. The cages hung off tall, circular, walls, connected by ropes that allowed a person to lower down any cage of their choosing, whether for hunting birds or for messenger doves. There were wide windows all around, angled to keep rain out but allow in long beams of natural air and light, so that the birds in their cages could imagine flight. It was airy, and if not quite beautiful, a functional room.

It had become a charnel hose. Cages lay smashed on the tower floor, ropes cut. Feathers and blood coated the floor and the walls. Gaius stared down at the creatures who had served just as well as he had. Most had died in their cages, by a longsword blade thrust through the bars. Others must have tried to escape, and had their necks snapped.

There would be no messages sent from Camelot tonight.

Gaius was staring at the dead mass of feathers in the man’s hand when two more grabbed him around the shoulders. The soldier dropped his kill. It fell to the floor solid as a stone, and the man stepped towards Gaius with his sword drawn. Gaius was likely far easier prey than some of the greater hunting falcons.

“Wait,” one of those behind him said. “Are you the healer?” He shook Gaius, as if rattled bones would provoke a faster answer.

“Yes,” Gaius said. “Yes. I am the physician.”

“We can’t kill him,” his captor said to the man who’d killed the birds. “She wants him for herself.”

She. Gaius thought. Then, of course. Who else.

They dragged him down the tower far faster than he had ascended. Gaius had not thought himself so frail, yet they half-carried him down the steps, one man propping up each of his armpits, so his bloody toes painfully battered the steps. Neither spoke to him, and as they walked the halls, which had grown far quieter while Gaius was laboring up the stairs, he realized that the Citadel had fallen.

So a kingdom can fall in the time it takes an old man to climb a flight of stairs.

They took him to the main hall, and flung him at the foot of the throne.

Gaius knew who would be there, and yet it pained him all the same when he lifted his eyes.

Morgana sat the throne differently than she once had, sprawling over the seat rather than sitting straightbacked and proud. But that came as no surprise. Where before, Morgana had had a golden sister at her side, she now had Agravaine, dressed all in black and looming over her shoulder like some sort of bloated bat.

“Gaius,” Morgana said softly. “How good of you to join us.”

“We found him in the rookery,” one of the guards reported.

Morgana’s eyes snapped to the man. “Did he send out a bird?”

“The birds are dead, your highness. Just as you commanded.” The guard wore the black livery of the DuBois family. Gaius thought of when Ygraine had first come to Camelot, and how her men had worn black, with her all in white and gold in the middle. Somehow, then, the color had looked noble.

“Good,” Morgana breathed. “Good. No one yet knows.”

“They may soon, your highness,” Agravaine said. “There may have been those outside the city who heard the warning bell, or inside who escaped.”

Morgana twisted around like a viper. “Gaius rang the bell?”

“I am told that it was a stableboy,” Agravaine said. “We took his hands.”

“Stableboys,” Morgana muttered darkly. “Servants. Rout the serving quarters for his family and have them publicly hanged.”

“Yes, your highness.” Agravaine said. He glared at the guard. “You. Search the servant’s quarters for these people.”

Gaius looked up at Morgana. “My lady, please—”

“Your highness,” Morgana spat down at him. Gaius could feel her anger wash over him like ocean waves. “You will give me the same dues you gave my traitorous father, physician.”

“I gave your father counsel.” Gaius tried to make his voice strong. It was difficult. He had given Uther advice in steady, unwavering, tones a thousand times, but he had never had to do it from his knees. “Let me give you the same.”

“Counsel?” Morgana stared at him. Then she laughed. “Counsel? Did you hear that, Agravaine? Gaius the physician would give me counsel.”

“I have often...”

“You advised Uther once.” Morgana waved a hand, as if batting a fly, and whispered a word. Her eyes flashed gold. The force of the blow send Gaius crashing fully to the floor, bloodying his lip. He lay there, prone and old, as Morgana rose to her feet. “And you advised me once.”

It had not been once. It had been a thousand times. From when she was a child, come to Uther’s court as his new ward, terrified and alone in a new home that was utterly unlike Gorlois’s seaside castle, through adolescent pains and feverish dreams, to when she was a young woman who lit curtains on fire. Gaius wondered when his advice had gone so wrong.

“I...” I let you play beneath my bench when you were a child. “I do not think you should kill the boy’s family.”

“Why? Because the knights will be angry?” Morgana stood, and looked down at him. She seemed taller than the very towers of Camelot as she glared down at him, a face pale as death. “The knights are gone. They will not return to save you.”

She had plotted their leaving. Of course. When had his wits got so slow?

“And the king?” Gaius asked, softly.

Morgana spread her hand, face twisting in fury. Pressure began to grow against Gaius’s back, pressing him into the stone floor. His bones would undoubtedly break before the floor. “Arthur is not king.”

Is. He was alive then. Gaius breathed out a soft prayer of thanks, though he knew not to whom. He could not breathe in again.

“You’re going to kill him?” Agravaine asked.

“Do you object?” Morgana responded silkily.

“No,” Agravaine said. “But I think you should burn him.”

“Oh?” Morgana released Gaius. He gasped, breathing deep. The air in Uther’s—Arthur’s—Morgana’s throne room was cleaner than the air in the rest of the palace. It was at the very heart of the castle, and it was heavy with secrets and old madness, not smoke and blood.

“Burn him,” Agravaine repeated. “He was dear to Uther and Arthur both—let the people see him blacken and know that the old order is going up in smoke. They’ll lose their hope in heroes then.”

Morgana’s head tipped to the side, considering. “Would you like that, physician?”

“I have never experienced it, my lady,” Gaius said quietly, more to the floor than to her.

“Your highness,” Morgana spat. “Perhaps it is no less than you deserve. You stood by while thousands burned in the Purge.”

“I did not want to die.” Gaius began to move his arms again, to try to lever himself up so he could at least kneel before her, if not look her in the eyes.

 “It would have been just.” She surveyed him. “It would do the people well to see their only remaining hero burn.”

I am their hero. Gaius thought. Gods help me, I am an old man who can barely walk back to his chambers unaided, and I am all these people have. He put his hands firm on the flagstones, and pushed himself to his knees. They ached as he rested his weight on them. “Your highness?”

“Speak, hypocrite.”

“I am Camelot’s only physician.” Gaius glanced at Agravaine. A week ago, he had been giving this man medicine for his bowels. “I have no equal within the city, and winter brings black toes and rot.”

“Are you trying to plead your value now?” Morgana laughed disdainfully. “I am a High Priestess. I do not fall to mortal sickness.”

You lie. “My concern was for the health of the populace, my—your highness.” It was hard to force out the title, while she sat on Arthur’s chair.

“Do you accuse me of not caring for my own people?” Morgana asked softly. Gaius bowed his head. He noticed that her feet were bare, and dirty.

“No, your highness.”

“He will spread lies among them.” Agravaine said warningly. “Kill him now, and be done with this.”

“Don’t you dare give me orders,” Morgana snarled at him. He flinched back, afraid. Morgana returned to her throne, throwing herself violently onto the unpadded seat. “Throw him in the dungeons,” she ordered the guards. “Perhaps I will kill him in the morning.”

Two guards wrapped their arms around him and hauled him to his feet. Gaius was absurdly grateful. He could never have risen on the power of his own two feet. Morgana watched him with narrowed eyes as they dragged him away, her fingers tapping at the arms of the throne. Agravaine’s face was drawn.

Gaius could see very little of the palace as they went. The door to the dungeons was very near the place Uther had often given judgment, but they passed traces of fighting all the same. There were blood smears on the walls.

When they hurled him into the dungeons, Gaius lay on the floor for only a moment before crawling to the corner. They had not thought to manacle him, knowing no doubt that he was old and hurt and could not dream of escaping. He could only huddle in the corner and pull the straw about him, and be grateful that someone under Arthur had kept it fresh.

But for his life, he could not sleep.

He could not summon Merlin and the knights back. Morgana knew that the knights threatened her, though perhaps not that Merlin was a far greater danger to her, and she had acted accordingly.

Arthur, then. He must find what she had done with Arthur. With Arthur back, there would be no need to summon knights, the common people themselves would take up arms and rally around him. They might be outmatched by these soldiers, but with Arthur leading them they would simply overwhelm the men Agravaine had summoned, no matter how many died in the attempt.

Many would die, no doubt.

But Morgana, it seemed, already planned to start her own reign with executions. Death had come to Camelot, no matter what Gaius did.

Gaius thought of the girl who used to steal food for the poor, and who had shouted Uther into lowering taxes and opening the citadel to refugees from the outer villages. He would have wept, if he had the strength.

Chapter Text

The salt wind whipped at Gwaine’s hair. He paused to shove damp strands out of his eyes and scowled at the sky. It was blue and cloudless, and the breeze still tickling his cheeks was the most wind they’d had over the last few days. It was a source of bewilderment to him, as well as to the sailors, that they were skimming over the waves as fast they were.

The captain just looked uneasy, and said not to question currents. Gwaine supposed he’d say the same if there were knights from Camelot aboard his ship.

Gwaine grimaced as the boat lurched. They’d paid far too much for their passage on this wreck.

Merlin was at the bow, as Gwaine had expected. He was staring out across the water, fingers fidgeting against the wet wood as he watched the horizon. His face was pale, and drawn. The spray had darkened his shirtsleeves, turning the blue almost black.

“Haven’t you slept?” Gwaine threw himself against the rail, elbows resting on the wood and face toward Merlin. Not towards the sea. “I don’t think I’ve seen you close your eyes once since we set out.”

“Couldn’t.” Merlin barely looked at him.

Gwaine lightly bumped his shoulder. “We’re making good time, you know.”

“Yes, but…” Merlin shook his head, and his eyes focused in on Gwaine. A smile turned up his lips. “I haven’t seen you in the cabin either.”

“Percival threw up on my bed.” Gwaine said dryly. “I’ve been sleeping on deck, by the ropes.” Or at least he had been, until a feeling of being watched made him invade Leon and Elyan’s quarters.

“Poor Percival.” Merlin shook his head.

“Damn, but I wish I’d had the luck to room with Leon.” Gwaine sighed. “He’s spent this entire trip haunting the sailors to ask about trade ships going South, I could have had the room to myself.”

“Has he found anything?”

“Nothing more than the fact that there are a hundred ships that sail the Middle Sea every day.” Gwaine rolled his eyes. “I could have told him that.”

“Have you ever been there?” Merlin asked.

“Yes.” Gwaine said immediately. Then, “No.” He wouldn’t lie to Merlin. “I’ve been as far as Jabal Tariq, but never through the straits. It starts to get hot once you get that far South, and…strange.” Gwaine shrugged. “Besides, I like the mead better on our little island. Have you?”

Merlin shook his head. “No. I’ve never been anywhere.”

Gwaine glanced away, unsure of what to say. The waves of the channel were dark, though their prow cut through cleanly. Gwaine quickly turned his eyes away. Lately, he’d had the disconcerting feeling that whenever he looked over the deck, there was someone looking back.

But he for sure wasn’t going to say that to Merlin, who looked half dead already from worry over Arthur. Gwaine hoped Arthur bloody well appreciated it.

“Why don’t you go check on Percy?” Gwaine suggested.

“I’ve done all I can for him.” Merlin said, but he turned back with Gwaine all the same. Gwaine hovered at his shoulder, to catch Merlin if he wobbled. Standing in one place for hours wasn’t the best way to find your sea legs.

“You might make him eat or drink.” Gwaine suggested. “I know I was meant to, but whenever I put a flask of water to his lips he just dribbles it back out.”

“Hmm.” Merlin frowned and quickened his pace. He ducked into their cabin without hesitation, which showed for a fact that physicians were mightier than warriors. Gwaine had to pause at the door, wrinkle his nose, and take a last gulp of fresh air.

Percival’s latest regurgitation was still caked to the floor. The knight himself lay curled on his side in bed, in an uneasy sleep. That had been Merlin’s insistence. Unless there was someone with him, Percival wasn’t to lie on his back, lest he choke.

Gwaine watched as Merlin stepped over the thin puddle of vomit and crouched at Percival’s head. He put a careful hand to Percival’s forehead, then under his nose. “Gwaine, fetch my bag.”

“Aye-aye.” Gwaine took two steps across the room to where it hung on the wall, and from there threw it to Merlin. Merlin cast him an annoyed look. Gwaine grinned.

Merlin took a dark brown plant, chewed it up, and spat the pulp into his hand. He made gentle noises to Percival as he took a cup and filled it halfway up with water, then dumped the herb into the drink. Gwaine’s grin turned squeamish as the water turned brown. Merlin swilled the liquid twice, then began to prop Percival up. Gwaine stepped over the vomit to help.

Percival swallowed the potion, eyes blearily watching Merlin. Merlin let him ease down now, onto his back. He looked at Gwaine. “He won’t vomit again.”

“Why didn’t you do that before he threw up on my bed?” Gwaine complained. Merlin laughed and went to the door. It opened before he reached it, sending him stumbling back on his arse. Gwaine snorted at the sight.

“Sorry Merlin.” Elyan said sheepishly. “Leon, Gwaine wants you. He says we’re almost to land.”

“Come on, Merlin.” Gwaine helped him up. They followed Elyan to the starboard side, where Leon looked out at the shore they quickly approached. His arms were crossed, and his face was grim. “What is it now?”

“What are you talking about?” Leon blinked at him.

“You look like you just sat down on a dead cat.”

“I haven’t been able to learn anything from the sailors.” Leon said. “Not all of them speak Albion’s tongue, and those that do wouldn’t speak to me about the ship that left in the night. It doesn’t bode well for Arthur.”

Gwaine glanced at Merlin. “Ease up, Leon. We’ll know more once we reach the port.”

“They say we dock in a few hours.” Leon said. “How’s Percival?”

“Weak.” Merlin reported. “But I’ve given him ginger, and that should help soothe him until he sets food on land again.”

“Good.” Leon said. “I’m going to speak to the captain, ask if we can’t reach port faster. Make sure all of you have your possessions in order.”

“Yes.” Elyan said. “Gods know I’ve scattered all my luggage across the ship.”

Gwaine laughed. Leon sighed.

--

The people who lived in this port called it Kales, or Calay, and did not speak the same tongue as the knights. They disembarked, the biggest bag among them Merlin’s medicine bag, and with Percival leaning heavy on Elyan, to look around in uneasy confusion. Though the docks were sturdily built, and fortified with large blocks of stone, the town was stacked with wet wood houses and confused streets. It smelled like seaweed and swampland.

“Gods.” Leon said. He looked around them. “Gods, this is a new land. We might be the first from Camelot to ever walk this soil.”

His eyes were wide as he looked at the strange signs, flapping against buildings in the sea breeze. They were all silent.

“I see the tavern.” Gwaine announced.

Leon sighed.

“It’s just up that street.” Gwaine jerked his head at one of many twisting lanes. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could do with some hot food and a mug of mead.”

“Everyone, stay together.” Leon said. He shot a pointed look at Gwaine. “Don’t wander off, and don’t pick any fights until Percival can walk steadily.”

“We aren’t helpless.” Elyan grumbled. His feet squished in the muck. “We have chainmail.”

“Don’t start.” Leon warned him. “And don’t drink to drunkenness.”

The tavern was a dark building, windowless on the bottom. The lower floor, the common room where they served food and drink, was made of stone, the upper of wood. When they entered, it was to find that the air was smoky from a single open fire. Men in the corners played dice and swore in the local language.

Leon settled at one of the tables in the corner, where the stones walls were almost black with soot. The others huddled around him.

“We need to find the ship of a man named Letum.” Leon said quietly. “And soon, before autumn sets in, and the storms begin in truth.”

“Yes, Leon,” Gwaine said. He leaned back in his chair, and called out in a strange language. A barmaid, as flushed and hard-handed as could be found anywhere in the world, nodded and smiled at him.

“Gwaine?” Leon asked.

Gwaine shrugged. “It’s just trader’s pidgin, they use it all up and down the coast. I’ve picked it up over the years.”

“Then go ask after Letum.” Leon ordered. “Ask the barmaids and the other sailors. The rest of you, go through the tavern, try to find others from Albion. There must be some here who come from familiar kingdoms. Watch each other.”

Leon settled back in by the fire, putting his hand to his head. Gods, but he would have given much to be back in the Rising Sun, his familiar drinking mates around him, and Arthur there demanding to know if they’d seen Merlin.

A hand landed on Leon’s shoulder. “Gwaine, I told you—”

“My name is not Gwaine, sir knight.”

Leon jumped from his seat and turned, his hand going to his blade. The man standing behind his chair was dressed in full armor, with his helm down to conceal his face. A sigil of a ghastly sort of yellow bug was painted on surcoat, not a crest Leon knew.

“You are a suspicious man.” The stranger observed. He raised his hands, and while he had a dagger strapped to each hip, his gloves were free. Leon could feel the other knights, scattered as they were through the bar, coming together, all with their hands on their hilts. They could band together like hunting dogs and tear this man down, tired and sick as they all were.

“I beg your pardon.” Leon moved his hand from his blade. “You startled me, sir.” Damn his weariness.

“I should hate to truly surprise you.” The stranger bowed. “I come as a messenger. My master begs you come to his seat, not five miles from town, and be his guests for this night.”

“Are men from Albion so rare?” Leon asked.

“Knights are.” The messenger bowed again. “Are you not knights?”

“We are.” Leon said. He drew up in pride. “From Camelot.”

“We have heard of Camelot.” The messenger said. “Will you come? My master will be most disappointed if you do not.”

“How is that you speak Albion’s tongue?” Merlin asked. Leon looked to his side. Strange, he had not even heard Merlin approach. Yet there he was, looking at this messenger with guarded eyes. “The Franks have their own language.”

“This is a port…sir.” The messenger glanced over Merlin’s worn clothes, and his distinct lack of weaponry. Leon shifted an inch closer to Merlin. “We see all manner of traders scuttling from one side of the channel to the other. And besides, my master is a learned man.”

“And who was he, again?” Merlin inquired.

“Childebert III.” The messenger smiled thinly. “King of Austrasia. You do not know his sigil?”

Leon coughed. “Tell his highness that we are honored at his invitation, and that though we do not have horses, we will follow his messenger along the road to his castle.” He bowed. The messenger nodded curtly and left. Leon turned to Merlin.

Merlin shifted. “I didn’t know he was a king’s messenger.”

.“That was bloody beautiful Merlin,” Gwaine said, his voice garbled with laughter. “I hope you wait the king’s table.”

“This isn’t funny, Gwaine.” Elyan said sharply. “No one should know we’re here—what if he asks after Arthur?”

“We tell him that Arthur is bonny and beautiful, and that he’s a better sword than any Frank.” Gwaine shrugged. “He’s not going to be mustering an army and invading Camelot, not when he’d have to go over the sea and through Mercia.”

“Elyan is right.” Leon said. “No one outside of Camelot can know about Arthur’s disappearance.” He looked around the tavern warily. “This king must have extraordinary spies for news of our arrival to have reached him so quickly.”

“Every king has spies.” Gwaine said. “Be glad of it, I’d rather spend a night in a castle than spend coin so I can share a bed with a sea rat.”

“What do we tell them, then?” Percival asked. “About why we’re here.”

Merlin opened his mouth. Leon cut across him. “We tell them that Arthur sent us on an expedition to seek out trade routes for Camelot. Ask the King if he has any knowledge of a man named Letum.” Leon’s gaze swept the knights. “I know that you are not stupid men, but you have only served one King, and that is Arthur. This King is not Arthur. Take no familiarities, make no jests at his expense, and for the love of Camelot, do not challenge him.”

He did not look at Merlin, but every other knight at least glanced at the servant.

--

The fortress of King Childebert of Austrasia was a grim monolith, hulking low on the land. The walls were damp stone, the windows high and narrow. Four wide towers marked the corners, hardly rising more than a story above the main keep.

Leon dearly wished that they could have ridden in on their own horses. Or even had more than a single servant, so that they did not need to each carry their own bags. Not that any of them had brought so much as a clean tunic. He wondered if King Childebert would allow them to send a bird to Camelot, so he might tell Lord Agravaine that they had crossed the sea in safety.

Another servant met them in the courtyard. This one was a maid, wearing a faded blue gown. She curtsied prettily when they entered. “His highness will receive you in his Hall, but desires that you be brought to your rooms to freshen before the feast.”

“Feast?” Elyan muttered.

“If you will follow me…” She waited for Leon’s nod, then led them into the walls.

“Arthur would have met us himself.” Elyan said quietly to Gwaine.

“I hope his food is nicer than his castle.” Gwaine replied. He patted Percival’s shoulder. “You’ve had an empty belly for far too long, my friend. Try to enjoy yourself tonight.” He caught Leon’s angry look. “Within reason, of course.”

“My Lord.” The maid gestured to a doorway. “Your room.”

“Mine only?” Leon asked. He frowned.

“We do not have rooms together, I fear.” She bowed her head. “You have the sincerest apologies of the serving men, but we had little notice.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Leon said automatically. “You have our thanks for accommodating us tonight.” He stepped in the door, and hesitated. “We have only one servant between us. Will he be able to serve us, if we are apart?”

“His highness has commanded that his own servants wait on you.” She gestured for the rest of them to go with her. “Your man will be given a bed in the servant’s quarters.”

And so the knights of Camelot found themselves scattered.

They came together again at dusk, when the King at last summoned to feast. The banquet hall was not the merriest of places. The banners draped over the tables seemed worn, and the windows were closed, so the smoke of the torches collected in the air above.

Merlin stood at the edge, beneath a smoke-soiled banner. He held an ewer of wine, and he was uneasy. The King Childebert was not uncomely. He had long brown hair that fell past his shoulders and shone even in dim light, and his eyes were blue. Still, Merlin could not find any stirrings of admiration. His shoulders were too narrow, and his nose peaked in a strange way. Then, it was altogether possible that Merlin’s standards were unfairly high.

The knights came in one by one, and bowed to him. He sat, not on a throne, but at the center of a high table. It was carved of dark wood, and it rested on a raised dais before the hearth. His wife, Bertrade, was a grim looking woman, and his counselor Ansegisil looked at them with unreadable eyes.

He noted that the king cast Gwaine a look of supreme annoyance upon Gwaine’s entrance, and wondered why. Gwaine often warranted irate looks from those in authority, but all he had done was bow.

“So, tell me.” Childebert said, when they had sat down. “What is this scarlet company, which washes up on the Merovingian shore?”

“We are knights of Camelot.” Leon said. He took up a knife and began to cut at the meat a servant laid before him. “Of King Arthur’s round table.”

“I know little of this King Arthur.” Childebert said.

“He is a great King.” Elyan said. He took a drink of wine. “From the Pendragon line.”

“I know of them, at least.” Childebert paused. “Not well, of course, but there are legends.”

“None do him justice.” Percival said immediately.

Childebert cast him an amused look. “I did not say what sort of legends.” He speared a piece of ox. To Merlin’s eyes, it had not been cooked well. He was unsurprised. From what he had seen, the servants in this castle were small and mousy, and viewed their masters with a grim mix of fear and contempt. “Why have you come here, then?”

“Arth—King Arthur has a great interest in the opening of trade.” Gwaine said. “He sent us to go travelling, to search out roads and ports.” He drained his wine. Merlin moved from the wall to fill his cup.

“With only one servant?” Childebert asked.

“Well, he’s an excellent servant.” Gwaine said. He flashed Merlin a grin as Merlin filled his cup. Merlin turned his face away from Childebert, so that he could roll his eyes at Gwaine. “The personal favorite of the King.”

Percival stepped on Gwaine’s foot. Gwaine looked supremely unrepentant.

“And yet he let the man go.” Childebert eyed Merlin, then dismissed him. “Your cloaks are a most impressive shade of scarlet. I wonder that you did not wear them off the boat.”

Leon’s face remained controlled. They had, by unspoken agreement, worn their colors for the feast. “We thought we might appear…hostile.”

“Nonsense.” Childebert chuckled. “You appeared as fighting men, nothing more. And all lands need fighting men.”

“Thank you, your highness.” Leon said carefully. Merlin topped off his wine before going back to the wall. He shifted his weight and thought of feasts in Camelot. Unless there were new diplomats present, he was permitted to lean against the wall when the feast dragged. The annoyed looks Arthur always cast him were almost as sweet as the relief on his feet. He was also able to take subtle sips of wine.

His fellow server here held her back perfectly rigid, and had not so much as looked at the wine. Merlin supposed it was best to follow her lead.

“You claim the best swordsmanship of your company?” Childebert was asking Gwaine. “I must say, the companion to your right seemed the most ferocious of you. He stands half a head taller than any man I’ve seen.”

“Oh, Percival is strong.” Gwaine said. His wine cup was already half empty. “But I have skill.” He patted Percival’s arm. “No insult intended, Perce.”

“I have learned not to take your lies seriously.” Percival looked across the table at Leon. Leon shook his head, almost imperceptibly. No bragging. “This is a prodigiously sized boar, your highness.”

“I hunted it down myself. My stock have always been great hunters.” Childebert smiled in quiet satisfaction. Merlin had the sense that there was a jest not meant for the knights. His Queen, who was engaged in quiet conversation with Leon, looked away from him to smile at her husband. “But I have told you almost nothing of trade in Austrasia.”

“There was one man who was of particular interest.” Leon said quickly, turning from the queen. “A man called Letum. He captains a ship bound, we believe, for the middle sea?”

“Why is he of such interest?” Childebert asked.

“He rarely pays his trade dues.” Leon did his best to smile. “King Arthur said that it would be pleasing to him if we, ah, encountered the man.”

“And brought back some appendage as proof?” Childebert laughed. “Ansegisil, you are a worldly man. Has your father ever seen this sailor?”

“If he has, he has not noted him as important.” Ansegisil shrugged. Unlike the King, his hair was cropped short, and he looked rather sour.

“Some mayor.” Childebert shook his head. “You two—tell me more stories of combat, and these tournaments.”

Merlin looked up at the smoky ceiling and wished that the feast would end sooner. The servant beside him—the same girl in the faded blue dress—nudged him. Merlin glanced at her, and bent his head so she could whisper.

“He’ll send them to bed soon.”

Merlin shot her a grateful smile. She dimpled back at him. And her words proved true. Childebert left the hall before the hour had passed, saying that his days were busy, and he had consultations to make with Ansegisil. The knights all left soon after, Gwaine wobbling on his feet and Elyan fighting not to laugh as he supported him.

Merlin shuddered, as soon as they were gone. “Gods, what a terrible feast.”

“We get the scraps, though.” The girl said. She smiled at him. “I’m Gisole.”

“Merlin.” Merlin tried to bow, and only wobbled. “Sorry. I haven’t slept much.”

“You’ll like your new bed better.” She said it with confidence. “Come, we’ll need to clear the plates. Take whatever you want, we always let new men have the pick.”

“That’s a kind thing to do for guests.” Merlin said. She shot him a sad look. “Can we drink the wine?”

“I wouldn’t.” She swept up to the dais and began piling meat onto a plate.

“If you say so.” Merlin followed her. He picked up Gwaine’s plate and began to pick out his own dinner. “At Camelot, the cook would kill us all if we took off the plates at the end of a feast.” He grinned. “Though, in Camelot, we couldn’t start cleaning up until the sun rose, and even then you had to pick around a couple nobles who slept on the tables.”

She eyed him. “You had to stand there all night? Sounds horrid.”

“Oh, no, not me.” Merlin said. “I’m Arthur’s manservant, I left the feast when he did.” Only when her eyebrows flew up did he recognize his mistake. “Er, King Pendragon’s manservant. Anyway, there were different servants for serving and for cleaning. It’s a larger castle.”

“This isn’t the proper castle,” she said abruptly. She put her dinner aside and began to gather up the other dirty plates. “The main seat is far nicer. The King just happened to be in this corner of the land, is all.”

“Alright.” Merlin said, surprised. “Didn’t mean to insult your castle, sorry.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t…” She drew one of the banners aside so they could go to the kitchen. It was warmer in that dark corridor. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that he’ll be leaving here, soon. It’s not always so grim.”

“You don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say that.” She waved to another woman, who was hanging freshly scourged pots on the wall. “Bris! This is Merlin, he came with the knights from Camelot.”

“Oh?” Bris smiled. She was smaller than Audrey, the cook in Camelot, and smiled more easily. “Welcome then. You used to castle service?”

“He was the personal manservant to a King across the sea.” Gisole confided.

“Is,” Merlin said sharply.

Bris shot him a pitying look. “Aye, whatever you say. Gisole, make sure you have the table scrubbed before morning.”

“Yes Bris,” Gisole said. She picked the wine ewer out of Merlin’s hand and tossed the contents in the fire. “Merlin, would you like to wash plates or scrub with me?”

“I’d er, rather like to check on my knights.” Merlin made himself grin. “They’re just oafs in armor, can’t trust them to undress without calamity.”

“Clean first.” Gisole said gently. “The work will go faster with the two of us, and I’d like to sleep early tonight, after the rush it took to get all the rooms ready.”

“…fine.” Merlin had a terrible feeling that he was being prodded about. “Where do you keep your rags?”

“Just over there, by the washing basins.” Gisole said. “Mind you don’t spill. You seem like a clumsy fellow.”

“Terribly.” Merlin confirmed. He picked out two old clothes. “Once tripped over while I was carrying my King’s chamberpot out to be tossed, and I sent everything in it splashing right on his face.” Bris put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, he didn’t even yell. Just stared at me. Probably wondered how he hadn’t sacked me yet.”

“Ah.” Gisole said. “I would…not, do that to King Childebert.”

Merlin nodded. “Won’t.” He looked around as they went back to the dais. They folded the cloth together, and began to scrub the grease off the wood. “Where’s the rest of the household? I haven’t seen that messenger fellow.”

“Ein will meet you tomorrow,” Gisole said. They scrubbed in silence.

“Gisole?” Merlin asked, his voice light.

“Yes?”

“Was that wine poisoned?”

Gisole looked at him. Her eyes were wary. “I beg your pardon?”

“I didn’t smell anything on it, and I only taste for the King, so I didn’t think to check.” Merlin sat back on his heels, dropping his rag. “Tell me now, if it was, and you’ll be forgiven for your part in it.”

“It wasn’t. It was only strong.” Gisole resumed her scrubbing. “The men—our castle’s men, not the King’s van, which is camped by the border, this castle not being large enough to house them—will be in their chambers soon. Poison is a coward’s weapon, the King wouldn’t abide it.”

“Ah.” Merlin said. “And do you have maps?”

“Excuse me?”

“Maps,” Merlin enunciated. “Of the surrounding country, and the way to the Middle Sea.”

“There might be some in Lord Ansegisil’s rooms. I can’t say I looked. You won’t be able to look over them, he doesn’t share that with us servants.” Gisole shook her head. “Finish the cleaning, Merlin. I’ll show you to your new rooms.”

“No, that’s not going to happen.” Merlin tossed aside the cloth. “I’m off to find the knights, and make sure they aren’t slain in their sleep by your uncowardly king.” Gisole rose with him. “What?”

“They’re trained men, and you don’t know the castle,” she said gently. “The king has done this before. He needs fighting men, you see. There are a great many enemies in this land, who would love to depose him. And those who do not show themselves amenable to joining his forces cannot just be left to wander the land. You understand that?”

Merlin stared at her. “If I find them dead, I will tear this castle down on top of your king and bury you all.”

Gisole sighed. “I can’t say I made that drastic a threat, but I truly do know how you feel, Merlin. And it will come to naught.”

Merlin’s eyes burned gold. Gisole took a step back, fear in her eyes. “Just don’t get in my way.”

--

Leon did not sleep well anywhere but Camelot. He’d slept in the same bed in the same rooms since he was a lad first come to Camelot as an apprentice, and being so far away made him uneasy. He lay on his back and stared up at the beams crisscrossing his chamber, and did not sleep.

He reflected on how Arthur shone in a way that Childebert for sure did not, and how that feast, drab as it was, ranked far superior to tavern fare. That was when the cord slid round his neck.

It was, thank the gods, cool, else Leon might not have noticed it slipping over his collarbone. He twisted, rolling over and pressing his face in the pillow, so that the garrote could not wrap around fully. He knew not to lurch forward.

He heard a curse, and grabbed the cord in his hand, pushing it away from his neck. It sliced into his palm – his sword hand – and Leon swore. But so long as he was breathing—he rolled again, this time falling off the bed and bounding up again to his feet.

His chamber was dark. The fire had been banked, so it was only a faint red glow in the corner. He moved slowly, trying to go around the other side of his bed. His sword was hung on the wall there, with his cloak and his boots.

Someone snatched his hand before he could reach his scabbard. Leon cursed and swung his fist wildly in the darkness.

“Help!” He shouted. But the knights were nowhere near, they had all been given rooms across the castle…a dagger sliced his hip, and it was only luck that it didn’t pierce deep. Leon tried to grab it from his attacker’s hand, and the other man slipped away. “Help!"

The door burst open, so hard that it almost came off the hinges. He could not say who it was that entered, but they carried a torch, and they did not hesitate an instant in pressing it to the man who had spun to thrust his knife at the new combatant.

It was shocking, how quickly the flames took him. Leon shied back, gaping, as the flames engulfed his attacker, roaring over his clothes and his hair. He had never seen a fire move so quick, not even on pyres coated in oil and hay.

“There are more, they’re attacking all the knights.” Merlin shouted over the blaze.

Leon did not bother questioning how Merlin knew. He yanked his shirt and mail over his head, and snatched his sword from the sheath. The hilt was slippery in his hand. They left the first assassin writhing on the floor, still screaming.

“Where are the others?” Leon asked, as they ran.

“I don’t know.” Merlin said. “This fortress is like a maze, I could barely remember my way to find you.”

Leon set his mouth grimly. “Stay close to me.”

Merlin fell behind him as they ran through the dark hallways, trying to find their companions.

The sounds of swords clashing brought them to Gwaine. He was shirtless, and his hair was mussed, and he was hard pressing a shorter man, whose sword was curved peculiarly. For no reason that Leon could understand, the man let out yelp and dropped his weapon. Gwaine’s sword slid in and out of his chest before the blade hit the stone floor.

“They try to kill you too?” Gwaine asked, panting.

“Yes.” Leon said shortly. “Hurry.”

“I can find Elyan’s room,” Gwaine said. Leon followed him as he ran, heading up dizzying steps and strange, cramped, corridors.

Elyan’s door was heavy wood, and it was locked.

“Elyan!” Gwaine shouted. He banged his fist on the door. “Open up!”

There was some muffled noise from the other side. Gwaine cursed and rattled the bolt. “Elyan!”

It was a shock when the door flew open, as if it had never been locked. Leon and Gwaine piled through, blades raised.

“About time you bloody showed up,” Elyan panted. He was by the window, ripped sheets in his hands. “They locked me in, I thought I’d have to climb through the window. How did you get it open?”

“Talent.” Gwaine said. He looked at the floor, where a body lay face-down. “Dead?”

“Tried to chop my head off. Thank the gods I know to with my feet on the pillow in strange houses.” Elyan had already dressed. “Do you have Percival?”

“No.” Gwaine shook his head.

“But—he’s exhausted from the voyage, and he sleeps like a log besides!” Elyan said urgently. Gwaine swore.

“We go together. Gwaine, you lead, you remember the most of the castle. Merlin, stay in the middle, carry the torch,” Leon ordered. Even with Merlin’s torch, the castle was dark, and every shadow loomed like an enemy.

One sprung at them from the shadows. Gwaine twisted, sharp as a whip, and struck out.

“Gods,” Percival slapped his blade away. “It’s me!”

“Oh, good.” Leon breathed a sigh of relief. “We’re all safe.

“Where’s Merlin?”

“Here!” Merlin called, from inside the pack.

“They came for us all?” Percival asked. Leon nodded.

“How did you get out?” Elyan asked.

Percival flushed. “I was on the chamber pot when they came for me, my stomach still doesn’t feel right.”

“That doesn’t—”

“Chamber pots are heavy,” Percival said. “Good for bludgeoning.”

“Now that we’re safe, we flee,” Leon said.

“Flee?” Elyan demanded. “They tried to kill us in our beds! I want to find Childebert and put a sword through his bowels!”

“No!” Leon hissed. “He is their king! If we seek vengeance, we involve ourselves in whatever is wrong in this land, we bring down the wrath of the rest of the nobility! But if we steal some horses and run, and we’re nothing more than guests who vanished in the night.”

“I killed the man who tried to kill me,” Elyan said.

“Then we leave them afraid,” Leon snapped. “We came to this land to find a king, not kill one.”

“And that’s going so well,” Elyan snapped.

“I am ordering this plan,” Leon said furiously. “We return to our rooms, gather our possessions, and go, before anyone realizes we’ve left.”

“And what if they pursue us?”

“They will,” Merlin said. “King Childebert fears that we’ll join his enemies, whoever they are.” Elyan blinked at him. Merlin shrugged. “Servant’s talk. I’ll go and have horses saddled for you by the front gate, and leave it open.”

“Good,” Leon said. “And we go to the other rooms together.”

Merlin passed them the torch and left, hurrying down the steps to find his way out. The others went together to snatch up cloaks and bags of coin. Gwaine let out a low whistle when they came to Leon’s room. “Leave them afraid indeed. How’d you manage that?”

Leon frowned down at the charred corpse by the bedside. “I…didn’t. That was Merlin.”

The silence was not quite comfortable. Leon busied himself dressing.

They made it down to the front gate quickly. Heavy as it was, Merlin had left it open. He was waiting, mounted, with what looked like four fine steeds. They were probably part of the royal party.

“We have to go inland,” Leon said. He mounted with a grunt. His armor concealed the cut from the dagger, but blood was beginning to trickle down his leg, and shifting in the saddle felt worse than being stabbed. Funny, he had scarcely noticed it until now. “No ships will leave until morning, and we need to be long gone.”

“I stole a map,” Merlin called. “We should ride south, that’s the way to get to the Middle Sea.”

“Good.” Leon said. He swallowed.

Merlin frowned. “Are you hurt?”

“We can’t stop. Ride!” Leon clenched his fist on his horse’s reins. The blood was going to ruin the leather, he just knew it. They rode away at a gallop.

Chapter Text

Gaius was not unaccustomed to Camelot’s dungeons. As a healer, he had been there countless times – to bind up a man’s wounds so he could stand upright at his trial, to treat the coughs and aches that developed in those who were confined to the lower cells, even to examine corpses before they were carted away. In more recent years, he’d been there to haul Merlin away and ask the guards what his apprentice had done this time. And Uther had had him thrown in the cells more than once, though he’d always let him out again.

But he had been younger then. Now his whole body ached from lying on a bed of straw, and his frame shook from coughing. He’d been placed, to his gratitude, in one of the higher cells. He could look out at the courtyard by way of a narrow window at the top of the cell, and a warm rectangle of sunlight moved across his cell to mark the hours. He had a pail for his defecations, and regular meals.

He was sure that the many confined in the lower cells were not nearly so lucky. And there were many in those cells. Camelot had not settled lightly to the rule of Morgana Pendragon.

Gaius knew little enough about the situation above ground, but he knew the city was uneasy. In the early days, people had stopped by his window to whisper news to him. A boy from the lower town told him that there was no word of the knights, or the King. A maid crouched low to tell him that someone had hurled a rotten apple at Morgana when she’d last ridden through the lower town to inspect the gates, and that she’d executed five different men for the crime.

The apple suggested hatred indeed. Morgana had sealed the city, and though she’d opened the royal stores, food was still in short supply. Gaius could have cried at the folly of people starving in late summer. Or he might have laughed at what little love opening the royal granaries had gotten the queen. A page told him, speaking quickly and with glee in his eyes, that all the people knew that it had been Arthur who reigned over the bountiful harvests and stored them away, and that this was a gift from their true king, not her.

That had been one of the last pieces of new Gaius heard through his little window. Whatever else she was, Morgana had never been stupid, and she’d eventually put a guard in the lower courtyard. There were two outside his cell as well, as if Gaius was like to pull a sword out of his hair and fight his way out.

And besides the executions had cowed the people, despite their blind faith that Arthur was not dead and that the knights would return. Gaius prayed he would be alive for that day. It would take more than three guards to keep a knight from his cell, and a whole army couldn’t keep Merlin out.

“Oy!” He heard the shout echoing from all the way down the corridor. “This here’s for the physician, keep your filthy hands off it!”

Well. The executions had cowed most of the people. There was yet one person other person as vital to Camelot as Gaius, and who was confident that Morgana would not dare touch her.

Gaius sat up to watch as his only ally stormed down to his cell. Her face, naturally ruddy, was almost bright red from indignation. “Bloody traitors…”

No matter how mad the world went, Audrey the cook had never faltered.

“Audrey.” Gaius moved to the front of his cell. “Good to see you.”

“And you.” She snapped her head around to glare at one of his guards. “Unlock it, I’m not going to hand him his platter through the bars, am I? Stupid Cornishmen, probably couldn’t even tell one end of a sword from the other without help from Camelot’s squires…well? Get the bleeding door open!”

Gaius stepped back as the guard hastened to obey. The first time Audrey had brought him his meal herself, the guards had been loath to open the door for her. She’d threatened to go back to the kitchens and get a rolling pin to bludgeon him round the head with, then said that one old cook wasn’t about to help the old man escape past a legion of guards. Gaius admired people who could employ that sort of logic.

“She’s mad, that woman,” Audrey muttered to him, as she put down his platter and collected the last one. “And she’s afraid.”

“What of?” Gaius asked, his voice barely more than a breath.

“Don’t know. One of my boys was delivering her meals and saw her pacing around her rooms. Looked frantic enough to kill the servant who startled her, so he didn’t stick round to ask what bothered her.” Audrey’s hands were slow as she assembled his cups and his cutlery.

“Any word of Arthur?”

“None by me,” she said. “To you?”

“The court is as ignorant as the people.” Gaius said.

“It won’t stand.” Audrey shook her head. “We put up with Uther at his worst because he was the king by right, even when he was mad. Morgana’s naught but a usurper.”

It was strange to remember that Audrey had lived through Uther’s marriage to Ygraine and its disastrous end, as well as all the darkness that followed. She’d borne the years far better than Gaius. He wondered if when she was a girl, she’d had any more idea of what was to come than Gaius had when he was a boy.

He could not even begin to guess at the answer. Even with his long memory, he couldn’t recall a time when Audrey and her meaty fists hadn’t ruled the kitchens of Camelot. Perhaps the salt and the smoke had preserved her.

“Curb them,” Gaius urged, wishing his wisdom didn’t sound so like cowardice. “You know…”

“Aye, the knights will return. I know.” Audrey scowled at the dirty wall. “Unless she’s burned down the city before they come. Do you know, I used to give that witch extra strawberry in her tarts?”

Gaius wished he could put out a hand, to give some sort of comfort. But they were allies, not friends. Indeed, the first day the head cook of Camelot had come to his cell with food, braying like a donkey at any who tried to stand in her way, Gaius had been able only to gawk.

But every person in Camelot went in fear of the cook, even the royal family. Morgana would never dare touch her.

“What’s taking so long?” One of the guards said into the cell.

“I’ve got oozing boils on my feet from standing in the kitchen all day baking for you lot,” Audrey barked. “Would you like me to show them to you instead?”

The guard shied away from her scowl. Gaius turned his head down to hide a smile.

Audrey pushed herself to her feet with a huff, holding the plates. “Any other words of wisdom?”

Gaius wished he had more, had any message that he could give the people of Camelot to assure them that they were not forgotten, by their healer or by their King, or even some word of thanks for Audrey, that she had stepped in to corral and reassure the commons. He who had advised Uther Pendragon through love and death and worse opened his mouth, and found nothing.

“Physician!” Both of them looked around. It was a man clad in black armor, another of Morgana’s faceless guards. “The Queen orders you attend on her.”

“He’s only just got his meal,” Audrey snapped. “Unless her highness wants to starve him to death, she’d best wait.”

“She requires him now.” The guard loosened his sword in his sheath.

Audrey looked at him with undisguised contempt. “I’ll be feeding the lot of you last winter’s turnips, if this keeps on.”

“Now,” the guard repeated.

“Stupid as they are ugly,” Audrey said. She looked at Gaius, and this time he saw his own weariness reflected in her. “Why does she summon you, Gaius?”

“Her brother is beyond her reach, and she broke her father’s heart long ago,” Gaius said. “I suppose I’m the only one left to triumph over.”

“Those Pendragons always need an audience,” she agreed. “Gods go with you.”

--

The guard was courteous enough that he did not put Gaius to a younger man’s pace, or whack at his ankles with the butt of his spear whenever Gaius lagged. Gaius wondered if he was a decent man under the black armor, then decided that it hardly mattered. One of the knights would kill him. Perhaps even Arthur himself. Or Merlin, if he ever found out that he’d touched Gaius.

The thought made Gaius shy from his own mind. Were times so hard that he’d wish to burden his ward’s heart with more murder?

The doors of the throne room loomed before him soon enough. The Pendragon carved into the oak glared down at them when they opened the doors. Gaius shuffled into the court, his eyes downcast.

“Why, Gaius.” Morgana reclined on the throne. “You don’t look well at all.”

Gaius sank to his knees. “Your highness. I am without my medicines.”

“I doubt it’s your lack of concoctions that weighs on you.” Morgana smiled. “I think you’re just an old man, and you know that your time has come to an end.”

“Do you mean to execute me, your highness?” Gaius asked quietly. He could feel the nobles shifting around them. Their gowns and robes were gaudy compared to the rough thread of his nightshirt.

“Perhaps tomorrow.” Morgana waved a hand. The guard pulled Gaius to his feet. He was rough this time. “Go stand by Agravaine, Gaius. He can teach you how to give good counsel.”

Morgana’s moods towards Agravaine changed daily, Gaius had noted. Once he’d wondered if that could be used, if Agravaine could be provoked into turning against her. But he never would. Without Morgana, Agravaine had nothing. And there was something about Morgana that captured men.

Agravaine’s nose wrinkled as Gaius was placed beside him, and he drew his cloak away. Gaius was too weary to be insulted.

“I have decided to reopen the gates,” Morgana said. The nobility applauded. “None of you may leave. I wish you each to pen a letter to your castellans, or stewards, or whoever holds your lands, and tell them that I am Queen by right, and that they must bow to me. You will tell them to send food to my table, and gold for Camelot’s treasury.” She rose to her feet, and her cold eyes swept the room. “And finally, I want you to tell them that in time, they will have their lords and ladies back. If they feel incited to rebellion, they will have you back in pieces.”

The applause came again, afraid and frantic. Morgana smiled.

“Does anyone have a matter to bring to my attention?” She sat back down. “Any grievance or complaint? I am holding court; you may ask whatever you wish.”

When Arthur held court like this, he had always opened the citadel doors wide, and allowed the denizens of the lower town in as well, to plead for help or for justice as they needed. On Whitsuntide, he opened the doors to all the kingdom. Morgana followed Uther’s pattern, and let only the nobles speak.

Geoffrey, the librarian, stepped forward. He had crowned Morgana twice now. His eyes were empty as he looked up at her. “Your highness, there are messengers from Queen Annis. She had been corresponding with Arthur, and wonders why his letters have stopped.”

Morgana made a disgusted noise. “That traitorous dog. I cannot say I’m surprised she and my brother were consorting.”

“What would you have me tell her?” Geoffrey offered no suggestion himself, Gaius noticed. He could not tell if that was fear, or a quiet defiance. Geoffrey had lasted out Uther as well, by staying in his library whenever Uther was enraged. When they were all young, he had kept a store of apples and bread there, and jested about it.

“Tell her that Arthur is dead, and that the rightful heir has taken the throne.” Morgana waved a hand. “Tell her that I forgive her earlier betrayal, but that I do not forget it. She knows the power of my magic.”

“Your highness.” The woman who stepped forward was young, with straw blonde hair. Her skirts were light blue, and rippled as she sank into a curtsy. Morgana gestured for her to speak. “My lands rest by Queen Annis’ border. Should she attack, they will be hardest hit. I beg leave to write and tell them to make fortification, to better protect your kingdom.”

The lady had been born and raised in court, that much was certain. Morgana’s face was gentle as she looked down on her.

“Sweet girl. I promise you, Annis will not attack.” She raised her voice. “I have not been idle, in these weeks. The lord Helios marches for Camelot as we speak, bringing his hordes to encircle our lands.”

The nobles stirred uneasily, and Gaius searched his memory.

Helios…he had to think back, but he did remember a Helios. He was not a lord of any castle. Helios was the fiercest of the warlords from the south, the invaders who struck Albion every summer. Camelot had so little coastline that Uther had never bothered with him, claiming that he could harry at Camelot’s enemies as much as his barbaric heart desired.

So now he was marching to reinforce Morgana’s troops. He wondered what she’d offered him to make him leave his ships. Moreover, he wondered at what fool had planted the notion in her head. Camelot barely stood the Cornish troops; they would take ill indeed to a plague of southerners. Gaius glanced at Agravaine, but his face was impassive.

“Thank you, my lady.” The woman smiled up at Morgana. It was the falsest coin Gaius had ever laid eyes on. Queen Annis would respond to this invasion with nothing short of rage, no matter how Helios’s men bulked the armies. Besides, she knew Morgana’s nature. No kingdom in Albion was safe.

“Your highness?” This time it was one of Morgana’s own guards. “There is a man here for you.”

“From the lower town?” Morgana asked sharply. “Throw him out.”

“No.” The guard swallowed. Gaius watched his throat bob, and thought sadly of how fragile it looked. “He came from beyond the city.”

“He what?” Morgana rose to her feet like a hurricane unfurling.

“I…” The guard began to shake. “He did not say how he entered or how he knew that the rule had changed, he only came begging an audience…”

“Bring him in.” Morgana’s voice was poison. The guard hurried away. Morgana’s eyes raked the court, but she did not dare ask whether any of them had smuggled a message outside the gates. No one would be foolish enough to confess, and the others would begin to imagine how such a thing might be done.

Gaius was rather impressed at how, by taking power, she had in one stroke united a nobility which had spent the greater part of fifty years squabbling amongst themselves. Now they stood a silent front, strong as a battle line.

“My queen.” The man who entered was…familiar, oddly enough. His hair was raven-black, as was his garb. It was all fur and mail, as if he had come from the far north, and his face was pale as a corpse. His eyes were like dead fish. He sank to one knee before the throne.

“Who are you?” Morgana breathed.

“One who owes you a great debt, and came to repay it.” He raised his head to look up at her. “You saved me once, from Uther’s wrath. I was but a child, yet you hid me in your chambers and tended my wounds, and comforted me as the King chopped off my father’s head.”

“Mordred,” Morgana whispered. “Oh my gods, Mordred.”

Gaius stared at the man, trying to recognize the child in his features. He no longer dressed as a druid. There was even a sword hanging by his side.

Morgana’s head snapped around the room. “Everyone out.”

The nobility left quickly, glad to be gone. Gaius lingered a moment, but Agravaine nodded to a guard, and there was a harsh hand in the center of his back shoving him along. The doors slammed shut behind him.

A sudden pain in his head nearly made his knees buckle. Gaius’s hands leapt up to clutch at his temples as he hunched over, a howl tearing from his lips. The guard started aside, almost dropping his spear. Gaius barely kept on his feet. His nails dug into the creases of skin around his ears. There were things rumbling at him, and cacophonies that blared against his skull, and images, all blurred and bright, dancing across his eyelids.

“Physician?” The guard shook him. “Physician?”

Gaius saw through tears that the guard turned to those watching the door. He said something, yet the other guards shook their heads, waving their spears. Gaius could not determine what the conversation was. He only knew that something was gouging out the backs of his eyes.

The guards had to half carry him back to his cell. Gaius could not move his feet on his own. There was no room for such functions in his mind. All he knew was the clanging of voices and the flares of black and gold.

He scarcely felt it when he was thrown into his cell. He hit the ground hard, and a fierce pain in his shoulder joined the shriek of his head. Gaius rolled like a dying animal, one of his knees colliding with the tray of food, still neatly laid by his straw. It knocked over his cup of water. One of Gaius’s hands landing in the spreading puddle, and he knew.

He rolled to his knees, hunched over and in pain, and put both hands over the water.

The pain flowed from his head to his hands, crashing against his joints on their way down his veins. It went from there to the water and swirled madly, a whirlpool of color on still water, and then it calmed, and it was the throne room.

I have not scryed in twenty years. Gaius thought numbly. And here he was, with an involuntary vision before him. He wondered if Merlin had ever encountered such before. Then he remembered that it was Morgana, not Merlin, who had always had such talent for seeing afar. If this was what she felt each time, no wonder she now saw so many things that were not real.

“I knew that you had taken Camelot,” Mordred was saying. He was not kneeling. He and Morgana sat on the steps before the throne, as if they were equals. Agravaine hovered in the background, a jealous vulture. “None but the druids know, I swear. I only felt a powerful spell rend Albion, and knew that only you could have cast it.”

Morgana smiled. She had laid an affectionate hand on his arm. “Thank you, Mordred. I have need of you. The spell I wrought…” She leaned in. Their heads were dark as they plotted together. “I have taken Arthur’s soul and split it from his body.”

Gaius inhaled sharply. Neither of them made any indication that they had heard.

“Your highness.” Mordred looked shaken. “I had no idea that such enchantments still lived in the world.”

“Only a high priestess could cast it,” Morgana said. “I mean to throw his soul into the fires at the Isle Drake, where the Catha draw their flame. Everything that is Arthur will perish there. All destiny, all spirit, all protection…it will be less than ashes.”

“Your power is great indeed,” Mordred said.

“I have scattered his protectors as well,” Morgana said triumphantly. “The knights will chase his body all over the seas, until his soul burns and his body turns to dust.”

“I am in awe.” Mordred bowed his head.

Morgana gently lifted it, with two fingers beneath his chin. “It is good to have you back with me, Mordred. I need magic around me, and loyalty.”

“I would think that all Camelot would rejoice to see you sit the throne.” Mordred looked confused. It was easy to remember that he was a druid boy, who had been to Camelot only once in his life. “You are the rightful heir, you are wise, you are powerful…”

“Oh, Mordred.” Morgana sighed. “If only all saw it that way. I have so many enemies…” She turned to Agravaine. “You. Fetch it for me.” Agravaine looked at her in bewilderment. Her eyes narrowed. His widened, and his mouth opened, perhaps to object. “Now.”

Agravaine hurried from the throne room, and out of Gaius’s water. Morgana turned her attention back to Mordred. Her fingers were gentle as they brushed his face. “Who is that, my lady?”

“The only ally fate has handed me. And I do not trust him, Mordred.” She lowered her voice. Yet Gaius could still hear, clear as a bell. “I trust no one here. They all conspire against me. Even as we speak, troops move across the land to serve me, but there is no one with a mind, no one with magic.”

“They are afraid,” Mordred said. “They are so used to fearing Camelot, none but I had the courage to come to you. But they will, I promise. Soon the streets of Camelot will ring with the sounds of the magic users returning.” There was faith in his voice, unquestioned faith.

“I hope you are right,” Morgana said softly. “All that I have done, I have done for our people.”

Agravaine returned to the pool. He looked grim, and he held a small box in his hands. It was made of dark wood, and every inch was covered in twisting runes. Gaius had been too long out of magic to read them. Agravaine delicately handed the box to Morgana.

“Look,” Morgana said softly. She opened the box. The contents glowed, brilliant as a sun. As the golden light bathed Mordred’s face, Gaius thought that this boy was better suited to moonlight. “A soul is a bright thing, Mordred.”

“Indeed,” Mordred breathed. His eyes were hungry.

“It must be kept secure until it reaches the fire.” Morgana snapped the box closed. “If it is released, Arthur will flutter around the world until it finds his body, or until he dies and is reborn. I cannot even hide it, or it will burn away the box and break loose. It must go to the fires.” She touched his cheek. “But I cannot go to Isle Drake. My place is ruling Camelot. Agravaine…” She looked at him, and it was well that Agravaine could not see her face. “He has no magic. He could not find the Isle.”

“I…I could do it, if you have no other,” Mordred said hesitantly. “I would rather be at your side, but if you have no other, I would make the journey.”

“Thank you,” Morgana said softly. “I did not know where to turn. The forces of the old religion must have sent you to me.”

“They work in all things, your highness.” Mordred reached for the box.

“Not yet,” Morgana said. “Stay here. Sleep and rest, and eat with me. I will give you better chambers this time.” Mordred laughed. “You can set out at first light.”

“As you command, my Queen.” They both rose, as if to go.

Morgana’s hand went out, and suddenly caught his sleeve. “Mordred?”

“Highness?” He looked at her, puzzled.

“You know far more of the magic folk than I. Do you know of any man named Emrys?”

“I have never heard that name,” Mordred replied. As Morgana led him from the throne room, the vision faded, until Gaius was alone in his cell again, with nothing but a spilled cup and a pounding headache.

--

When Gaius woke up, the guards outside his cell were asleep, and Mordred stood in his locked cell, a ball of fire in one hand. Gaius sat up slowly, blinking against the light.

“Is Emrys with the knights?” Mordred asked urgently.

“Then you do know him,” Gaius said. His wits felt sluggish.

“We all know Emrys.” Mordred said. He crouched down so he and Gaius were of a level. “I grew up on stories of him, and I have heard even more since I last met him.” He shivered. “I need to find him, so I can give Emrys the soul.”

“Why?” Gaius asked.

“I don’t know how to reunite it with the king’s body,” Mordred said urgently. “But Emrys could do it.”

Gaius winced in pain as he tried to change his position. His shoulder still burned where he’d fallen on it.

“Here.” Mordred reached out. His hand was gentle on Gaius’s shoulder. Gaius did not hear the word he murmured, but the pain dissipated. Gaius blinked at him. “I have not forgotten the ways of my people. I know that magic should be used to heal.” He hesitated. “I fear I have not always used it thus, but I have not forgotten.”

“Thank you,” Gaius said. “Was that you, earlier? The vision?”

“I hope I didn’t hurt you.” Mordred said. “I know that Emrys trusted your counsel, and thought a vision would be the best way to share her plans with you. I didn’t think until after that you might not be used to the magic.”

“I don’t know how to find him,” Gaius said softly.

“You don’t trust me.” Mordred looked down. “I will find him on my own, then. He shines like a beacon for those who follow the old religion. If Morgana wasn’t Pendragon-blind, she’d see it too.” He shook his head. “Asking me who Emrys is…as if any of us would ever dream of betraying him.”

Gods, the idealism of young men. Gaius couldn’t say if he wanted to laugh or cry. “No, boy—truly, I don’t know where Merlin is. He and the knights left Camelot looking for Arthur, and I haven’t heard from them since. They thought he had been kidnapped, none of us dreamed Morgana would employ such magic.”

“It is ancient,” Mordred agreed. His face twisted. “I didn’t think anyone still lived who would dare to teach such practices.”

Gaius had known a few magicians reckless enough to study such rites, before the Purge. But no one who would dream of actually using those spells, let alone on the king of Camelot. “I don’t know how Morgana found the magic, or why. But she must be stopped.”

“I know,” Mordred said. “I’ll take the box, and guard it. Perhaps Emrys will find me before I find him.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you for your counsel, Gaius.” He hesitated. “Before I leave—I could help you, take you from the city. I can bring you to safety.”

“No,” Gaius said. “Someone must stay in Camelot. Find Merlin, bring him back.”

Mordred nodded. He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Gaius said suddenly. “The cook, Audrey. Go to her, she’ll give you supplies for your journey, and she’ll know better what the people need.”

The look Mordred shot him was puzzled, but he nodded in compliance. Gaius settled back against the cell as Mordred left, murmuring a spell to lock the cell again behind him. In his heart, he prayed to the old gods that the boy would find Merlin quickly.