The Mage's Restoration

by Antares8

Summary:

At long last, it's time to end the Purge across all of Albion, but not everyone is thrilled by the thought of magic's return.

Chapter 1: Dawn

Summary:

A time for new beginnings, an explanation of where they are now.

Chapter I: Dawn

The crowd parted for the young man easily. A few inclined their heads in a gesture of respect. He still wanted to wince away from the deference, but months of becoming accustomed to it (and quite a few hard-earned leadership lessons) made him accept the nods with a smile and a nod of his own. He understood why they treated him this way, even if he still didn't like it and probably never would. For in a land of myth and a time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom rested on the shoulders of that young man. His name: Merlin.

It was a mid-spring day, uncommonly warm and sunny, the sort of weather that made people feel that anything was possible. Wispy clouds streaked the highest reaches of the sky, while great white puffs floated lower to the ground. It had rained the night before, leaving the air crisp and clean and rich with the scent of growth.

A year ago, before Merlin had first come to Listeneise, the land had been barren save for a few scraggly weeds sprouting up among the rotting shells of houses. Now, though, patches of moss dappled the worn cobblestones, and bright flowers bloomed in sunnier places. A few of the surviving houses—the more dilapidated buildings had been torn down for repairs and firewood—even had slender fingers of ivy creeping up their south sides.

More life sprouted in the distant fields. From this far away, the rows of crops were nothing but a faint green fuzz. Beyond the cultivated ground, green and brown and black and gray blurred together. Listeneise was coming back to life, but it would take time for the greenery to reclaim its long-lost territory. One day, the uncultivated land would host fields and forests, but for now, it remained half-barren.

Normally, those fields would be full of workers, but that day, they were empty of life. All the inhabitants of reborn Corbenic were gathered in a half-circle around the day's speakers. They were druids and farmers, healers and merchants, magical and not. They might be a bit thin still from the long winter, but Merlin was proud to say that not one of them had died since they'd arrived here from Gedref. Even the Amatans rescued from Sarrum's Great Oubliette were healthy and excited.

The warlock passed through them to join the center of attention.

Hunith Caledonensis held her infant daughter in her arms. Little Ganieda was something of a mascot for the exiles, but this was not her day. Every eye was fixed on her father, the Dragonlord Balinor, who clutched a massive white egg. Behind them loomed the vast golden bulk of Kilgharrah, and Wyrmbasu the red wyvern sunned himself on a nearby rooftop.

Merlin turned to face the crowd, then stopped. Morgana had taken up speechcraft over the winter, a direct outgrowth of her endless letter-writing, and she'd written something for her beau to say. Merlin thought it would be more appropriate for Balinor or Kilgharrah to speak, but they'd ceded the responsibility to him. After all, he was the one who had retrieved this egg from an ancient tomb, the one who had healed the land in which the infant dragon would grow to adulthood.

"Today is a day of hope and triumph," Merlin told the assembled people. "It's been twenty years and more since this world was safe enough to call forth a new dragon, but now, our triumph is on the horizon. Finally, finally, our efforts are bearing fruit. Finally, finally, it actually feels like the end of our long nightmare is in sight.

"We know, of course, that it isn't technically over yet… but soon, it will be. Three days from now, the Once and Future King will officially begin the Grand Conference of the Kingdoms that will officially set us free. Every reigning monarch in Albion will come to Camelot, and they'll negotiate a new codex for bringing us back. Within just a few weeks, magic will be legal again across the entire island!"

Cheers erupted from the crowd, loud as a dragon's roar. Merlin waited for them to die down, grinning all the while (except when he glanced back to make sure that Ganieda wasn't frightened by the noise, but she was as calm as ever). "I know, I know," he laughed, departing a little from the script. "I'm excited too." Morgana shot him an exaggerated glare, too glad herself for anything with real vitriol, and he obediently went back to her speech.

"Once again, dragons can live freely and safely, and so can we. Once again, we can walk through the streets of the kingdoms without fear of attack or persecution. Once again, we can hold high our heads without having to hide a key aspect of our identities. Once again, we can speak to our friends and families without fearing that they, too, will be condemned by that mere association. All we have to do is wait just a few more weeks, and the sun will shine upon us all."

More applause and cheering, because there's some unwritten code that says people have to cheer every few sentences in a speech. This time, Merlin backed away, allowing Balinor to take center stage. He placed the egg on a wooden pedestal and began to speak.

"Twenty-five years have passed since the last hatching," the Dragonlord announced. "That was before the Purge, and no one who attended could guess at what lay ahead. Then the Slaughter began, and the Twin Genocide against my peoples, and we all thought that the dragons would never fly again. Now, though, as my son said, we stand before the dawn. Therefore I name this hatchling Aithusa, for the light of the sun."

No applause met Balinor's pronunciation, just a breathless silence. As one, the audience leaned forward, straining to watch as the first slender cracks spiderwebbed across the surface of the egg. Then a bulge, so small that Merlin could barely make it out, something pressing against the eggshell from within. Another push, and the first fragment fell away. More cracks, more pushes, and then he could see a tiny pale shape within. Then the last great wall of eggshell fell away, revealing the tiny, perfect form of an infant dragon.

Ganieda cooed, clapping her hands together in delight. The little dragon shook herself, her wings opening like miniature sails. She looked around with an air of curiosity, skimming over the thrilled humans and redolent wyvern until she noticed Kilgharrah. The young dragon stretched out her slim neck toward the older, and he leaned over until their snouts almost touched. Countless emotions gleamed in the great golden dragon's eyes.

After an infinite stretched-out moment, Kilgharrah drew back, straightened his neck. "A white dragon… is indeed a rare thing, and fitting for one named after the light of the sun." He smiled. "No dragon birth is without meaning. Sometimes that meaning is hard to see, but this time, I believe, it is clear. The white dragon bodes well for Albion, for the kingdom being built before our very eyes."

The crowd went berserk, shouting and applauding with such force and vigor that Aithusa squeaked and nearly fell off her little pedestal. Balinor caught her back up in his arms. Ganieda whined, making little grabby motions. Chuckling softly, Hunith brought her over to Balinor and the other baby. Ganieda patted Aithusa's snout with surprising gentleness for a child of less than eight months. The dragon trilled, leaning forward for more affectionate touches.

Merlin wondered if it was possible for someone's heart to melt. Gaius would have told him if that was possible, right?

"Just think," Hunith said to him, very softly. "By the time they grow up, the world will be a different place entirely."

"A better place," Merlin agreed. Ganieda and Aithusa would never know the pain and fear he had experienced as a child. For them, the Purge would be nothing but a story.

Gods, that thought made him happy.

"Oh, yes. A much better place indeed."

---

It had been a long, cold winter, made colder and longer still by how they'd had to struggle to survive. Without a preexisting food supply, the refugees in Listeneise had been forced to tend the fields every day, encouraging winter crops to grow under less-than-ideal conditions. They'd relied heavily on fish, with crews casting off every morning in cobbled-together boats which would have broken apart without a steady influx of magic and prayers.

Fuel, too, had been scarce. While they occasionally sent out parties to gather deadwood and other vital supplies, their main source of burnable material had been the crumbling ancient houses that comprised so much of Corbenic, Listeneise's no-longer-deserted capital. The refugees had never had to resort to burning dried dung, but they'd all worn multiple layers and slept under as many blankets as possible for months.

Their magic had saved them from scarcity. It couldn't conjure food, but almost every spellbinder could call up flame without fuel, even if only for a few minutes. More importantly, they could keep the less hardy plants alive. Merlin must have learned thirty or forty spells to protect plants against cold, freezes, hail, and/or raging wind. He'd never known that agricultural spells comprised such a big branch of magic, though of course it made sense that something so important would have inspired a lot of research and experimentation. He was already considering applications for after magic was free.

("Say, Arthur, have you had Geoffrey look over crop yields?"

"Not yet, but it's on his list of things to do. I don't doubt that banishing magic drastically decreased Camelot's food supply.")

But though the refugees depended mostly on the land and seas for food and shelter and fuel, they hadn't been able to fulfill all their needs with just their surroundings. A band of druids came by every few weeks with supplies, and Merlin and Morgana had managed to finagle secret agreements with two kingdoms. Arthur made arrangements to secret food away—never enough to be suspicious, but enough to keep the small colony's bellies full.

The other kingdom was Amata. Once the seat of Sarrum, who despised magic even more than Uther, it had recently been claimed by the tyrant's only surviving son, Claudin Ua Cleirigh. Claudin's vile uncle, Sarrum's brother Clovis, had promptly declared his nephew an unfit ruler and revolted. While Claudin could, eventually, have won on his own, the King of Amata was smart enough to realize that magical help on the side would save time, resources, and lives. He'd reached out to Arthur, who had asked his contacts if they would be willing to help Sarrum's son. They were, and Claudin repaid the clandestine magical assistance with supplies. He'd even procured a bit of jam for the solstice, which had done a great deal to endear him to the more suspicious refugees.

("Good thing you exiled Cenred. He might have joined Clovis, and then we'd really have been in a pickle."

"Would he, though?" Gwen wondered. "He seems more cunning than that."

"You'll be in the Orkneys this spring, right?" Morgana asked. "Maybe you can ask him then."

"I'm honestly not sure if I'll end up in the Orkneys or just go directly to Loth in Essetir. I suppose it depends on how long my other missions last.")

But the winter hadn't all been strain and anxiety about food and war and secret deals. For the first time in his life, Merlin had been able to learn magic openly, without fearing that a guard would burst in on him and Gaius or that a hunter would overhear him and Blaise. He learned from all sorts of sources, soaking up the knowledge like a thirsty sponge.

Blaise, his old druid tutor, continued to teach him a broad variety of general-use spells, things like repairing shoes and cleansing water and erasing tracks. Morgana would join them, sometimes, for simpler spells, and Merlin had just started the very basics of shapeshifting. Morgause had a wealth of knowledge about higher-level spells, many of which Merlin didn't actually want to learn because they felt… morally incompatible with his values, but also about magical theory. From her, he learned why spells worked. Alator and his Catha helped Merlin practice combat magic, drilling with him to ensure that he could use the spells at a moment's notice. They also, upon learning he'd briefly been trained in the use of a quarterstaff, insisted on making him practice that again. That had been… interesting, especially at first. Brisen of the druids rounded out his education with her emphasis on healing magic, a topic that always made him think of Gaius. The old physician's training had ensured that he didn't need much remedial education about anatomy, injury, and disease, although he'd never gone in-depth with actual spells.

While these four were Merlin's main magical tutors, other residents chipped in here and there. Balinor and Kilgharrah had a wealth of dragon-lore. Anhora sometimes tagged along with Blaise and gave a lesson about illusion or magical creatures. Plenty of spellbinders wanted to pass on their favorite cantrips to the famous Emrys. Sometimes, the spell was as simple and silly as adding bubbles to wine; Merlin learned it, loved it, anyways.

(Besides, Ganieda loved the bubble spell.)

There were also his leadership lessons from Morgause, Alator, his parents, and occasionally a visiting druid chieftain, but Merlin viewed those as more duty than pleasure. Learning magic was a joy, plain and simple. The more he learned, the more he felt like himself.

("Do you ever feel that way, Morgana?"

"Sometimes, but I think it's different for you."

"You're learning really quickly, too, you know. Everyone says so, and even if they didn't, I could see it for myself. You're good at magic, Morgana."

"You're sweet, Merlin."

"My greatest secret. Don't tell Arthur.")

Twice a week, Merlin and Morgana would step into the dream-world to speak with Arthur and Gwen. Some of their meetings were business, but some were just to check in, to talk together, to enjoy the presence of their absent friends while filling each other in on what they'd been doing. The other three had been just as busy as Merlin.

Morgana had dedicated the last few months to three things: honing her magic, writing letters to virtually every nobleman she'd ever met (not to mention several she had not), and, eventually, drafting speeches. She'd produced several for Arthur to use at various points in the Grand Conference of the Kingdoms, so many that he'd nearly refused to accept more.

The witch might have lacked Merlin's raw natural affinity for all things magical, but her knowledge and power had nonetheless grown by leaps and bounds. Less than a year ago, she'd been unable to cast a single spell; now, she was on the brink of learning to teleport, the goal she'd set herself at the start of the year.

("See, Morgana? I told you you're brilliant!")

Arthur had, of course, spent his winter in the great citadel in Camelot, establishing his reign. Being a king was busy work. There were petitions to hear, court cases to conduct, laws to research, laws to draft, laws to edit, spoiled lordlings to placate, guilds to hire, problems to mediate, and, of course, endless reams of paperwork. Vast and horrifying amounts of paperwork that he swore existed just to torment him. Sometimes, he struggled to fit in his daily training with the knights.

("Speaking of swords, when are you getting Excalibur back to me?"

"…We were thinking right around the start of the conference."

"What are you not telling me?"

"We may or may not have asked Morgause to plan the return."

"Morgause? Are you mad?"

"Don't worry, she promised no serkets!"

"That does not reassure me, Merlin!")

He spent surprisingly little time on making magic legal again, preferring to have Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth and his assistant, Lady Blanchefleur, draw up the vast majority of the legal code for his approval. He did, however, keep a close eye on their work, and frequently consulted the old law books to see how things had been before the Purge. Nor did he need to spend many hours on planning for the conference, putting it off until just a couple weeks ago.

Arthur's main contribution to returning magic lay in his twice-monthly general assemblies with the people of Camelot. The meetings began with Gaius (or occasionally Geoffrey) delivering a brief lecture about some facet of magic, then blossomed into a public discussion mediated by the king. They could share their own stories, voice their concerns, even argue with each other. As he put it, he needed to make clear to all his people that their king was not abandoning them, and also that he wasn't a brainwashed slave.

("I understand that you have to convince them I'm not controlling you like a puppet. I really do. But do you really have to tell them all those embarrassing stories about me?"

"Yes. Yes, I do.")

Now that Arthur was scrambling to finalize the details for his conference, Merlin took a great deal of glee in pointing out that he wouldn't be in this situation if he'd spent his time preparing rather than telling everyone about the time he got distracted and walked straight into the wall. Arthur just grumbled at him to shut up.

The real legwork—literally—for restoring magic had been turned over to Gwen, newly minted lady and ambassador extraordinaire. She'd spent the winter traveling to almost every kingdom in Albion, encouraging every monarch she met to rewrite their treaty with Camelot to remove the pacts of mutual aggression against any nation which left magic legal. Those clauses had been instrumental in spreading the Purge beyond Camelot; their erasure would be just as instrumental in ending the Slaughter for good.

It hadn't been easy. It wouldn't have been easy for the noble scion of an ancient house, much less a promoted peasant—and by the time Gwen left Olaf's kingdom, Dyffed, word had spread of her peasant roots. King Bors of Ganis had gone so far as to arrest her and her retinue before he'd sent a messenger off to Camelot warning Arthur of the impostor trying to rework the pacts between their lands.

("They've arrested you!" Arthur had yelled, jerking upright.

"It's not nearly as bad as you think."

"It's not—they arrested you!"

"Do you want me to break you out?" Merlin asked.

"No, no, he's sent someone to Camelot. We'll just have to wait a fortnight or so until Arthur can confirm that we're real. Send someone with a fast horse, please. I'm worried about Gilli and especially Sefa. This is something of a nightmare come true for them."

Merlin had ended up visiting the two spellbinders, reminding them that Gwen had an amulet with which to summon him in an instant. That helped, as did Gwen's stubborn cheer and unexpected-but-not-really ability to befriend the guards.)

To his credit, Bors had been very apologetic after the misunderstanding had been cleared up. He'd even written ahead to his sister-in-law, Queen Evaine of Benwick, assuring her that Lady Guinevere's unconventional selection did in fact come from Arthur. Still, Gwen and her retinue had been glad to leave Ganis.

That was far from the only problem caused by Gwen's roots. She'd faced quiet derision and not-so-quiet scorn. Some monarchs had put her in their lowliest apartments, the ones that normally weren't used until all the others were occupied, or they'd not give a feast in honor of her arrival. But each kingdom that acknowledged Guinevere as a lady added legitimacy to her position, as did every reworked treaty she sent off for Arthur's records. It didn't hurt that Tristan and Isolde had taken to dueling—and trouncing—any knight who got too obnoxious.

("I could curse them for you, you know."

"As much as I appreciate the offer, Merlin, I have to decline. International relations, you know. Right, Arthur?"

"Actually, this is one of the rare times when Merlin's right. What kind of curses were you thinking about?"

"Arthur!")

By the time of Aithusa's hatching, Gwen had just finished her task in Essetir, at the newly restored court of King Loth. While Essetir's last king, Cenred, had already altered his land's treaty with Camelot, Loth had had no reason to honor that contract. He'd signed the original treaty with Uther twenty years ago, before the King of Camelot had ousted him and chased his family to the Orkneys. Cenred had been the son of the usurper king to whom Uther had granted the newly conquered Essetir.

("Wait, that was you at Carmarthen?"

"Yes. That was a bad few days."

"Does this mean that Hunith started the riot?"

"Obviously. What else was she supposed to do?")

Essetir's complicated political history made it something of a wild card. Loth had no reason to uphold a treaty with someone who'd kicked him off his throne, but he also had no reason to let himself be bound by Cenred's word. He also retained his claim to the Orkneys, and his not-quite-disowned grandson served Arthur as a knight.

Gwen had gone in expecting a labyrinthine nightmare, but Loth had cut the Gordian Knot with a few simple sentences: "There isn't much point in being king of the only two kingdoms who'd go to war against magic. I just regained this throne. I'll not lose it again. Still, I expect compensation for Camelot's crimes."

That was a whole other kettle of fish, and it was enough to keep them occupied for a good long while. Gwen would be accompanying Essetir's restored royal family on their journey to the Great Conference.

All in all, Merlin reflected, it had been a good winter. Hard, but they'd gotten so near their goal that he could almost taste it.

The spring and summer would be even better.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which DRAGONS!"

Next chapter: May 6. People start arriving in Camelot.

I don't own this franchise, and this disclaimer applies to the entire fic.

Nerd time! In Arthurian legend, the father of King Claudin was named Claudas, so I obviously couldn't give the uncle that name. However, Wikipedia tells me that the mythical Claudas might have been partly based on the historical Frankish kings Clodio and Clovis I. I like to tie the myths in when I can, so Clovis it was.

Where is Rience, you might ask? Well, rats always survive a sinking ship. That's all I'll say for now.

See you soon, friends!

Chapter 2: The Arrivals from Essetir

Summary:

Gwen comes home.

Chapter II: The Arrivals from Essetir

It felt like years and years since Gwen had last laid eyes on Camelot.

This feeling was erroneous for two reasons. First, she'd only fled her home late last summer, when Uther ordered her executed, returning only to recruit Tristan and Isolde as her guards. (While she'd been back, briefly, for Arthur's coronation, visitation had taken place in just the throne room. It didn't count.) Second, she'd repeatedly seen the citadel's pale walls and high-turreted castle in Morgana's dream-world. It had been there for three weeks, now, looming over the four of them like a promise unfulfilled. Not even Morgana had been able to go through the gates (she tried at least once per meeting), but whenever they got close enough, they could hear the murmur of conversation, the harshness of shouts, the roar of cheers.

Gwen greatly preferred the citadel to the other omens that had manifested in her friend's prophetic dreams. They all knew—or at least they thought they did—what Camelot's appearance meant. It was the site of the Great Conference of the Kingdoms, the place to which they would all go. The place where they would finally meet again in the waking world, not just the strange land of dreams.

The other omens were more mysterious and less heartening. A snare woven of multicolored threads. A scroll striking the ground, setting the grass on fire. A man in a lion mask with strings tied around his limbs. (Morgana was convinced that there was some connection between the masked man and the snare. She was probably right; the strings looked similar enough.) Golden leaves blowing in the wind, some landing in irregular piles. A great circular table.

There was also a familiar sword sticking out of a rock, which Merlin and Morgana insisted was nothing to worry about. Arthur had not been pleased to discover that his warlock had stuck Excalibur into a stone for 'safekeeping,' and he was even less pleased that they'd given Morgause the responsibility of returning it without even explaining to him how she intended to do so. Apparently that would not only 'ruin the surprise,' it would make his reaction less believable and 'damage what we're trying to accomplish with this stunt.' They hadn't told Gwen either, assuring her that she'd be back in Camelot for Excalibur's return. They wanted as many witnesses as possible.

Upon hearing this, Arthur and Gwen had exchanged looks of utmost horror and silently vowed to put a stop to it. Alas, they'd had no success so far. They had, however, heard a wide variety of rumors cropping up in the waking world concerning a sword in a stone. Its appearance signaled the dawn of an age of prosperity, it could only be drawn by the long-prophesied ruler of Albion, it had been crafted by the gods themselves from the heart of a fallen star. That sort of thing.

But that afternoon, riding back to her home among King Loth's retinue, Gwen wasn't thinking about the dream-world or the facsimile of Camelot that it contained. She was craning her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of more than pale walls, but the trees blocked her view.

"Homesick, are we?"

Gwyar and her daughter Clarissant occupied a strange space in the Essetiri party. Though Gwyar was Loth's daughter, she wasn't considered a princess in the same way as, say, Mithian of Nemeth. She'd nearly been disowned after refusing to remarry as part of a scheme to regain the Essetiri throne. Only the interference of her brother Lot had kept her in the family, and a bitter chill had descended between Loth and his daughter's line. When Loth had returned to his ancestral homeland, Gwyar and Clarissant had remained behind in the Orkneys, control of which Loth had granted to Lot's younger son Gareth. The party from the Orkneys had arrived in Essetir two days before their departure to Camelot, and Gwyar and Clarissant had spent much of that time avoiding their kin.

They didn't avoid Gwen, though. Quite the opposite. She'd seen Gwyar's other child, Gwaine, more recently than either disgraced princess. They'd listened to Gwen's stories about his adventures in Camelot, Gwyar with worried silence, Clarissant with rude commentary.

"Yes," Gwen admitted. "I know that it hasn't been long, but it feels as though it has. Does that make any sense?"

Gwyar nodded, her dark curls swaying. "Like when you're very tired and can't go to bed for another hour."

"Something like that, yes. Before this, I'd only left Camelot—the city, that is—a few times, and only for a few days. I'd only left the kingdom once. It feels strange to return."

"And when you return, everything will somehow be both the same and different."

"I know it will be different," Gwen admitted. "Better. Remember, I left at the height of Uther's reign of terror. By now, King Arthur has restored peace and order."

"Not for long," interjected the ever-pessimistic Clarissant. "It's easier to destroy than to create, easier to stoke a fire than to put it out. Takes longer, too."

"As long as no one is being hunted down and murdered in the streets, Camelot is in better condition now than when I left it."

"I suppose," Clarissant allowed.

"I think I see a pennant," Gwyar exclaimed, standing in her stirrups. Gwen followed suit, and sure enough, she could make out flashes of red and gold flashing in the breeze.

Almost home.

The next hour dragged on like a snail. Possibly a drunken snail, assuming that snails could become drunk. But then they were rounding the last curve, and then they were at the gates. The red-cloaked guard kept shooting surreptitious glances at Gwen (and less surreptitious glances at Isolde, who ignored them with the ease of long practice), but he let their party through without issue. Her horse took a step, another step, a third, and then Gwen was within the city walls.

Four knights waited for them beyond the gate. Percival, Lancelot, Leon, and Elyan sat astride matching warhorses, resplendent in their armor and cloaks. Gwaine was conspicuously (at least to Gwen, who knew that he spent most of his time with this group) absent. Arthur must have decided to not risk an altercation the moment they arrived.

Gwyar sighed quietly. Clarissant muttered something under her breath. Gwen beamed at her brother, who beamed right back at her as Leon gave the standard welcoming speech, which Loth listened to with badly concealed impatience.

To no one's surprise, Elyan fell into step beside his sister. "Gods, it's good to see you again," he laughed.

"You too."

"I beg your pardon, Sir Knight," Gwyar interrupted, "but do you know my son, Sir Gwaine?"

"Yes." Elyan lowered his voice. "King Arthur wanted to let you reunite with him in private."

Gwyar glowed. "How kind of him."

"He's a good man."

"Yes, Lady Guinevere made that very clear. I take it that you're her brother, Sir Elyan?"

"That I am." He gave a little bow from horseback. "You're Gwaine's mother, Princess Gwyar?"

"Just a lady, I'm afraid, but yes. I am Gwyar."

"Gwaine wasn't exaggerating when he said his family all looked the same. You look very much like him."

They kept up their small talk all the way to the castle. Arthur was waiting for them at the door, a bit stiff from stress but more handsome than ever. He caught Gwen's eye and smiled; she grinned back. Then the king launched into another little speech about strengthening their kingdoms and the bonds between them, improving the lives of their subjects, and other things like that. A pair of servants came forward to lead everyone to their chambers, and a third led Gwyar (almost vibrating with excitement) and Clarissant (significantly less excited) away to reunite with Gwaine. Gwen silently wished them—not to mention the rogue knight—luck.

Gwen would be staying in the castle for security reasons. She would really rather stay in her own home, but that left her too vulnerable to the inevitable backlash, so she and her retinue would be staying in a small suite here in the Pendragon fortress.

The servant leading Gwen's group was one she recognized. The former maid smiled. "Niclas! How lovely to see you again."

Niclas's shoulders went rigid. For a moment, Gwen thought that she'd gotten his name wrong. She and possibly-Niclas had been acquaintances more than friends, exchanging brief greetings in the hallways but not much else. How utterly mortifying.

"Lady Guinevere," the servant said stiffly. "Thank you." A moment's hesitation, then, "I am flattered that you remember me."

"As well as I remember anyone," Gwen replied, still not entirely certain if this fellow's name was Niclas or not. "Well, anyone at our level of acquaintanceship, at least." She wracked her brain for more details. "You have a sister working in the kitchens, don't you?"

"Yes, my lady."

A gulf stretched between them, a distance imposed by status and made worse by unfamiliarity. Servants weren't meant to be friendly and familiar with the nobility, and they certainly weren't meant to become ladies. Then there was the bit where Gwen was dear friends with the two most notorious spellbinders in Camelot and sometimes suspected of having her own magic. No wonder Niclas was so uncomfortable.

"Oh," replied Gwen, her voice small, more because the silence was getting awkward than anything else. "Well—I'm glad to see you're doing well, and I hope your sister is too."

"Thank you, my lady." They'd reached their destination. With an air of relief, Niclas announced, "Your chambers."

"Thank you, Niclas."

"You're welcome." With that, he walked away as quickly as possible.

---

This was the third supper feast they'd had in a row, and it technically honored three kingdoms. First and foremost was Essetir, ancient homeland of Loth's house. Second was the Orkney Islands, whose crown Loth retained and which were being ruled over by his absent grandson Gareth. Third was Amata, whose young king had just emerged victorious from a civil war.

Protocol dictated that if two kings arrived on the same day, the senior monarch was to sit at the host's right hand, with the junior at his left. Thankfully, Claudin was mild-mannered and difficult to offend, a stark contrast to prickly, (justifiably) paranoid old Loth, who enjoyed making passive-aggressive comments about the time Uther had invaded his kingdom. Thankfully for Arthur, Rhodor of Nemeth and Caerleon of Caerleon (he still had no idea why the man's parents had given their heir the same name as his future kingdom. Truly, it was a mystery for the ages) were also at the high table, holding yet another loud, laughter-filled conversation about their shared grandson. This, combined with Claudin's carefully timed courtesies and observations, kept Loth's grumblings to a minimum.

Tomorrow, barring unfortunate weather or some other emergency, would see the arrival of not just two but five reigning monarchs (and their families, and their retinues, and their horses): Bors of Ganis, Evaine of Benwick, Bayard of Mercia, Godwin of Gawant, and Alined of Deorham. If Arthur was lucky, one or two of them would arrive in the morning so that he could fête them at lunch instead of supper, but he didn't trust his luck.

Despite Loth's quiet dislike, that evening's feast was reasonably enjoyable. Still, Arthur would rather not have been there, and he wished that it wouldn't last so long. Guinevere had come home, and he wanted to see her.

Naturally, the feast dragged on forever. When it finally ended, Arthur said his goodbyes and fled to the small meeting room that he and his favored knights had slowly taken over.

Guinevere was there, and her retinue, and Arthur's knights, and a casket of something alcoholic and delicious.

Tension drained from his shoulders as he slipped into the room. Gwaine was talking animatedly to a couple that Arthur recognized as Tristan and Isolde, as well as an unfamiliar woman who must be Sefa. Guinevere and a fellow who had to be Gilli were chatting with most of the other knights, while Percival and Blanchefleur watched both groups from the center of the room. His lady's face lit up when she saw him, and Arthur felt his own expression trying to morph into something embarrassingly soppy. He settled for a wide grin that widened further when Guinevere sprang up and dashed into his arms.

(There were at least two people missing from this tableau, but that was unavoidable. They'd be back in Camelot soon enough.)

Tristan raised his mug. The color was high on his cheeks; he'd definitely been hitting the cask. "A toast for the happy couple and their engagement!" Isolde smacked her tankard against his, and they threw back their heads to drink.

The entire room whooped. Even Lancelot, who had once courted Guinevere himself, cheered.

"When are you making the announcement?" Elyan asked when the applause died down. Arthur and Guinevere settled in next to him.

"We haven't actually discussed it," Arthur admitted. He supposed that this was a good a place as any to talk the matter over. "What do you think, Guinevere?"

She refrained from immediately answering, weighing her options. "It seems like a bad idea to announce it during the Conference," she concluded. "There's too much chaos here already, too many things that could go wrong. I don't want to wait long after that, though."

"Maybe wait until your father moves back into the city," Leon suggested. "Give him a day or two to settle."

"Reasonable," Arthur agreed.

"Gwen?" Elyan was alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Arthur turned. His fiancé was covering her mouth with her hands. Her dark eyes were perfect circles. "Guinevere?"

"…I don't think I ever told Dad."

"What?" said Elyan.

"What?" choked Arthur.

"That's not good," Lancelot observed.

"He's right, it is very not much good," Leon agreed.

Guinevere looked ready to start banging her head against the wall. "Oh, gods," she groaned. "I remember thinking that I didn't want to overwhelm him back when I told him that Morgana and I were helping magic—not that he wasn't already overwhelmed, I just didn't want to make it worse—but I remember thinking, 'I can tell him when things settle down,' and then we'd barely gotten to the Isle when it was attacked, and then we were just getting used to Listeneise when I left." She hid her face. "How could I have done something so stupid?"

Arthur patted her on the back. "If it makes you feel better, I forgot to tell the knights until November."

She peeked up through her fingers. "You had the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders," she reminded him.

"And you were fleeing for your life," Arthur retorted.

"As long as you don't just offhandedly mention who you're engaged to right before a daylong series of meeting with half the guild leaders in Camelot, you'll do better than he did," Elyan assured his sister, shooting a brief glare at Arthur. The king rolled his eyes. Even after all these months, his knights still wouldn't let him forget that gaffe. Elyan and Gwaine would probably give him grief about it when they were all old men, and he feared the day Merlin learned of it. "I spent hours trying to figure out if I'd actually heard him right or if I was going mad. You can just… sit Dad down and tell him." A grimace. "And yes, I recognize the irony of me giving you this specific advice. At least Arthur's not—an arse."

Guinevere lowered her hands. "That is what Dad cares about," she stated, each word weighty with a history Arthur had never learned. He could guess, though. Elyan must have fallen in love with an unworthy woman, and Tom had reacted badly when he learned. Perhaps that was why Elyan had left. He'd never gotten the story out of either sibling.

"I know that," Elyan grumbled with the air of someone who very much did not want to continue the discussion. Guinevere inclined her head, gracious as always.

"I think that Tom will respond very reasonably," Leon cut in. "He might need a day or two to adjust, but once the shock wears off, he'll be thrilled you've found someone you can marry."

"I'm more worried he'll be hurt I didn't tell him before," she sighed.

"Blame Hunith," Arthur advised. That had the desired result of startling a laugh out of her. "She's the one who kicked you out of Listeneise before you could tell him."

"I might just have to do that," she chuckled. Then, returning to the original topic, she suggested, "Perhaps we could wait to announce it publicly until Dad's had… let's say three days… to adjust?"

"Three days," Arthur agreed. "Just don't tell Morgana. I've already got something like fifty speeches in my desk, I don't need her writing three more."

"Weren't you supposed to be using them at your public forums?"

"I have." Sort of. He'd memorize portions of them the day before a meeting, then deliver them when the opportunity arose. His sister's writing had improved by leaps and bounds over the season, but she tended to pontificate for longer than Arthur liked (unless one asked her specifically for something short, if Merlin was to be believed. Then again, the warlock had been able to plead that he'd never been trained to memorize speeches like Arthur had). "Most of them are her earlier attempts."

"Ah."

"I'd rather use my own words to announce our engagement."

Guinevere smiled that beautiful smile of hers. "I look forward to it."

"So do I."

"You know what I wish?" blurted Tristan, who had come up behind the couple without anyone noticing (except Percival, but he'd kept mum). "I wish we could see Meleagant's reaction to Lady Guinevere's engagement." He cackled. Isolde and Gilli joined in, and Sefa fought back giggles. Guinevere grimaced.

"Who's Meleagant?" Gwaine demanded.

"A nuisance," Arthur answered sharply. There was a reason he'd never told them about the obnoxious bandit.

"Oh, you shouldn't have said that to him," Lancelot murmured. Sure enough, Gwaine's mischievous smile only widened. He made a do tell sort of gesture at Tristan, who obligingly launched into the ridiculous tale of the Dyffedi highwayman who'd developed a shine for Guinevere. The entire room listened in, with other members of Guinevere's retinue occasionally offering details that the smuggler had forgotten.

The get-together didn't last much longer. They were all tired after a long day of preparations and reunions and travel, and they had several long, exhausting days ahead of them. They needed their sleep and likely couldn't do this again until the Grand Conference was over. Quite frankly, they probably should have gone to bed earlier, instead of sitting around drinking and gossiping. But sometimes, a person needed companionship as much as, more than, base physical requirements. This was one of those times.

Besides, the extra alcohol would help them fall asleep. Sure enough, Arthur was gone as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Gwen Realizes that She Might Have Goofed a Bit"

Next chapter: May 27. An affectionate parody of one of the most common motifs in Arthurian legend. (It's Morgause's idea, and Arthur is not amused.)

Chapter 3: The Procession of the Dead

Summary:

Morgana learns new magic, Gwaine talks with his family, and Arthur is on the verge of a conniption fit.

Chapter III: The Procession of the Dead

She could do this. She'd been working on it for months, learning the theory inside and out, pestering everyone for tips, exercising her magic until she could wield enough for this spell. She'd memorized the words long ago, practiced the pronunciation until she could say them without the faintest hint of access or hesitation.

Bedyrne mec. Astýre mec þanonweard.

"You look so intent, sister."

Morgana startled out of her reverie, shrugged sheepishly at Morgause. The priestess's eyes danced with amusement, though she kept her face blank. "I suppose I am intent. You know how badly I want to be able to teleport."

"That," chuckled Merlin, "and she wants to… attend the show, so to speak… under her own power. Personally, I think that's dangerous."

"Oh?" The witch arched her brow. "And why is that?"

"Because you might be laughing too hard to say the words correctly." His golden eyes sparkled with mirth and anticipation.

Morgause put her hands on her hips. "It's not meant to be funny, you know."

"And it won't be," Merlin assured her, "for the people who don't know what's going on. We, though, will understand what's actually happening, so we can revel in the confusion."

The priestess's lips twitched, but she sniffed, "As long as you're not reveling too much to not do your part."

"I can pause time," Merlin reminded her. "If I need to laugh to the point of collapse, I'll do that and start up again when I can handle it."

"If you do, bring us with you," Morgana ordered.

"I was planning on it. You two let me know if you need to step out."

"We will," Morgana assured him.

"I make no promises," Morgause replied. "Now, Morgana, I believe we were here early for a reason. Are you ready?"

Nerves fluttered in her belly. Her fists clenched, unclenched. She took a deep breath as the words echoed around in her mind.

Bedyrne mec. Astýre mec þanonweard.

She knew this. She could do it.

Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on her destination, picture it in her mind. Gather the magic close. Breathe in, then out, then in again.

Speak the words, release the magic.

"Bedyrne mec. Astýre mec þanonweard!"

The wind picked up. It whirled around her, tossing her hair, whipping at her skirt. Then it plucked her from the ground and whisked her away as easily as a dandelion seed. Moments later—not even the length of a heartbeat—she touched down in the fields, stumbling a little on the uneven furrows. A breath later, Merlin and Morgause joined her.

A smile split Morgana's face. "I did it!" she exulted, dashing into Merlin's arms. Her beau swung her around. They kissed briefly; as always, it filled her with a soft bubbling happiness.

They walked back to the settlement—no need to waste magic when they had perfectly good feet—but not to the exact spot they'd been before. Instead, the trio approached the crumbling castle, passed through one of its better-kept halls, and stepped out into what had once been the courtyard.

In ages past, there had been a garden here; for a long time after the Fisher King's injury, stubborn vines had grown wild over the castle walls, but now, only a few brown scraps remained in places that the wind struggled to reach. The remnants of a shed lingered in a corner, the place where warriors of old had stored their practice equipment before training on the green. Morgana never enjoyed coming here. Sometimes, it looked like nothing more than the ghost of Camelot's future.

It could have been the courtyard of any ancient castle, save for one thing. At the very center of the field stood a great slab of gray stone with a sword thrust deep into its heart. The blade's sides gleamed in stripes of silver and gold. As they approached, Morgana focused on the letters shining on the sword's side. Take me up, this side commanded; Cast me away, the other bade. They came closer still, and now Morgana could read the words carved deep into the stone.

Whosoever draws the sword from this stone is a rightwise destined monarch of all Albion.

Merlin had created that spell himself, weaving it from sheer instinct. The spell had in turn inspired Morgause's brilliant plan to return Excalibur to its rightful owner, the plan that they would enact today, right before the beginning of the Great Conference.

The Conference was scheduled to begin tomorrow. The last five monarchs were due to arrive today. If one assumed that they intended to arrive before sunset, as would be practical for multiple reasons, then everyone would be there to see the show. The mere thought of it made Morgana grin.

This was going to be excellent.

---

Gwaine had forgotten, almost, how annoying his dear sister could be. Not entirely—that would be impossible—but time had definitely softened his memories of her.

Or maybe she was still mad about that time he'd pretended he wanted to marry her off to Cenred. That was fair.

"For the last time," he growled, "they were enchanted swords working against enchanted evil gargoyles. The magic made them extra smashy."

"Smashy isn't a word, dear brother."

"You know what I mean, Glarissant."

That had the desired effect, just as it always did. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth curled downward in a glower, and she hissed, "If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, stop calling me that."

Gwaine resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. Something about his sister always made him feel like an eight-year-old again. "Then you stop going on about the swords and the gargoyles. That's what happened, and I have witnesses who confirm it."

"A sword cutting through rock is ridiculous," Clarissant muttered, but this time her ire was (mostly) at the world rather than at her supposed liar of a brother.

"Magic is ridiculous," Gwaine countered. "Remember that story Grandmother used to tell about the duck spell?"

"How could I forget? But the ability to set an army of ducks on someone has profound strategic advantages."

"No it doesn't."

"Have you ever fought a duck, Gwaine?"

"Yes, actually."

Clarissant pulled up short. "You attacked a duck?"

"He started it! Feathery little b—" He remembered his mother's quiet presence just in time. "—bugger stole my breakfast. But I won."

"One would hope."

"My point is that he was an easy opponent, so there's no point in siccing an army of ducks on someone."

"A single animal is no threat. An army, though? No individual human would stand a chance."

Gwyar recognized the signs and intervened before things could get too heated. "It was good to hear the story directly from you. Lady Guinevere told us what really happened, of course, but you remember details that she doesn't."

Her son nodded.

Gwyar continued, "It must have been terrifying to go up against creatures made of stone and magic while one of the most powerful sorcerers in recorded history was trying to destroy the entire city."

"A little," Gwaine was forced to admit, "but don't forget, the others had my back, and I was too preoccupied with the gargoyles to think much about Sigan and Merlin trying to kill each other. At least once the earthquake stopped."

His relatives exchanged Significant Glances. Gwaine took the bait. "All right, what's wrong?"

"There's something we've been talking about ever since we learned that your king was trying to bring back magic," Gwyar stated, choosing her words carefully. Gwaine waited. His mother continued, "You do realize, I hope, that this… upcoming transition… will not proceed entirely smoothly."

"Yeah, I know that a lot of things will go wrong, but we can get through it."

"Can you?" Clarissant asked. "You can't cut down hatred with a sword, nor fear neither. Perhaps your sorcerer friends can use their magic to make a few people friendlier—no, don't look at me like that, I only said that they can—but I doubt that even Merlin Emrys could convert all of Albion through force alone. This is different."

"It's always easier to destroy than to create," Gwyar confirmed. "Arthur Pendragon might think that this distrust of sorcerers is only twenty years old, but the seeds of hatred were already there when Uther began his Purge. Uther fanned the flames of rage until they grew from half-dead embers into an inferno, but he did not light the fire."

Clarissant took over. Had they rehearsed this? "The people who hate magic have been given free rein to indulge their worst impulses. Do you really think they'll let you take that away without a fight?"

"Of course not," Gwaine scoffed. "We know there's going to be unrest. We know that people will try to keep abusing and killing spellbinders. We're not dumb enough to think that everyone will be happy with this."

His sister folded her arms. "So what's your plan?"

"Keep going. Show everyone that Arthur will treat spellbinders and everyone else equally, that the rest of us aren't losing anything when others are raised up."

Clarissant snorted. "When you've been in a position of power, brother dear, someone else getting their fair share feels like oppression and betrayal. Is your plan truly to just treat everyone nicely until they all hold hands and get along?"

Gwaine glared. Before he could retort, Gwyar interjected, "Your sister is trying to ask how you intend to counter an armed, organized resistance."

"We've talked about it, and we've decided that assassination is a much bigger threat. Arthur's won two wars in the past year."

"No, he hasn't," Clarissant interrupted, "he's won two duels that ended very short wars. That's different."

"Nitpicker."

"And you're a fool if you're not planning for a full-scale rebellion as soon as the new laws are passed. If I had to guess, I'd say that people are hoping that other, more experienced kings will talk Arthur out of his mad plan. That and winter have kept revolt from breaking out so far, but your luck won't hold forever."

"If you'd let me finish talking, I'd have told you some of the other reasons we aren't too worried about full-fledged rebellion."

"Let your brother speak, Clare," Gwyar ordered, cutting off her daughter's inevitable retort. Clarissant grumbled wordlessly but obeyed.

"Thank you, Mother." Gwaine gave her his best grin, to which she was fully immune, before broadening his attention. "The biggest reason we don't fear a revolt is because we have one huge advantage over anyone who tries to sabotage magic's return. Our side has magic, and lots of it. Once magic is legalized, Arthur will have open access to people who can spy on you from afar, teleport, separate entire armies with glowing shields, all sorts of things. Apparently Merlin can pause time. The point is, we'll have magic and the people who hate magic won't. Rebellions by definition are organized, drawn-out affairs. Once a spellbinder with enough power knows about one, he can end it in minutes. Assassinations, though, those are surprises. You can try to predict them, but they're over too quickly for magic to make that much of a difference."

"That makes sense to me," Gwyar said. There was noticeably less tension in the line of her shoulders.

Clarissant, of course, remained unconvinced. "Then how did the Purge happen in the first place?" she demanded. "Uther didn't have magic when he started it, yet he drove magic from his kingdom for over twenty years. Hell, he killed all the dragons. Dragons!"

"Not all the dragons," Gwaine corrected her.

"All the dragons but one, which he could have killed but spared for some incomprehensible reason. The point still stands that he accomplished all those things without sorcerers of his own. If the rebels have half a brain between them, they'll study his success."

Gwaine wagged a finger at her. "Wrong again, sister dear. Uther might not have had his own spellbinders, but the old hypocrite had magic. Lots of magic. Camelot has a huge treasure vault full of deadly thingamajigs and whatsums designed to negate magical advantages. That treasure vault is guarded night and day by some of the finest guards in the kingdom. When the Purge began, all the other nobles had to send their artifacts to Uther, so now Arthur is the only one who has any. That's two huge advantages."

And yet, his obstinate, ridiculous sister remained skeptical. How did she do it? "Didn't Merlin Emrys steal the entire vault last year?"

"He gave the stuff back."

"After successfully stealing it and hiding the theft for gods-know-how-long."

"Again, Merlin has magic. He can pause time and create illusions and put the guards to sleep and a bunch of other stuff. These guys can't do that."

At long last, Clarissant acquiesced with an incline of her head. "I hope you're right."

---

The final welcoming feast was actually going quite well when the incident began. Bors and Evaine had arrived in time for a celebratory luncheon, so dinner only honored three kings. This made seating easier and allowed Arthur to pay sufficient attention to each one of his new guests. He was laughing at one of King Bayard's tales (who knew the man had such a sense of humor?) when a chorus of silvery bells—not the alarm bells that would have indicated a crisis, but smaller, more joyful instruments—began to ring. Conversation quieted just in time for a sharp blast of coronets, followed by the richer, mellower notes of a harp.

Arthur and his guests looked around, seeking the source of the sounds. There were no musicians nearby, nor a single visible instrument. "The hells?" Arthur muttered, utterly baffled.

The doors were closed, but the coronets and harps and bells and a few other, less recognizable things—now playing an ancient song about the courtship of Bruta Pendragon and Innogen, his beloved queen—were loud and clear, like the room was full of invisible instruments. Arthur started to wonder if he should call Merlin. What would he say, though? 'I need you to find the magic bells'?

Then the lights went out, plunging the entire dining hall into unnatural gloom. Shrieks and yelps filled the air, and Arthur fumbled for his amulet.

Something that emitted a soft moonglow light stepped through the eastern door. Its colors were faded, its form translucent, but it was instantly recognizable to everyone in the hall. The Pendragon banner, muted red and subdued gold, followed by another pennant bearing the crest of Queen Innogen's now-extinct house. The banners were followed by spectral knights on transparent horses with flaming eyes, splendidly attired, then by a troupe of remarkably acrobatic dancers.

"Merlin, Merlin, Merlin, get over here," Arthur hissed.

"I'm actually already here," a cheery voice announced in his mind. "Don't worry, this is all completely harmless."

"Are you doing this?" Arthur demanded.

The diners and servants scrambled out of the phantom procession's path. The coronets flourished, and a booming sourceless voice cried, "Hail, hail, Bruta the king and Innogen his bride!"

Two more glowing horses stepped through the door, one appareled in Camelot red-and-gold, the other in Innogen's lavender-and-rose. Another step, and the riders were revealed. A dark beard sprouted from the man's face, a face that Arthur recognized from busts and portraits and even a few old coins. The woman's visage was less familiar, but he knew her, too, from a threadbare tapestry that had hung in the queen's chambers for centuries.

…Come to think of it, this entire scene bore a remarkable resemblance to the event memorialized on that same tapestry.

"Have you been raising the dead, Merlin?" Arthur silently shrieked.

"Of course not," the warlock huffed, like that wasn't a completely reasonable question and Arthur was utterly ridiculous for asking why there were dead people running around. "There's no guarantee that your ancestors would do as we asked. You'd more likely end up with a permanently haunted castle. These are illusions. Now be quiet, I need to concentrate."

"You're the one spending magic so I can talk to you!"

A priest of some sort rode in, his mount adorned with ribbons. (Arthur had always found that part of the tapestry absurd, but it was historically accurate, Geoffrey claimed.) When he spoke, his voice seemed to come not from his mouth but from the entire room all at once. "Hail, hail, Bruta the king and Innogen his bride." He gestured broadly at the crowd. "Come. Follow us!"

More dancers spilled in, and another pair of knights on horseback carrying banners. The first knights reached the western doors, which sprang open at their approach. "Follow us!" they cried in unison. "Follow us, people of Albion!" An impossible wind picked up, as though the world itself wanted them to move.

Arthur stood. "What is going on?" he yelled.

"Follow us!" demanded a great chorus of voices, every illusory figure speaking in eerie unity.

Bruta's horse reared with a whinny. "Follow us, Once and Future King!" he thundered. "Behold the great marvel set aside as a sign of your destiny."

Arthur glared. "How about you bring the marvel here instead of asking me to follow a ghost parade to gods-know-where?"

"That would destroy this hall, Once and Future King. Now come! Follow us!"

The king opened his mouth. He didn't know what he was going to say—something scathing and brilliant, no doubt—but Merlin interrupted, "Just listen to the nice ghost man and play along. Morgause worked really hard on planning this."

"If this is a trap," Arthur threatened the shades (because people had seen him with his mouth open, and he had to say something or look like an idiot), "then I'll—I'll have your graves dug up and your bones thrown into the sea. By a sea serpent's lair."

Scowling, he stepped into line behind the last two knights. The bells clanged as if in celebration.

Arthur's decision to follow the ghosts—or perhaps his threat, or maybe just plain curiosity—inspired a couple of other people to climb to their feet, fall in place behind the procession. Their courage was contagious. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as almost everyone joined in.

They followed the ghost parade through the halls of the castle, past gaping servants and the occasional pile of dropped food, until they entered the courtyard. A sea of gray clouds seethed low in the sky, occasionally crackling with lightning. The spirits arranged themselves in a semicircle.

The dancers stilled their frantic movements. The priest pointed his bony finger towards the sky. "Behold!" he cried, and almost the entire procession vanished before the echoes of his voice had died. The priest alone remained.

Then the clouds split open like a torn seam, pierced by a pillar of light. A chorus of wordless human voices sang a sustained chord, gradually growing louder as something descended from the sky. A massive slab of gray stone with a sword sticking out of it.

"Dear gods," Arthur growled as the rock touched down. The singing ceased, the clouds dispersed, the pillar of light vanished. The entire absurd scene might not have happened, except there was a sword in a stone right in front of dozens of monarchs, nobles, and servants who were supposed to be eating supper right now, and that bloody ghost priest was still there.

"Behold Excalibur, the Dragon Blade!" the priest expounded. "Whosoever draws this sword from this stone is a rightwise destined ruler of Albion! Take it now, if that be your will, Once and Future King, or leave it to be drawn by the People's Queen whom the gods have chosen for you. The choice is yours." Then he, too, was gone.

"I recommend not drawing it," advised Morgana, because of course she was also involved in this nonsense. "Gwen can pull it out right before you announce your engagement."

"I'm going to kill you both," Arthur informed her, too frazzled and irritated to appreciate the part of this scheme which benefited Guinevere. After all, who would go against the will of Bruta and Innogen and the bloody gods themselves? Although with Arthur's luck, the gods would become irate with the spellbinders for claiming to speak with their voice. He could just picture Merlin trying to fight one.

…Merlin couldn't actually fight a god, could he? Not seriously, at least, only like a page trying to defend against a fully trained knight. No, of course his very powerful warlock couldn't take on the gods themselves, and he really needed to stop thinking about this, because it was making him unaccountably uncomfortable.

"Don't worry," Merlin assured his lady, "he'll be much happier and more grateful once the shock, rage, and other negative emotions have worn off. I personally think that this went brilliantly."

"People know that I have magic on my side," Arthur pointed out, exasperated. "They'll figure out it was you lot any moment now."

"Not with an illusion this complex," Morgause answered smugly.

"That won't stop them!"

Sure enough, the stupefaction was beginning to wear off. The onlookers were whispering, murmuring, their voices growing steadily louder.

"The dead have spoken," said someone nearby. "The founder of Camelot returned from the dead!"

Honestly. After Sigan, you'd think that this fellow would sound less enthusiastic about spirits from Camelot's founding.

"I've heard this prophecy," another person declared. That's right; Merlin and his lot had seeded rumors about a sword in a stone all throughout the kingdom, and probably other kingdoms as well. "The People's Queen is supposed to be someone that nobody expects, but she'll help her king create the greatest kingdom this island has ever seen."

Others were conversing, their voices steadily louder, but they were not, Arthur realized with mild despair, raised in anger at the sorcerers who had tried to trick them. Instead, there was a great deal of wonder and awe at the miraculous sign.

"It's been several moments, and it doesn't sound like they've figured it out," Morgana observed gleefully. She was a terrible person. They were all terrible people.

"That's right," Merlin cackled. "How many more moments do you think they need?"

"…Shut up, Merlin."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Morgause Finally Gets the Opportunity to Implement One of Her Plans and Everything Goes Surprisingly Well Because her Scheme is not Evil"

Next chapter: June 17. The Conference begins.

So one of the most common motifs in Arthurian legend is the Procession. Everyone will be minding their own business, feasting away in the castle, and suddenly WHAM! The door bursts open and something really weird comes in. It can be a Questing Beast followed by a full hunting party, a white deer, maidens bearing the Holy Grail, a giant green knight who wants to be decapitated, whatever. It's bizarre, it's magical, it usually kicks off the story(ies). This procession doesn't start off our story, but it's pretty close to the beginning, and I really wanted to do an affectionate spoof of the whole trope because it's so funny to me.

Random question: How many ducks could you fight at once before they overwhelm you by sheer force of numbers? Gwaine and Clarissant need to know. I could probably take... 15-20, maybe? I don't know. I have no idea how powerful ducks can be when angered.

Chapter 4: First Draft

Summary:

The first day of the conference doesn't quite go as planned.

Chapter IV: First Draft

Arthur didn't like this table.

It was a stupid thing to be thinking about, all things considered. This meeting was the most momentous occasion of his kingship so far, the beginning of the negotiations that would free thousands of people and vastly improve the quality of life for everyone in Albion. If he managed this, it would reunite families, allow healers to flourish, cut down on banditry, save hundreds or thousands of lives each year, protect his people against dangerous magical creatures, increase productivity in the fields, and a bunch of other things that would help all of society. He shouldn't be internally grousing about how the long rectangular table made it difficult for people at the ends—himself included, as the host got to sit at the table's head—to hear people on the other side.

A round table would be better, acoustically speaking, he decided. Probably. Maybe something egg-shaped or, say, octagonal would be most efficient. Horseshoes? Except then you'd have people sitting inside the arch whose backs would be to other participants no matter how they turned, which he imagined would be socially uncomfortable. It might be a good shape for feasts, though, if you only allowed people to sit on the outside. Servants would be able to refill glasses so much more quickly if they could stand in the center of an arch rather than scurry along the outside.

Why was he suddenly so obsessed with bloody table shapes? It must be annoyance, he concluded. Certainly not nerves. Still, the last king was getting seated, so he ought to start.

(…Maybe a circle with spikes sticking out, like a sunburst or a mace or a rolled-up hedgehog? No, no, focus.)

Arthur stood. His chair scraped against the stone floor far more loudly than it had any right to. That had the simultaneously fortunate and unfortunate effect of causing every head at the table, even the ones on the other end, to turn to him. Claudin, who as the most junior king was seated at the table's foot, gave him an encouraging smile.

The most senior kings were Loth to his right and Odin to his left. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangement.

"Your Majesties," Arthur began, pitching his voice the way he'd been trained, "I welcome you once more to Camelot and to this Great Conference of the Kingdoms. I have every reason to believe that the matters we discuss today will benefit us all, as well as every citizen of our respective nations.

"Twenty years ago, when my father banned magic, he believed that he was making the most beneficial decision."

"No he didn't," groused Loth. Arthur froze, unbalanced. "Uther pitched it as a way to consolidate our power against a force that none of us could control, but it was very obvious that his main goal was vengeance against that witch who might have killed his wife, the one he picked up in Armorica."

Arthur attempted to reclaim control. "However, the last decades have—"

"What was that witch's name again?" Loth wondered. "Niamh?"

"Nimueh," Arthur ground out. "The last decades have made clear—"

"Yes, her." The old bastard was clearly enjoying himself. "Did anyone ever find out—"

"Stuff it, Loth," interrupted Evaine of Benwick. The old man puffed up like an indignant bullfrog, but she continued, "If Odin and Bayard can behave themselves, then so can you."

"Thank you, Queen Evaine. The last—"

"Why are you even here?" the Essetiri king sneered. "Is it true what they say, that Ban has no—"

"King Loth," Arthur snapped, "if you can't behave, then you may leave until you feel like acting like a king."

Loth glared. Arthur glared back. Finally, with a grumbling noise and dismissive gesture, the senior king looked away.

Good riddance.

"Regardless of my father's motivations for banning magic, the last two decades have thoroughly demonstrated that all Albion is better and stronger when we accept sorcery. The Purge hasn't just killed spellbinders, it has caused harm to all of us. We have fewer healers. Food production has gone down. Bandits are more common. In the last few years, they've grown bold enough to destroy entire villages. My Court Historian, Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth, has compiled more specific numbers. If you look at the first piece of parchment in front of you, you can see these statistics yourself."

A few of the assorted monarchs took a look.

"Legalizing magic will benefit every last one of our kingdoms. That much is plain to see. However, despite rumors that I am a mind-controlled pawn, I am fully aware that we cannot grant spellbinders leave to do whatever they want. Therefore, I am proposing a legal code to govern magic. Essentially, beneficial or harmless spells will be legalized, while harmful acts such as mind control will be outlawed. Crimes committed with magic will be dealt with in the same way as crimes committed without; a man who murders with a spell will be treated like a man who kills with a knife. Restraining these spells is not only sensible, it will demonstrate to those of our peoples who fear magic that they too will be protected under the new law.

"I will now read my draft. Please take notes on your own copies so we can have a more productive discussion."

That was a trick he'd learned from Uther. Act like the main thing you wanted was a foregone conclusion, like the only uncertainty was in how it would be done. It usually wouldn't work as effectively on other sovereigns, who likely used the technique themselves on a regular basis, but Arthur had a plan for that. His brilliant Guinevere had visited a good percentage one of these monarchs, and she'd successfully finagled treaty revisions out of them all. If anybody tried to cause trouble by protesting that they hadn't actually agreed to legalize magic, he could point out that the steps they'd taken were clearly a precursor to ending the Purge.

Sure enough, King Alined of Deorham spoke up. Nasty, slimy man. He probably wanted to squeeze extra concessions out of Camelot. "Your suggestion assumes that we've already agreed to restoring magic, which we have not."

Arthur grinned at him. "Did you not agree to rewriting your treaty with Camelot in a necessary precursor to restoring magic?"

"There is a difference between not wishing to start a useless war without a single ally and inviting the chaos that repealing the Purge would create."

Arthur nodded solemnly. "If you don't wish to legalize magic, King Alined, then Camelot will gladly welcome your kingdom's spellbinders once we have ratified the relevant laws."

Most of the monarchs fought back their amusement, but Caerleon loudly snorted a chuckle. To the best of Arthur's knowledge, nobody liked or trusted the King of Deorham, which made him the ideal target for this putdown.

Alined's smile went rigid. He knew, as they all did, that the one kingdom in Albion which neglected to return magic would be at a profound disadvantage. Hell, that kingdom probably wouldn't last long before its neighbors gobbled it up. In the same way, the one nation that allowed magic while its neighbors clung to the Purge held a massive advantage (unless all those neighbors united in war against it, of course, but Guinevere had taken care of that). On an island-wide scale, the Purge was an all-or-nothing affair. Realistically, if every kingdom didn't have magic, then none of them did. The nature of power wouldn't allow otherwise.

The King of Deorham wasn't going to risk that sort of handicap, and everyone at the table knew it. Their arrival was an implicit acknowledgement that the Purge was almost over.

It really hit him, then, with all the force of a charging dragon. The Purge was almost over.

A grin flitted across his face, and he began to read.

Reciting the codex took longer than his speech. There was a lot of boring legal language and clauses and subclauses and what-ifs, but the gist of it was that people would no longer be punished for using magic. They'd be punished for doing bad things with magic.

It was an entirely reasonable, humane code. It gave spellbinders complete equality under the law, judging them by their actions rather than their abilities. In a reasonable world, Arthur wholeheartedly believed, the assorted kings and queen would have listened to the new laws, smiled, nodded, and agreed to every word.

They didn't.

These laws were too lenient, too liberal. Kingdoms should compel spellbinders to register themselves, including their levels of power and their special skills. There were no provisions for helping witchfinders (who often grew rich off their blood money and didn't actually need help) find new trades. There weren't enough protections for non-magical folk who became nervous in the presence of a spellbinder and hurt them. After all, how were ordinary people supposed to know what a sorcerer was doing when his eyes flashed gold? They could be lifting a heavy jug, they could be reading someone's mind ("…But they can't actually do that."), they could be preparing an attack. Clearly, any action taken against them was an act of self-defense.

Then there was the matter of spellbinders defending themselves. As Loth pointed out, it was possible to defend against a man with a sword and less possible to fight a man who could snap your neck from afar. (Arthur was still trying to figure out what this had to do with spellbinders defending themselves. Loth did realize that spellbinders could defend themselves nonlethally, right?) He suggested that spellbinders should be held to higher standards with regards to offensive and defensive magic, and far too many monarchs seemed to find this reasonable.

By the time the meeting adjourned, Arthur was genuinely worried that he'd be forced to scale back the legal code. Perhaps he could convince them that these extra restrictions should only be applied on a probationary basis? Give them a time limit. Spellbinders are held to higher standards for five years to… to make the public feel safer, that was reasonable damage control, and then they'd get equal protection. It wasn't fair, it wasn't just, but what if it was necessary to acquiesce, lest the other monarchs create something even more restrictive? What if it was necessary to prevent a full-fledged revolt? Arthur was confident in his ability to put down any rebellions, but he didn't want to have to force compliance through violence. Damn it all, but those revisions might be a necessary evil.

The mere thought left a bad taste in his mouth.

Dinner was a bit of a reprieve, but not as much as he'd hoped. Conversation at his part of the table mainly centered around the sword in the stone, which several royal (and not-so-royal) ladies had attempted to draw. There was a rumor spreading that only the princess of the druids would be able to draw it, or perhaps Lady Morgana. (Blegh.) No peasant women had made the attempt so far, but there were a few daughters of lower-ranked retinue members. The castle was stuffed to bursting with foreign nobility; they'd heard about the Great Conference and decided that such a well-attended event was an excellent venue for spouse-seeking.

So far, no one had suggested that Arthur's known sorcerous accomplices could have cooked up the entire ridiculous scheme in an attempt to matchmake him with the woman they approved of. It was utterly baffling until Olaf asked him if he thought the ghosts had arisen because of Sigan's relatively recent rampage or thanks to the even-more-recent return of the many artifacts in Camelot's treasure vault, some of which must have had necromantic properties. Arthur blinked at the other king, then posited that perhaps it was a combination of the two. Olaf nodded like this was entirely reasonable and went on with his story about Princess Vivian's attempt at drawing the sword, during which she'd met Princess Orgeluse of Amata.

Those two would become the best of friends, no doubt, provided they didn't kill each other first.

"But she wasn't surprised when she couldn't free it," Olaf concluded. "Rumor has it that you're already engaged."

"Are you?" asked Bayard.

"Yes," Arthur admitted. "We intend to officially announce it within the next few weeks."

"You'd best hope she can draw the sword," Olaf cautioned. "It wouldn't do to snub the gods by rejecting the queen they've chosen for you."

…Had the spellbinders planned on the Sigan and relic justifications, or was that just a happy coincidence? "I have no doubt that she can," Arthur assured the other king. "She can try to draw it right before we tell the world, see if that can act as the official announcement."

"And if she fails?"

She wouldn't. "…Then we could… pray to the gods… and try again?"

That nonsense satisfied them. People must really like the thought of a divinely ordained romance. How did they not suspect?

Arthur changed the subject to the other men's queens, which kept them busy for the rest of the meal. Then it was time to bid his guests goodnight, take care of a little pre-bedtime paperwork, and close his eyes.

He opened them again in Morgana's dream-world. His sister and Guinevere were waiting for him there. Merlin was nowhere to be found. "He probably got distracted by Ganieda and Aithusa again," Morgana explained in response to Arthur's questioning look. "How did it go?"

Arthur groaned.

Morgana's little smile faded, her entire face tightening. "What went wrong?"

"Not an emergency," her brother assured her. "No one's pretending that they won't legalize magic. There's just a few minor complications on how we ought to do it."

The tightness faded a little, but it didn't dissipate completely. "How so?"

"I'd rather explain it just the one time. Can you try bringing in Merlin again?"

She nodded. Her eyes flashed gold. Merlin appeared between one blink and the next, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry. I'd just gotten to sleep when Ganieda started crying because Aithusa snuck out of the house. We think she was headed for the forge. She's absolutely fascinated by metalworking but hasn't figured out yet that Tom only works certain hours of the day." The grin disappeared when he took in the general atmosphere. "What's wrong?"

"They are all intent on bringing magic back, don't worry about that," Arthur assured him. "There's just some debate about the legal code, and it looks like I might need to be stricter with it than I'd like. If I can't talk them out of it entirely, then I'll try to convince them to make their proposed revisions temporary, five years or so, so that nonmagical people can get used to you first."

The witch and warlock glanced at each other, stiff-jawed and wary. "What might these statutes be?" Guinevere inquired.

Arthur told them. Morgana started pacing halfway through, which was never a good sign. Silence fell when he was stopped.

Merlin's golden eyes were hard, and Arthur found himself remembering that this warlock was kin to dragons. Morgana was scowling, her nostrils flared. Guinevere was more worried and upset than actively angry.

"So they want to penalize us for defending ourselves," Merlin stated. Dragon's blood or not, his voice was winter-cold. "Am I understanding this correctly? Because it sounds an awful lot like this is an excuse to punish any spellbinder who fights back against harassment or threats with magic."

"They've got to keep us in our place somehow, don't they?" sneered Morgana. "Remind us of what we have to lose."

"I know," Arthur sighed. "I don't like it either."

"You shouldn't like it," Merlin declared. "It's the kind of provision that begs to be abused."

"I know," Arthur repeated.

"I can just picture it," Morgana growled. "Someone punches one of our kin, the spellbinder fights back, the attacker gets away with it while the victim is punished because the law specifically protects people who assault us. And then there's the other laws. Help for witchfinders?"

"They're fairly well-off," Merlin pointed out. "Probably bribed someone to suggest it."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Morgana muttered darkly. She whirled on her brother. "This is not what our people agreed to."

"It's a disaster in the making," Merlin seconded. "It'll just cause unrest and resentment among our people, and that will clash with the unrest and resentment among everyone else. Arthur, you can't let them pass this."

"And if they pass it anyway, you can't sign that treaty and pass those laws in Camelot."

"If they pass it," the king sighed, "then I'll have to pass those laws in Camelot."

Morgana looked ready to explode, or possibly blow up his head. Merlin's face was a stone mask. He was breathing heavily, his golden warlock's eyes unblinking.

"Why?" Guinevere asked softly, taking his hand. "Why would them doing something inhumane mean that you have to follow suit?"

"Because this is supposed to be an international standard."

"So?" Morgana burst out.

"So, the laws are intended to be universal to encourage spellbinders to settle more evenly and prevent any one kingdom from having an advantage over the others. I can't give spellbinders greater freedom without betraying every other country in Britain and destabilizing my own."

"And you can't not grant our kin freedom without betraying us," Merlin observed.

"Which is why I'll do everything in my power to make them agree on the original laws. You have my word."

Merlin closed his eyes. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I know you will, Arthur." A bit of the steel had left his voice. "But you don't think you can do it."

"I might have to accept some of the changes, yes, but I will fight every last one of them."

"That's all you can do," Guinevere assured him, squeezing his hand.

"Tell them about Listeneise," Merlin ordered. Everyone stared at him with varying degrees of startlement. "Not by name, of course. Don't tell them where we are. But tell them that we've found a place of our own where we can stay indefinitely. We don't have to live in any of their kingdoms if they're not willing to treat us right."

"For once, Merlin, you've come up with a semi-decent plan." Because (many of) the other monarchs weren't freeing magic out of morality, they were allowing its return because it would benefit them with healers and crops and whatnot. Threaten to take away those benefits, and the sovereigns of Albion would listen.

He hoped.

---

Gwen slept badly after the unfortunate meeting in Morgana's dream-world. She awoke groggy and disoriented and full of trepidation.

Since she liked to stay busy, Gwen had spent the days since her arrival socializing with the royal retinues. She'd met most of them before over the autumn and winter, and quite a few of them had decided that she was a good person to approach for introductions. That day, however, Gwen decided to go for a walk to clear her head before beginning her self-appointed tasks.

Princess Vivian of Dyffed found her on the castle walls, looking up at the old abandoned tower that, rumor had it, had once housed the Court Mage's apartments. The former maid startled when the highborn woman cleared her throat. She turned. "My apologies, Highness. I didn't sleep very well last night." She covered a yawn.

"Yes, I suppose you're feeling a great deal of anxiety." Vivian gave her a sharp, sideways look but said nothing more.

"I understand that you met Princess Orgeluse yesterday."

A bright smile, somehow softer than her usual expressions. "I did. She's so much more tolerable now that her father is dead."

"I never met her before, but I've heard the same thing."

"I'm sure you have. Now, speaking of things that you might or might not have heard, are you aware that there are… whisperings?"

Gwen frowned. "Do you mean of unrest? Because we knew all along that there would be unrest, resentment, and resistance to magic returning."

"Of outright rebellion, not just in Camelot, but across all of Britain."

"Unfortunately, that doesn't surprise me. Have you ever heard of scrying?"

The princess's brow furrowed. "That's… the magic of looking in on someone from afar, isn't it?"

"It is. Scrying will be one of our major advantages in putting down any organized rebellion. People opposed to magic won't have any spellbinders on their side to cast scrying-prevention spells. We'd just need a full name, whether it's a surname or patronym, and ideally a face. Then a spellbinder could scry the rebel leader's location and we can organize a sting operation to capture them without bloodshed."

"Oh." Vivian relaxed. "That's quite reassuring, though I'll have to make sure Father knows to find a Court Mage as quickly as possible."

"That shouldn't be difficult. Dyffed's never been as hard on magic as Camelot." Amata, though… Amata might have to occasionally borrow Merlin, as it had during the civil war. She was sure that Claudin would win the spellbinders over eventually, but without the title of the Once and Future King, Sarrum's shadow stretched longer and darker than even Uther's.

"We won't get one as strong as Camelot's though. No one will."

"Perhaps go for experience instead," Gwen suggested. "Merlin has only two years of formal training, and over half of that was in secret. He's a fast learner, but there are some advantages you can only get through long practice." At least for normal people. She wasn't entirely certain that this applied to a prodigy like her friend.

"A good idea. I'll bring it up with Father. Now, tell me about the strangest thing you saw this winter."

Gwen's lips quirked. "When we were on our way to Benwick, we ran into a cousin of Tristan's…."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Arthur Contemplates the Finer Points of Interior Decorating"

Next chapter: July 8. More politicking and negotiating and stuff.

Writer's block might be acting up again, but I intend to start the first draft of chapter 10 next week. I've still got buffer.

Chapter 5: A Face at the Table

Summary:

Merlin's lot aren't happy about the potential restrictions in the Code.

Chapter V: A Face at the Table

The magical refugees gathered in what had become their de facto meeting place, a long stone building that might have been a guild hall. Merlin had never overly enjoyed these meetings, but he particularly dreaded this one. He always hated delivering bad news, and last night's admissions had been particularly terrible.

The important thing, he reminded himself, was to keep emphasizing the positives. Magic was going to be legalized. They could go back to their families, see their friends without worrying that they'd get them killed. Arthur wouldn't ever stop fighting for them; he'd resist every single last one of those evil restrictions as much as he could. If the worst happened, then anyone who wanted could remain in Listeneise. They might find themselves wrangling baby dragons, but they could stay in a place of safety.

Merlin brushed away his vestigial state fright with the ease of long practice. Now, he was only anxious about the news he had to impart, not the fact that he was talking in front of hundreds of people. That was progress, technically.

"As you know, the Great Conference of the Kingdoms began yesterday." He couldn't help but grin at them. "Our patience is paying off. King Alined made noises about not legalizing magic to squeeze concessions out of Camelot, but Arthur shut him up within two minutes. Even better, Alined was the only one who even suggested leaving the Purge laws in place, and even he came around within those same two minutes. Every single reigning monarch in Albion fully intends to end the Purge."

A moment's stunned silence, then whoops and cheers of exhilaration. People hugged their neighbors, wiped away tears of joy. A few children began spontaneously dancing. Even the three people who knew the rest of it, Morgana and his parents, were smiling.

Merlin didn't interrupt the celebration, but he didn't join it, either. His kin calmed down slowly but surely, and then he could continue.

"We will be free. There is no doubt of that. However, some of the other rulers are being idiots about the conditions of our freedom."

The excitement drained away, replaced by tense silence.

"Keep in mind that the other monarchs only want to add a few restrictions to the new Magical Code. They haven't done it yet, and there is no guarantee that they will. Arthur and Claudin are wholeheartedly against these restraints, and they'll be fighting them with everything they've got.

"When Morgana and I met with Arthur last night, we gave him an additional tool to use against those other kings. We told him that he could inform the other sovereigns that we spellbinders have found a place of our own, that we don't have to accept their laws if they're too restrictive. Arthur will not name Listeneise, of course, but he'll remind them that we don't have to give their kingdoms the benefits of our powers. We can stay here as long as we need to, keeping our healing and field magic away from them." A tight smile. "Our kin can negotiate too."

"But what do they want to do to us?" Deirdre asked. The short, skinny woman had been rescued from Amata last autumn, and Merlin had long suspected that she wouldn't want to go back. Now, she was looking at him like he'd just confirmed her worst nightmares.

"Remember, these things haven't happened. It's entirely possible that none of them will pass, because we have people on our side. But in the worst-case scenario, there would be legal protections for nonmagical folk who panic around us, increased penalties for using magic offensively and defensively, a registry in every kingdom, and reparations for witchfinders." Merlin didn't bother keeping the disgust from his voice.

This swell of voices was the opposite of the last, angry instead of joyful. Merlin allowed them to vent for a couple minutes, then lifted his hand for silence. It fell, but grudgingly.

"There is no way under the sun that Arthur Pendragon will allow all those absurd, evil laws to pass. Even if he's forced to bend on one or two of them, his backup plan is to create a time limit. In the worst realistic scenario, we could stay in Listeneise for another five years, then rejoin the rest of the island when the statutes expire. Also, we really ought to avoid the kingdoms whose rulers suggested these hateful ideas. Gods know it would serve them right."

"And what if they extend the laws?" another audience member demanded. Cyndeyrn, his name was; he'd been a boy when the Purge began, and his parents had fled to the countryside of Camelot as soon as his magic manifested. "What if this is permanent?"

"Then we leave," declared Merlin. "A mass exodus from the kingdoms whose rulers supported those laws into the kingdoms whose rulers are committed to our protection, or even back into Listeneise. It's healed so much over the winter. It'll be as good as new within just a few years."

"That won't help anyone who dies under those laws, though," Cyndeyrn pointed out.

That was an unfortunately valid point. Merlin nodded slowly, unable to deny it, thinking hard. The best thing to do would be to nip these statutes in the bud, keep them from being signed into law in the first place. But what was the best way to accomplish that?

The answer came. He grinned, a slow wide baring of teeth that was as confrontational as it was happy.

"It occurs to me that the kings and queens of Albion would be significantly less inclined to write laws designed to oppress us if there was a spellbinder in the room with them."

Murmuring broke out once again, with yet another different tone. His people were worried this time, worried but hopeful. There were even a few chuckles as the audience imagined their least favorite kings scooching away from Merlin.

"I'll go after lunch," he decided.

Hunith was glaring at him, but she remained quiet. United fronts were important, especially in front of the community. Also, he was old enough to not be scolded in public by his mother. Still, Merlin had no doubt that there would be Words once they were alone.

He was right. Once everyone else (except Morgana and Balinor, who held Ganieda in his arms), Hunith stalked up to him with her hands on her hips. Merlin suppressed the urge to cower.

"Don't you think that this might cause problems?" she demanded. "Not only will there be cries of blackmail, some enterprising fool who thinks you have Arthur enchanted could take this chance to stab you, poison you, kill you in any number of horrible ways."

"I'll be careful," Merlin promised.

"Be protected," she corrected him. "Can't you—use an illusion or something?"

"I won't eat or drink anything, and I'll keep my back against the wall so no one can sneak up behind me," her son assured her. "And if anyone does try to stab me, I'll stop them. If anyone tries to stab anyone, I'll stop them, too. That enterprising fool might go after Arthur instead."

Hunith scowled but nodded her grudging acceptance. Then a downright evil smile curved her lips. "If you're going to be representing our people, you'll need to look the part."

Morgana attempted to hide her laugh behind a coughing fit. It didn't work, but Merlin appreciated the gesture. He probably would have appreciated it more if he'd not been frozen in cold horror.

"I, ah, don't know what you'd like me to do, appearance-wise. Other than brush my hair, that is. I can do that. But it's not like I have a lot of finery just lying around."

"What about that formal outfit you got from Claudin?" Morgana asked, because she was a treacherous traitor. "You know, the thank-you gift that he and Orgeluse picked out after the Battle of the White Pass."

"…I'd forgotten about that," Merlin admitted.

"There might be an old torc in the castle," Hunith speculated, "or perhaps a ring." Her mirth faded for a moment as she added, "Gold holds spells rather well, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Merlin confirmed.

"Good. Then you can enchant it before you go."

"Yes, Mother," said the mightiest warlock alive, resigned to his fate.

Ganieda laughed.

---

Arthur had intended to bring up the topic of a sorcerous headquarters at the morning portion of their meeting, but Odin had brought up the topic of guards the moment he sat down. It was entirely possible, indeed even likely, that some spellbinders would seek revenge on those who had harmed them and their kin, namely the guards who had arrested and killed so many practitioners of magic. They'd need some way to ease tension between the two enemy groups, or at least some legal recourse for the unusual circumstances. That discussion lasted all morning and wasn't anywhere near over. Arthur spent his lunch contemplating the thorny issue. His guards were already less-than-pleased with him after last year's audit.

The king was still lost in thought as he and his fellow sovereigns made their return to the council chamber.

Loth's voice startled him out of his reverie. "Find another place to loiter, lordling. We have business here."

"So do I."

Arthur scrambled around the frozen King of Essetir, his mouth flopping. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

The other monarchs started filtering in more quickly, drawn by the promise of drama.

Merlin's smile was a little tight around the edges, but his tone remained light and cheery. "My people and I were talking about this meeting, and then one fellow brought up that it was silly to have the lot of you decide magic's fate without a single spellbinder in the room, so here I am."

His idiot warlock was leaning against the far wall in plain sight of the door, with Béothaich propped up beside him. He was dressed more finely than usual, in a fine blue shirt and slate-gray trousers tucked into sturdy deerskin boots. A narrow torc of braided gold encircled his neck.

"Magic?" gasped Loth, taking an instinctive step back.

"Speaking of—" He tossed something to Arthur, who caught it automatically. "—here's my fine for using magic to get here and back. If someone tries to kill me, I'll try to use my staff for self-defense instead of, say, a lightning bolt."

"Excuse us for a moment," Arthur ground out. He marched up to Merlin, grabbed the warlock's arm, and half-dragged him out of the room into one of Camelot's many conveniently located alcoves. "What the hell?"

The false cheer evaporated. "My people are not pleased that those folk are trying to change the code."

"Yes, you mentioned that."

"I told them I'd keep a personal eye on things to encourage good behavior."

"Are you attempting to blackmail the kings of Albion?"

"Queen Evaine's in there, too," Merlin sniffed, "and no, of course not. I'm giving a face to those they seek to oppress."

"You're trying to intimidate them into passing the original code."

"I'm trying to protect my people." Merlin met his gaze squarely, without the faintest hint of shame. "Those alterations are another way to oppress spellbinders. They might not be as bad as the Purge, but that doesn't make them acceptable."

"And you didn't think to warn me?"

"I was going to, but I'd just gotten into position when that old fellow walked in. Which one is he?"

"He's your king, you dolt. Loth of Essetir and the Orkneys."

"You're my king," Merlin corrected him. "And now that I know who he is, he really does look like Gwaine. Bit uncanny, that."

"Merlin," Arthur said, "you can't be here."

Gods help him, but he recognized that mulish glint. "Why not?"

"For starters, you'll cause an international incident."

"Bit late for that, I think."

"You'll cause another international incident."

"Only if they start it."

"That's not an appropriate response!"

"All right, I'll try to not worsen an international incident even if they start it."

"You can't stay, Merlin," Arthur reiterated. "You can't just hang around and terrorize my fellow kings. And Queen Evaine," he added, recognizing the glint in his former manservant's eyes. "No, don't look at me like that."

The warlock folded his arms, then sighed. "Well, how did they react to the possibility of us not coming back? Because if they're responding well to that, then I can leave."

Arthur groaned. "The topic hasn't even come up."

"Seriously?"

"We've been talking about guards all morning. Ways to defuse tension between them and your lot so no one gets hurt."

"That's important," Merlin acknowledged. "But are you going back to the restrictions this afternoon?" His eyes narrowed. "Wait. Do you think they're doing that thing you did?"

"…You're going to have to be more specific."

"What you did yesterday when you acted like returning magic was a foregone conclusion and all anyone had to do was determine the details. Setting the terms of the debate."

Arthur swore. His thoughts raced. He couldn't be sure if Odin had done that on purpose, but the change of topic could have a similar effect. He'd have to change that, make it clear that the matter of modifications was not finished. "Change of plans. You can stay. Just don't do anything stupid."

"No international incidents," Merlin agreed.

They stepped out of their alcove only to realize that every participant in the meetings, as well as a fair few servants, had been huddling outside for who-knew-how-long. Some of them, like Rhodor and Claudin, had the grace to look embarrassed by their eavesdropping. Others did not. The servants, observing Arthur's scowl, scattered.

Breathe in, breathe out, find equilibrium. "Merlin and I apologize for the delay, Your Majesties. As you may have guessed, our unexpected visitor is Merlin Caledonensis, called Emrys, a prominent leader in the magical community. Merlin, these are the reigning sovereigns of Albion."

"Lovely to meet you all," the warlock said, as though they'd met on the streets of Ealdor. He even waved. Arthur supposed he should be grateful that the dope didn't try to shake anyone's hands. Perhaps he could be trained after all.

"Well met," Claudin replied politely, acting as though he'd never seen Merlin before.

"Well met," Merlin returned.

They filed back into the council chamber, but once again, it was already occupied. A pair of unhappy guards stood at the far side of the room, and another brace flanked the doorway. Merlin's smile faded. "Prys, right?"

The guard startled. He pointed at himself with an air of bafflement.

"Yes, you. You're Prys, right? You'd tease me about my insomnia."

Prys looked helplessly at Arthur, who ignored him in favor of taking his seat. The other monarchs kept watching but made no move to interfere.

Merlin turned to the two by the door. "And you're the brothers with the Roman names. Romulus and… Julius?" Reluctant nods. The warlock returned his unsettling yellow gaze to the other pair of guards, specifically the one he hadn't addressed. "And I have no idea who you are, so I assume you're one of the new hires."

"Yes?"

The warlock meandered over to the center of the longer wall, leaned against it with exaggerated casualness. He was roughly halfway between the guard pairs, away from the doors, with a good view of the entire room. His smile was bright and easy, but Arthur knew him well enough to recognize the lines of tension throughout his body, the sharpness in his eyes.

"This morning's conversation about the guard was necessary but unconstructive," Arthur said to the silent room. "I propose that we give ourselves time to think over that issue and return to certain suggestions raised yesterday, namely potential amendments to the legal code."

The ensuing silence reminded him of the time he'd tried to sneak extra desserts from Sir Ector's kitchen. Quite a few faces glanced towards the innocently lounging Merlin.

…Were they frightened of him? Surely not. They'd heard the king and the warlock's hurried conversation, seen Arthur drag this idiot unprotesting out of the council chamber. Fearing Merlin of all people was utterly ridiculous.

When nobody spoke, Merlin took it upon himself to inquire, "What revisions would these be?"

Surprisingly, it was not Arthur but Loth who answered, rattling off the suggestions before concluding with, "But I suspect you knew that."

"It never hurts to be reminded." Another bland smile. "But honestly, Your Majesty, if my people have to put up with that sort of risk, we might just stay where we are. It took a while to get the houses and whatnot in order, not to mention a food supply that doesn't consist entirely of fish, but now that we have, we can stay out of your kingdoms indefinitely."

"What does that mean?" asked Claudin, who knew full well that the spellbinders had a secret base somewhere but didn't have any of the details.

"We found a place to stay that's not in any of your kingdoms. Originally, we tried to repopulate the Isle of the Blessed, but that didn't work out, so we moved. Lovely place, too. A bit run-down to begin with, but it's amazing how quickly a group of spellbinders can construct a village and cultivate enough fields to feed themselves." A reminder, and not an overly subtle one, of what they stood to gain by restoring magic… and what they stood to lose by not treating its practitioners fairly.

The silence stretched on. They barely breathed.

"We should at least get rid of the witchfinder assistance," King Caerleon declared. Several people startled at his sudden speaking, then gathered themselves with sheepish grins. "Witchfinders are rich, and bounty hunters can be retrained to go after real criminals. We can each set up a fund for their retraining, then send them after smugglers and whatnot."

"An excellent idea, Caerleon," agreed Evaine. The rest of the table murmured their agreement.

Merlin's mouth thinned, but he said nothing. He understood that it was better to use the hunters' skills for good than to send them all into exile. He wanted to break the red spiral, not create new sources of resentment.

That didn't mean he liked it.

Now that Caerleon had broken the ice (and not been struck down by a wrathful warlock), the others found it easier to converse. "We need more provisions to protect nonmagical folk than were originally written in the code," Bors declared.

"Like what?" asked Merlin.

Bors frowned at him, then deliberately turned to his fellow monarchs. "Our people will be frightened after twenty years of life without magic. They need reassurance that we will not favor sorcerers over them."

Arthur steepled his fingers. "I have no issues with additional protections, Bors, but they need to go both ways. They must also be carefully written to prevent unscrupulous nobles from using them as an excuse to persecute spellbinders." There. He'd shown that he was willing to negotiate, but only within certain parameters. "What do you suggest?"

"I recommend today what I recommended yesterday. Give heavier penalties to sorcerers who fight with magic so that they don't whip the people into a panic."

"What sort of heavier penalties?" Merlin inquired.

Once again, King Bors ignored him. "If a sorcerer is seen using his magic for violence, his actions could start a riot. I propose that we add the punishment for rabble-rousing to the traditional penalty for brawling."

"Perhaps you could add that punishment to the instigator, not the spellbinder who may or may not be acting defensively."

"King Arthur," groused Bors, "please silence your servant."

"You can speak to me yourself, King Bors," said Merlin, in a haughty tone that Arthur had never heard from him. He stood straight, no longer languid against the wall, and sneered down at the beefy king. A grimace flitted across his face like he'd eaten something distasteful; his next sentence revealed why. "You may address me as Lord Merlin." His hand clenched around Béothaich, its knuckles white.

Arthur's mouth fell open. Had that happened? Had he actually heard what he thought he'd heard? From Merlin himself? Maybe he was dreaming, or hallucinating, or there was something horrifically wrong with his ears and he needed to see Gaius immediately.

"You're no lord," Bors scoffed.

Merlin took a single step forward, those golden eyes fixed unflinchingly on his target's face. Bors blanched but didn't move his chair in an escape attempt. He tried to glare back, but between his own paleness and the uncanny color of Merlin's irises, it was not particularly effective. Still, he tried.

"I might not have been born in a palace, but I'm still a leader among my people. They chose to follow me in a campaign of word and deed to restore our collective reputation, and they've followed me ever since. When you disrespect their position, you disrespect them and their choice, and I'll not stand for that."

Arthur had to be hearing things, except he wasn't. Wonders would never cease.

The moment stretched out, tense and fraught. Finally Bors averted his gaze. It was a slight turn that wouldn't have been noticeable if they hadn't all been gazing at him with rapt attention.

Merlin settled back against the wall. The hand around his gem-tipped staff loosened its grip.

The room exhaled.

Arthur gestured at one of the servants who'd been watching in wide-eyed silence. The man jumped, wine sloshing inside the jug he held. "Sire?"

"Go find another chair," the king instructed. "Claudin, there should be space enough for you on the left side of the table."

If one considered that Merlin was technically the King of Listeneise, then he had more seniority than Claudin and even Arthur himself. (If one considered him the de facto King of Magic, which was thankfully not a title that actually existed, since his birth, then he'd have more seniority than two-thirds of those assembled.) Technically, Merlin should be the one seated at the left of the table (or two-thirds of the way up, depending on one's perspective), but it was so much simpler to seat him as a lord. Less explanations that way, and besides, Merlin preferred the implications of this arrangement.

The servant returned with a plain wooden chair, doubtless the first he'd found. He placed it at the end of the table.

"Sit down, Lord Merlin," Arthur said dryly. His former manservant glared. Arthur smirked. He wasn't the one who'd insisted on titles, and anyways, this served him right for turning up unannounced.

Loathe as Arthur was to admit it, Merlin's presence actually was helpful. The less accommodating monarchs found themselves reconsidering their most oppressive views once a powerful warlock was right there in front of them, especially once he commandeered a piece of scrap parchment from Claudin and started jotting down the offenders' names. ("So my people can make an informed decision about where they want to live.") It didn't solve all their problems, of course. There would still be modifications to the original code, but they were tolerable restrictions with definite time limits. Before Arthur knew it, the negotiations were over.

Tomorrow, they would sign.

Tomorrow, the Purge would end.

Tomorrow, magic would be free.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin Comes as Close as he will Ever Get to Admitting that he is in Fact Magical Royalty"

"Cyndeyrn" is a variation of "Kentigern," a saint sometimes associated with Merlin in the myths. Kentigern's other name is Mungo (don't ask me why), as in the St. Mungo referenced in the Harry Potter books. The more you know, right?

Next chapter: July 29. Of course the freeing of magic doesn't go as planned. I've got like twenty more chapters in this fic and need to fill them somehow!

Chapter 6: The End of the Purge

Summary:

Arthur gives some speeches and signs a very important piece of paper.

Chapter VI: The End of the Purge

"Sire," said Lord Einion, bowing his head with the bare minimum of respect.

Arthur managed, barely, to not gaze mournfully down at his breakfast. There was no way this bothersome nobleman would let him enjoy it properly.

"Lord Einion," the king returned, as gracious as he could make himself. "Do you have new concerns about the return of magic?" Probably not. The man had been complaining about it all winter.

A muscle jumped in Einion's jaw. "I feel that the concerns I've raised before remain unaddressed." Arthur stole a bite of bacon as his countryman continued, "Your Majesty, allowing magic to return will be the end of Camelot."

"We've had this discussion before, my lord," Arthur reminded him. "Several times. I have listened to your concerns and attempted to understand your perspective. That hasn't changed my decision to do right by the people of magic."

"Your father would be ashamed of you," Einion said.

Arthur was well aware of that. He had nightmares, sometimes, of Uther's anger and disappointment. "I intend to do what's best for Camelot regardless of what my father would have thought. All the evidence is clear. Our kingdom was stronger before the Purge, and returning magic will allow us to regain that strength. I refuse to let my father's hatred—or your hatred, or the hate of a third of the kingdom—stand in the way of progress. I'm legalizing magic today, and you just need to accept that."

Einion puffed up, an ugly flush spreading across his face. "You will regret this," he vowed.

Arthur met his gaze squarely. "Is that a threat, my lord?"

For a moment, he thought that the older man would attack him. He pictured Einion drawing a hidden dagger and racing around the corner of his desk. His muscles tensed in preparation to fling himself aside.

But the older man looked away first, dropping his gaze to the side. "…No, Your Majesty." A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Excellent." Arthur chewed on another bite of egg, pondering his next words. "Have you spent any time with Gaius, these past few months?"

Einion blinked. He'd likely expected to be thrown out. "No, sire."

"And you didn't know Merlin when he was here."

"Of course not! He was a servant."

"What of my foster sister, Lady Morgana? Did you know her before she was forced to flee for her life?"

No answer. Arthur took three more bites, waiting for the silence to be broken.

"I knew her," Einion finally admitted. "Not well, but we were acquainted."

"I assume you've heard how her nightmares were really prophetic dreams."

"Yes." A grudging grunt.

"Did you know her while she had prophetic dreams?"

Einion didn't speak this time, only nodded.

"What did you think of her character?"

"Too fond of the peasantry. Too bold for a proper lady. Stubborn."

"But not evil. Not a monster."

Once again, Einion kept silent.

"Last I heard, Morgana intends to return soon. You'll get a chance to renew your acquaintanceship. I recommend keeping an open mind." Arthur drank deeply from his goblet. "You are dismissed."

"Sire." A jerky bow, and the nobleman was gone.

Arthur went back to his breakfast and tried to put the whole unpleasant incident out of his mind.

---

The morning trickled by. The assembled monarchs had to fine-tune the details of the treaty. They'd already decided on the substance, but the style was important too, so there was a truly ridiculous amount of back-and-forth about clause order and wording and other things that Arthur couldn't care less about. Perhaps it was a generational thing; Claudin looked just as pained as Arthur felt, but the older kings and queen were actually raising their voices. That, if you asked Arthur, was a madness worse than anything lurking in the Pendragon bloodline.

Then, finally, it was over. They gave the proofread draft to Sir Geoffrey and adjourned for lunch.

Arthur had scheduled the signing ceremony for late afternoon. It was to be preceded by a short speech and followed by a celebratory dinner. (He made a mental note to give the kitchen staff bonuses once his fellow sovereigns had left. It couldn't be easy to cook all these feasts.) He'd known all these things, but somehow, it only became real when he sat down for his meal.

He was actually doing it. He was going to bring back magic, not at some far-off future date, but today. In just a few hours, he'd change the world.

Something like stage fright fluttered at the bottom of his stomach. He quashed it, or tried to, but it was like trying to squeeze soggy bread. It just kept oozing out from between his fingers.

Arthur took a deep breath. The servants were beginning to bring in their noon meal, and he could smell pork and cheese and fresh bread. The scents didn't help his queasy stomach. He found that he wasn't hungry.

The morning had dragged on forever, but lunch passed in an eyeblink. One moment Arthur was watching the servants bring out the food; the next, he was rising from his seat. What should he do until his speech?

The other monarchs provided an easy answer to his unasked question. It was rare indeed for all the reigning sovereigns of Albion to be in one place. They might have finished (or nearly finished. Gods, just four more hours) the purpose of their meeting, but there was always more to discuss.

Time continued to pass in that peculiar way. First it rushed by, then it crawled to a stop. It was speeding when Arthur noticed Sir Geoffrey slip into the chamber. The world went still for a moment, and he almost wondered if Merlin was playing tricks.

"It's ready, Sire," said Geoffrey, who'd crossed the room without his king processing.

Gods. "It's time then."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Arthur took one last gulp of water. His throat remained dry, but he didn't delay any longer. "Very well." He stood, strode over to the velvet cushion that supported his crown. The heavy metal was cold in his hands, around his head.

(His father had worn this crown when he declared magic illegal. For a ridiculous fleeting moment, Arthur wondered if the chill came from a ghost's disapproval. He brushed the thought aside at once—it was absurd—but couldn't quite banish his superstitious relief when the gold began to warm.)

Arthur Pendragon adjusted the crown of Camelot and made his way to the very balcony where Uther Pendragon had begun the Purge.

The people of Camelot had gathered in the courtyard. There were so many of them. Some were happy about today's changes, while others—far too many others—were furious, terrified, betrayed. They were his people too, and he wished he could do more to soothe them. Unfortunately, there was only so much to do. The only people who could convince those skeptics that magic could be good were the skeptics themselves.

A low murmur floated above the densely packed crowd. It flared, briefly, with crowd members telling their fellows that the king had arrived, but then it died down. Arthur wasn't certain if a courtyard so full of people had ever been so quiet.

Morgana had taught him, once, the importance of breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Ideally, he could focus solely on his breathing until his heartrate slowed, but Arthur didn't have time for that. The crowd was waiting, breathless with tension.

Once more, breathe in, breathe out, and then he couldn't delay any longer. Arthur began to speak.

"When I ascended the throne, I vowed before the gods and before you, the people of Camelot, to guarantee justice and security for all my subjects. I promised to protect and uplift you, to the best of my ability. Today, I am finally able to fulfill that oath to the entire kingdom.

"Magic's return will help us all. Since the Purge began, Camelot has lost its healers. Harvests have shrunk. Bandit attacks have grown in frequency and boldness. And, of course, there are the thousands of deaths, the friendships and families torn asunder, the smothering miasma of constant terror." That was a good phrase, Arthur reflected. Morgana really had improved over the last few months. "Directly or indirectly or both, we have all suffered because of the Purge, and we will all benefit from its abolishment.

"I realize that not all of you are pleased with my decision to repeal the Purge, lift the miasma, knit up friendships and families. You are my subjects just as much as the spellbinders of Camelot, and I have sworn to protect you and yours as well. I am not granting magic users leave to do whatever strikes their fancy. They cannot use their power to kill, thieve, steal, cheat, or control; anyone who tries will be held fully accountable under the law. Spellbinders will return not as oppressors or tyrants but as neighbors and kin, held to the same standards of behavior as everyone else, subject to the same laws.

"People of Camelot, the Purge ends today."

That was Geoffrey's cue. The old genealogist strode forward at a measured pace, the carefully written decree in his arms. Blanchefleur trailed him with a vial of ink and a quill. (A massive feather, probably from an eagle, Arthur noted with relief. Blanchefleur had half-joked, half-threatened that she would craft one from a merlin's pinions just for this occasion.) Geoffrey spread the parchment atop the table that had been carried out hours earlier, followed once again by his assistant.

Then the eagle quill (very conspicuously too big to be a merlin's feather, too bright to have come from a raven) was in Arthur's hand, and he dipped the end in the ink, and he was signing his name in the easy practiced scrawl he'd perfected years ago. He'd written this signature on other laws both great and small, on recommendations for grain distribution and letters to his subjects and official correspondence with the royalty of Albion. He didn't have to think about writing; his hand did it automatically. How very strange that a law so meticulously examined, so carefully composed, so ponderously formulated, could be brought to life with a gesture so easy and quick and thoughtless.

The ink was still wet, but the deed was done. Arthur lifted the proclamation high, fully aware that no one in the crowd would be able to see, much less read, the words.

"The Purge is ended!" the King of Camelot declared. "Magic is free!"

The crowd remained silent for a few moments. Perhaps they, too, had difficulty believing it, or perhaps they were waiting for Uther's ghost to burst out of the ether and strike him down. Then a few hands clapped together, a few voices cheered. The clamor rose, but it was not all approving. Arthur heard boos, curses, unintelligible words snarled with unmistakable rage. But he thought that there was more celebration than condemnation, and that gave him hope.

Although he'd originally planned on leaving the balcony right after signing, Arthur opted to linger. The crowd's mixed mood left him wary. He remembered last year's riots with perfect clarity, and he feared that things might get ugly. Thankfully, the cacophony was dying down without anybody coming to blows, so Arthur nodded to his people and retreated inside.

Tension unspooled inside him. All he had to do now was sign the international treaty, and he'd do that in relative privacy with no one present but his fellow sovereigns. As host, he signed first. The others followed suit one by one until only Alined remained.

Foreboding pooled in the pit of Arthur's stomach. It wasn't a rational response, but—there was something in the way that Alined smiled. He braced himself without knowing why.

Alined did not take the quill. Arthur nearly stopped breathing. What the hell was this man thinking? It was suicide to be the only kingdom in Albion without magic. Maybe Sarrum or Uther would have hated spellbinders enough to persecute them anyway, but the King of Deorham was supposed to be an opportunist.

But, Arthur reminded himself, even if Alined chose not to legalize magic, it wouldn't matter. Merlin and Morgana and their kin were free everywhere else. Alined's decision couldn't destroy all that he'd worked for. It just wasn't possible.

"Does the quill need sharpening, Alined?" Arthur's voice pierced the hush like a dart.

"It does not, Arthur, but after careful consideration, I've come to the conclusion that you're right. You've convinced me completely."

"…About what?"

"These laws—" The slimeball gestured at the treaty that he had helped write—"are too harsh and restrictive for spellbinders. Deorham's laws will be more generous, more humane."

"More likely to attract powerful mages, you mean," Evaine interjected, pale-faced with rage. Her brother-in-law rose to his feet, face reddening.

"That is a positive side effect, yes," Alined confirmed cheerily.

A thousand emotions wrestled for dominance in Arthur's chest. On the one hand, this was better than Deorham trying to prolong the Purge. On the other, it was a distinctly slimy thing to deceive one's supposed allies like this, encouraging them to sign a poisoned treaty only to back out when everyone else had already committed.

What did this mean for magic's return? If one king had refused to follow this treaty, did the rest of them still have to? Arthur imagined everyone's reaction if he announced that Camelot, too, would treat spellbinders with even greater leniency, if he broke the terms of this treaty before the ink was dry. Alined must have calculated that the others' fury at this betrayal, the consequences they would mete out, was outweighed by the likely benefits of attracting more spellbinders than his rivals. Could the same arithmetic work for Camelot?

No, he realized, shaking with icy rage. No, it wouldn't. This was his treaty, the first major law he'd ever written, and it would set the tone for his entire reign. If he did not act in good faith now, then why should anyone expect him to keep his word? And a betrayal from him would provoke the other nations more strongly than another incidence of Alined's treachery. They expected this sort of behavior from him. Most of them had already implemented some sort of trade restriction or sanction on Deorham in retaliation for its king's earlier actions. Camelot, though, was a nation in good standing.

Then there was how Arthur's lords—already reticent—would react to the sudden switch. And what would his people think? The one silver lining about the restrictions was that they should, in theory, make it easier for the general populace to stomach magic's return. They'd have five years of 'protection' to ensure that they'd still be safe with spellbinders living among them.

If Arthur followed Alined's footsteps, he'd destroy his reputation and credibility, jeopardize Camelot's international alliances and trade agreements, and destabilize his entire bloody kingdom. If he stuck with the treaty when Alined of all people called it too harsh, he'd further betray and infuriate the spellbinders who'd already been hurt for so long.

He wanted nothing more than to punch Alined in his smug, grinning face. Judging from the others' reactions (it was astonishing that Bors's shouting had only attracted a few guards), he wasn't the only one.

When Bors paused for breath, Claudin of all people interrupted him. "I suppose that Deorham of all places does need extra incentive for spellbinders to immigrate, but this seems the wrong way to go about it."

That threw Alined off-kilter. "What do you mean?"

A bland, inoffensive smile. "Only that you have a reputation."

"As does Amata, Claudin ua Clearigh."

"Yes, and I'm very grateful that spellbinders don't seem to judge us by our fathers' sins." He nodded at Arthur. "They seem to judge us by our own trustworthiness, our own actions."

Evaine chuckled. "So they'll judge this, too, but not necessarily in the way that Alined wants."

"I can't imagine that they wouldn't," Claudin confirmed.

"I can't speak for every spellbinder," Arthur admitted, "but I know what Merlin and Morgana would say to this."

Alined was recalculating. Arthur could see it in his eyes. Time to up the pressure. "Sir Geoffrey, you can take away the treaty."

"…Yes, Sire." The old knight approached slowly, giving Alined ample opportunity to break and sign the treaty. Every eye in the room fixed on the King of Deorham, but he did not leap forward to grab a quill. Then Geoffrey's hands were on the parchment, and he rolled it entirely up without any pushback. Alined must have decided to risk it after all.

Damn him. Damn him for souring what should have been a day of unilateral triumph.

It still was, Arthur reminded himself. Magic was free, and he'd whittled the restrictions down to a probationary period. This was a good day.

At the walls of the city, alarm bells began to ring.

---

"Merlin, Merlin, Merlin!"

The warlock appeared in a rush of wind. The world fell silent when his feet touched the ground; dirt and debris froze in midair. "What's wrong?"

Gwen clutched Excalibur in a white-knuckled grip, using it to point at distant flames. "A granary is on fire, and right after Arthur went to take care of it, Aerona noticed that there wasn't anyone by the treasure vault, so she peeked inside—I think she wanted to see everything for herself—and half the things in it were missing. I think that the fire is a trap." One that Arthur and Elyan and the other knights had run right into.

Time resumed. The wind whipped up, snatching them away. They landed right next to the burning granary, nearly startling a guard off his horse. "Sorry," Gwen said automatically, but she was already scanning the crowd for Arthur. "Merlin, see if you can find any threats. I'll find—there!" She surged forward, toward the familiar head of gold.

"Guinevere?" Arthur exclaimed, baffled. "What—"

Gwen shoved Excalibur into his hand, then pulled back and looked around for… something. Someone charging at them, probably, or an arrow from afar. But if the vault thieves were there, they knew better than to make themselves obvious.

"What is going on?" Arthur demanded.

"Someone's raided the vaults," Gwen explained. "Merlin is looking for them now, but you need some way to defend yourself if they sneak past him." Powerful as he might be, the warlock was still only one man. If there were multiple assailants, then he could only guard against so many at a time.

"The Raven's Key?" Arthur asked, appalled.

"I don't know. I don't think anyone's inventoried the vault yet, and I came here as soon as I heard."

"I haven't found anyone," Merlin announced in their minds.

Clouds swirled above them, darkening from white wisps to storm gray in under a minute. The air grew heavy with unnatural speed, and then massive raindrops plummeted onto the granary fires.

"Should've thought of that myself," Arthur muttered, disgusted. But there was no time for self-recrimination. He raised his voice, began barking orders to secure the city, to have someone inventory the vaults, to find the perpetrators.

Gwen listened with a heavy heart. She knew—and he did too—that it was already too late.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Alined Really Needs to be Punched in his Smug, Grinning Face"

Next update: August 19. The immediate aftermath of magic's re-legalization.

It's been a very long work week, so I won't say anything except yay! Magic is back! Someone get confetti.

Chapter 7: Bittersweet

Summary:

Joy and fear, celebration and ceremony.

Chapter VII: Bittersweet

The inhabitants of Corbenic stood breathlessly around the scrying pool, listening to Arthur's speech in rapt silence. They murmured among themselves about the reaction of the crowd. Some chose to focus on the cheers, others on the boos, most on both. Morgana tried to think more on the positive reactions, but she couldn't get the negative responses out of her head.

She'd known, of course, that magic's return would not be greeted with wholesale approval. Nobody expected perfectly smooth sailing from now on. Still, in her heart of hearts, where logic couldn't reach, she'd hoped for more joy and less opposition among the people of Camelot.

When Arthur signed the treaty, the magical refugees whooped and hollered and shouted their glee. Each new monarch who signed their name inspired another wave of enthusiasm, but then Alined refused and silence fell. After they'd heard the king's reasoning, more murmurs broke out. Would Arthur follow suit?

He didn't. Morgana understood why, even if she didn't like it. Kingship was in many ways a balancing act; Arthur could not favor one group too much over another, nor could a new king risk a reputation for not keeping his word. Of course, most of the spellbinders around her hadn't grown up in court. All they knew was that Arthur wasn't seizing this opportunity to further improve their position. They weren't happy about that.

Morgana would have to explain. She'd likely end up explaining again and again and again, and many of them would end up in Deorham anyways.

Still, Alined's treachery cast only a brief pallor over the day. Double-crossings or not, restrictions or not, Arthur had freed magic. Magic was free. They were free, and that deserved celebration.

The party was nothing like what Morgana had grown up with in Camelot. They had hardly any alcohol, and what little they had disappeared almost immediately. The food was plain, seasoned almost entirely by salt. There was no venison or beef or pork, just many different species of fish, a couple pheasants, a rabbit or two, served on beds of vegetables. Dessert consisted of slightly sweetened buns (someone had found honeycombs) served with fresh berries and the last remnants of the winter's jam. They had no cream or cheese or butter. But the food they did have was abundant (well, the fish and vegetables were), and the company was much better than stodgy old nobles.

A few refugees had acquired instruments over the last few months, and they came together as an impromptu band while others sang along and still others danced. One of the younger spellbinders started shooting colorful sparks into the air. She was joined almost immediately by her friends, who made a competition out of it. Morgana joined in, weaving together green and gold and red, shaping flame into the form of a fire-breathing dragon. That inspired little Aithusa, who had been watching in fascination. She exhaled flame, then did it again when her attempt was met with applause and cheering. That second time, though, she got a little too enthusiastic and accidentally set a human's sleeve alight. They quenched the flames as quickly as possible. Aithusa chirped in apology, and her accidental victim assured her that it was quite all right, accidents happen to everyone.

The infant dragon inclined her head, the very picture of gracious acceptance, then went to sit with the other children. Balinor had sat down with Ganieda on his lap, and Aithusa curled up with them.

The spellbinders went back to their game of sparks.

Conversation turned inevitably to plans for the future. "I can't wait to go back to Astolat," said Ilar. "Haven't been there in—gods, I think it's been twelve years now since I've actually lived there. I've probably got a dozen nieces and nephews by now."

"I thought you were from Miller's Bridge?"

"No, no, that's where I went after my magic manifested up until I finally found the druids. I love the druids, I truly do, but I could never get the hang of the nomadic lifestyle, you know? So after they taught me how to control myself, I tried going back to Astolat, but there was a big execution that day and I chickened out. It was an entire family, and I… I couldn't risk it, you know? But now I can go back and see them again. They'll probably be really mad at first, but they'll forgive me eventually."

"I don't blame you for running," admitted Broderick. He hunched in on himself. "I'd have run, too. I wanted to run, but I didn't know where to go or how to find the druids, so I stayed."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," advised Lleucu, a stocky Caerleoni. She had no magic, but she'd trained in herb-lore before the Purge began, and her neighbors had never quite forgotten that. "My third apprentice tried to run when a witchfinder came to town. She didn't have magic either, at least not that I knew about, but he kept poking around and she panicked." The herbalist shuddered. "They found her."

"I'm so sorry," Morgana said, patting Lleucu's back. The others murmured their own condolences.

Lleucu forced a watery smile, and they refrained from commenting on the moisture in her eyes. "But that won't ever happen again. The witchfinders can't hunt anymore. They'll never hurt us again."

"No," grumbled Broderick, "they'll just spend the rest of their days without ever facing consequences, rich from their blood money. Gods, I wish King Arthur had managed to convince the other kings to confiscate their fortunes for reparations."

"Maybe Alined will," suggested Lleucu hopefully. "He'll have to do something to really attract us after double-crossing his brother kings, right, Morgana?"

The witch considered. "He'll do something," she acknowledged, "but I don't think it will involve reparations from the witchfinders' fortunes. They're too powerful for him to risk upsetting like that."

"But they're only powerful because of their money, right? And if he took that away, they wouldn't have their power anymore." Ilar looked hopeful.

"Good point," Morgana acknowledged slowly, "but I think that a lot of witchfinders have noble patrons."

"But he's got to have something good planned for us, you know? To lure enough of us in that it would make up for irritating the other kings, just like Lleucu said." Ilar sounded desperately hopeful.

"Like what?" Morgana scoffed. "Deorham has just as many magic-haters as anyplace else. Unless Alined wants to create an all-new magical aristocracy—which would almost guarantee rebellions, assassinations, and probably coups, too—he can't do anything too radical without infuriating a lot of very powerful people. I think that he was mostly trying to make himself look good to our people so that we'd come to Deorham without thinking too hard about it. A big, showy gesture that he doesn't have to work too hard to enforce, one that will win him disproportionate access to what he views as a new source of power."

"So, what? We should all just go to Camelot?" Ilar snapped.

"Of course not. Go wherever you want, see your family and friends again, set up shop in a new home. I just don't trust Alined."

"But he's made it so he has to protect us, hasn't he?" mused Broderick. "He picked his side, and even if he just thinks it's the most expedient path forward, he's still chosen us."

Morgana was forced to acquiesce. She wondered how many extra spellbinders would go over to Deorham, what Alined would do with them. Perhaps it was his way of cementing his rule against internal threats? He must have angered his nobles, so maybe he wanted spellbinders (and even people who might be mistaken for spellbinders, and their sympathizers, and anyone who stood to benefit from magic's triumphant return) to act as his base. If it was just that, Morgana wouldn't mind, but she wouldn't put it past Alined to attempt something more ambitious, and there was no way his schemes wouldn't hurt her people.

Now, if she could just find a way to articulate this without looking possessive or paranoid….

"Morgana," said a voice in her mind, interrupting her racing thoughts. Her shoulders stiffened. "We're having an emergency meeting in the castle gardens right next to where we used to keep Excalibur."

"I'll be there," she sent back.

Long years of court training kept her expression light and pleasant as she made her excuses and left. Her smile remained in place as she meandered through the celebrants. Nothing is wrong, her mien said. Nothing is wrong at all.

Morgana dropped her false cheer the moment she was out of sight. Her steps quickened.

Merlin was there already, of course, as were Morgause and Alator of the Catha. The warlock paced back and forth like a caged beast, but he acknowledged the witch's arrival with a nod and murmur of greeting.

"What happened?"

A muscle jumped in Merlin's jaw. "I really only want to explain this once."

"Oh. That good, then?"

A sharp, rueful laugh. "Something like that."

Morgana's stomach sank. Magic had only been free for a few hours. What could have gone so wrong already? Her first thought was that a riot had broken out in Camelot, but that couldn't be the case. Merlin would be there, using his magic to set out fires and peacefully restrain rioters. This was something else.

"If you're only going to tell us once," Morgana said, "you should think over your phrasing first."

Merlin flushed, no doubt remembering some of his other attempted explanations. "Everyone would probably appreciate that," he acknowledged, and went back to pacing. Morgana wanted to pace too; just watching him filled her with nervous energy.

Others filed in: Hunith and Balinor, a trio of visiting druids, the selkie who'd become the Dragonlord's de facto second-in-command. Merlin relaxed incrementally when Cordelia arrived, halting his back-and-forth. "What happened?" the shapeshifter asked, as had everyone before her.

This time, Merlin gave an answer other than an order to wait. He took a deep breath, then confessed, "The opposition is doing better than we hoped."

"What does that mean?" Hunith demanded.

Merlin closed his eyes. "It looks like there was a conspiracy brewing these past few months. A group of men set fire to two granaries on their way out of the city, and… they seem to have taken a leaf out of my book and raided the treasure vaults as well."

Dead silence. Morgana couldn't even breathe. She thought of the devastation that Cornelius Sigan had wrought with the Raven's Key, which was only one of the dangerous items that the Pendragons had hoarded.

Uther had used those weapons to carry out the Purge.

Balinor gave a low moan. "Dragonbinder," he rasped. "Is Dragonbinder-?"

"I don't know," Merlin whispered. "Arthur's having people go through the vault, and of course he's got other people trying to figure out who was involved and how the hell this happened—"

"How did it happen?" Morgana demanded. "How could this happen right under Arthur's nose?"

"That's what he's trying to find out. It must have involved a bunch of guards—they're the only ones with consistent access to the vault. No, don't look at me like that. I remember perfectly well that I robbed the entire thing. But that was over the course of months, and I replaced what I'd stolen with illusions. That's why nobody noticed it until they realized Kilgharrah had escaped. If the guards weren't in on it, I mean a lot of guards, then they'd have noticed."

"Unless this was recent," one of the druids speculated. Morgana knew the woman's name, but with her emotions running high, she couldn't remember it. "They might have only implemented their plans this last week."

"Try scrying for something you know is missing," Morgause blurted. She was pale—they were all pale—and her lips were pursed tight. "Find the items, find the thieves."

"Right," muttered Merlin. He darted over to a nearby puddle left over from last night's rain. The words to the scrying spell dropped from his lips. By the time Morgana and the others crowded round, the incantation was complete.

Nothing happened.

Merlin, baffled, repeated the spell. This time, the water darkened and rippled before returning to its default state.

"What the hell?" Merlin asked.

"It's warded," Alator realized. "They stole at least one portable anti-scrying ward, probably more than one."

The heat of Morgana's rage chilled into glacial dread. They'd planned to use scrying to nip rebellion in the bud. Without that tool at their disposal, against a smart enemy who wanted to utterly eradicate them….

No. No, these people would not win. They'd find a way.

They had to.

---

Merlin's neck prickled under the stares—and glares—of the crowd. He tried to ignore them, focusing instead on the horse beneath him. The warlock hadn't ridden for months, and he hadn't been particularly good at it before his hiatus. Well, there was Wyrmbasu, but he didn't count. Wyverns weren't horses.

He sort of wished that he could have ridden Basu into the city for this little ceremony, but that could only have ended in disaster. The crowd—well, portions of the crowd, he reminded himself, trying to stay optimistic—was restive enough already, simmering with barely banked resentment and fear. A spellbinder riding a wyvern through the streets of Camelot, even a spellbinder on his way to swear fealty to the king, might have tipped the populace over the edge.

But it wasn't all bad. Some faces were smiling, and small pockets of cheering erupted as the procession passed. Even better, a lot of the negative emotion seemed to be fear rather than rage or hate. While fear wasn't ideal, gods knew it was certainly better than the alternatives. Fear could be overcome by peace and patience, as long as it didn't transmute into something more dangerous.

Like rebellion. Rebellion was dangerous. Were any of these people part of the conspiracy that had removed over a hundred items from the treasure vault and set fire to a granary? Were they waiting to unleash one of the nastier objects as soon as Merlin and the other magical leaders were in range? Power simmered beneath his skin, ready for release at the first sign of a threat. No doubt the others felt the same way.

They'd waited until this morning to tell the refugees in Listeneise what the opposition had managed. The people of magic had had one night, one beautiful joyful night, of thinking that everything was under control. Merlin had hated breaking the news, seeing hope fade into horror as his kin realized the implications.

But they needed to know about the danger. They needed to be fully informed when they chose where to go from here. No doubt a hundred different conversations were raging back in Listeneise as families and friends discussed their next steps. Merlin wouldn't know anything about those choices until this ceremony was over.

Maybe they'd get very lucky and the rebels would try something right away, put an end to this mess before anything terrible happened. The guards hadn't found any sign of them still in the city, but considering that the guard had obviously been infiltrated to a still-unknown extent, that didn't mean much. Also, they were the guardsmen of Camelot. Merlin knew better than to trust their competence.

His party rode through the streets of Camelot, and they were not attacked. A few people booed and made rude gestures, but Merlin and his companions ignored them.

Arthur (and the other kings and queen of Albion, but Merlin was mostly focused on Arthur) was waiting in the square where Merlin had witnessed his first execution. Had that really just been two years ago? Gods, it felt like a few days and an eternity all at once.

The horses stopped. Merlin and the others dismounted. People crowded into the square, squeezing together, hoisting their children upon their shoulders. The ring of humanity tightened, then tightened some more, but they left space between the spellbinders and the monarchs.

The spellbinders strode forward. Merlin led them, Béothaich clenched in his hand. His eyes were magic-gold, his cloak clasped with a triskele. He was every inch a warlock.

It really would be a good time for the vault thieves to make their move. Merlin and his party comprised most of magic's leadership. Killing them would be a massive blow for spellbinders everywhere, a great victory for magic's enemies.

Merlin listened to Arthur's speech (new era of cooperation and peace and unity, trying to keep spellbinders and non-spellbinders safe and happy, commitment to a peaceful transitional period) with only half an ear. His shoulders were tense, taut, his knees slightly bent in case he had to suddenly jump. He kept a firm grip on his magic, ready to freeze time in a moment's notice.

Arthur's speech ended. This, Merlin realized, was an even better opportunity for ambush. He was the most powerful spellbinder present, the highest-profile target, the one who had supposedly brainwashed the new King of Camelot, and he had to focus on his response now. His attention was divided, leaving them more vulnerable than before.

Béothaich's crystal brightened imperceptibly. Time seemed to hesitate, but it did not stop. Not yet.

"King Arthur," Merlin said, pitching his voice like Morgana had taught him to, "sovereigns of Albion, my kin and I thank you for your tireless work in granting us our freedom. We too hope to reintegrate in a peaceful and orderly fashion, preferably one that will lead you to allow the sixth clause to expire after five years." Hear that, onlookers? My kin and I didn't get everything we wanted. Arthur is not my puppet. The monarchs have their free will.

"With the Purge over, we spellbinders can once again use our gifts to benefit our homes, our friends, our families, without fearing for our lives. We look forward to entering this new age with our non-magical neighbors. I speak with the voice of my people, and this we swear: to obey the laws of our homelands, to harm no one except in the defense of ourselves and others, to live in peace with those around us." Merlin knelt, head bowed low, acutely aware that he couldn't spot any distant attackers. He lifted his head as soon as he could, but no one attacked. "This we swear."

"This we swear," the others echoed, kneeling.

Was this it? The spellbinders were on their knees, focused on the ceremony, not looking around for an ambush. This had to be it, right? But nothing happened.

Merlin wished that they would just get on with it. The sooner the rebels began, the sooner it would all be over.

Still nothing, and the spellbinders rose to their feet.

Arthur launched into another speech. Merlin barely listened and was taken by surprise when the applause began. Maybe they'd use the noise as cover?

They didn't. Gods, Merlin wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

His friend and king began yet another speech. Merlin tried to pay more attention to this one, but the tension in his neck and shoulders was becoming unbearable. He was so distracted that he nearly missed his cue. Thankfully, the cessation of Arthur's voice was a bit of a giveaway.

"I will act as your Court Mage, Arthur Pendragon, as the mediator between your kin and mine." He still wasn't entirely convinced that he was the best candidate—surely it would be better to appoint someone with more experience—but Arthur had put his foot down. He needed someone he could trust, someone respected by the magical community. That left Merlin and Morgana, and only one of them was magical royalty.

"Then I name you, Merlin Caledonensis, my Court Mage."

Merlin was unprepared for the cheers that erupted at the proclamation. He jumped, seizing time in his grasp before he realized that the noise was the good kind of shouting. Grinning sheepishly, the warlock released his grip. The cheering resumed as if nothing had happened.

This had to be it, right? The noise, the crowd, the distractions…. Surely the rebels would attack now. Surely.

But they didn't. They were still out there plotting who-knows-what.

Where would they strike first?

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which the Vault Thieves Ruin Everything Despite not Being Present"

Next chapter: September 9. Gwen and Elyan have a chat. We learn what was taken from the vault.

Chapter 8: Rumbles

Summary:

The immediate aftermath of the ceremony.

Chapter VIII: Rumbles

Lancelot didn't—couldn't—blame the spellbinders who decided to leave the citadel after the official welcoming ceremony. (Peacemaking ceremony? Fealty-swearing ceremony? Court Mage appointment ceremony? All those things and more, he supposed.) He'd been one of the knights to escort them into Camelot, and he'd seen the crowds. Some people were happy, some relieved, and some… not.

The spellbinders had noticed too. Merlin hadn't even tried to chat with Lancelot and his fellow knights, instead murmuring a few perfunctory greetings before he returned to scanning their surroundings with the intensity of his namesake. Morgana had spoken with them a bit longer, just pleasant light conversation, but her words had dried up once they rode through the city gates. The other spellbinders had been visibly uncomfortable by the knights' cloaks, and they'd said very little. The lot of them had huddled just a bit too closely together, though at Morgana's quiet suggestion, they'd tried to smile and wave to the crowds.

That tension hadn't evaporated during the ceremony. It should have been one of the happiest hours of Merlin's life, and he'd spent it as taut as a drawn bowstring, just waiting for those damned thieves to attack. He should have been beaming like the noonday sun, not stiff and wary.

The spellbinders were a bit less tightly wound now that they'd gotten through the ceremony without disaster, but Lancelot could hardly call the atmosphere comfortable. He wasn't surprised when Merlin and Morgana held a quick muttered conversation, then separated. (Actually, it was a bit odd that they weren't using thought-speech, but watching people communicate without speaking was a bit creepy if you weren't used to it. They probably didn't want to spook anyone.) The witch strode towards the king, who grinned and clapped her on the back. The warlock mounted his horse again, directing the gelding back to his kin. "I'll walk you out," he announced.

No one argued. If Emrys wanted to keep them under his direct protection for a few minutes longer, they wouldn't say no to him.

If Lancelot had thought about it, he'd have expected the streets to empty out after everyone caught their first glimpses of the scary dreadful sorcerers. Instead, more people lined the streets. A few of them cheered or applauded as the party rode past, but those outbursts faded quickly. An undercurrent ran through the watchers, a constant murmur that waxed and waned like waves hitting the shore.

"I don't like this," Gwaine muttered.

"None of us do," Elyan shot back. "Leon, do you recognize anyone we should be worried about?"

"I don't see any of the missing guards or noble conspirators, no."

Lancelot scanned the crowd. He'd served in the guard once—Merlin had called him the only competent one of the entire lot—and he'd known some of the men whose disappearances implicated them in the vault-theft conspiracy. Unless they'd grown (or shaved) facial hair, he should be able to recognize them.

There! Lancelot twisted his neck, but the potentially familiar visage had melted away. The knight stood in his stirrups, squinting into the mass of humanity, but he couldn't find the man he'd thought he'd seen.

One of the spellbinders yelped. Lancelot's head whipped around just in time to witness a rock—not too big, but jagged enough to draw blood if it hit right—freeze in midair. The stone dropped, splitting when it hit the ground.

"Who threw that?" Gwaine growled. A few voices babbled answers, but they blurred together, drowned each other out, and Lancelot was fairly certain that the replies were contradictory. They also included curses and jeers and a couple suggestions about what various people could do with that rock, which did not help soothe the rogue knight's temper. His hand twitched toward his sword before returning to the saddle.

"Let's just get everyone out of here as quickly as possible," Merlin suggested softly.

"Excellent suggestion," Leon agreed. At his signal, the knightly escort tightened ranks, interposing themselves as living shields between the spellbinders and the crowd.

Lancelot's horse shivered beneath him. He stroked the poor thing's neck, leaned forward to murmur soothing nonsense, but he did not take his eyes from the crowd. Lancelot wasn't just scanning faces anymore, he was making sure that no one in throwing range held anything too dangerous. He didn't know what he'd do if he saw somebody holding another rock, but hopefully his obvious searching would deter any would-be miscreants.

The party was moving more quickly, now. The spellbinders began talking out loud, inane small talk in aggressively cheerful tones.

They made it two blocks before the second stone rocketed through the air, coming dangerously close to hitting Alator of the Catha before it disintegrated into dust.

The background noise rose like a storm surge. Another rock flew towards the spellbinders, arching over Elyan's head and nearly hitting one of the druids. It was followed by other stones, a selection of rotting vegetables, and a pair of shoes, all of which bounced off a shield of translucent gold that suddenly enveloped the magical leaders and their escort.

Voices rose and clashed. The crowd roiled as arguments broke out, followed shortly by the first fistfights. Three men charged into the thin gold shield, trying to break it with their bodies. "Swefne!" gasped another druid. The attackers collapsed just as other citizens grabbed them by the shoulders, trying to drag them away from their targets. The part of Lancelot that wasn't trying to figure out his next moves was impressed by the druid's aim.

Balinor pulled up to Leon. "Would you like us to teleport out right now?"

"We could help, though," Merlin protested.

"That might not be a good idea," Leon sighed. "I think your father's right, and it might be best to-"

The warlock's jaw set. "They have to get used to us sometime," he muttered, but the words carried no heat. "Everyone, start transporting back to our base. I'll bring the horses and knights back to Arthur."

"Merlin," his father began, "that's—"

"I know, Father. I know."

Balinor grimaced. "Be careful." Around them, the spellbinders began to disappear.

"We have to stay here, though," Lancelot pointed out. "It's our duty to stop this."

Merlin's scowl deepened. "Right, I'll be invisible then."

Knowing Merlin, that was as good as it would ever get. Lancelot nodded right as the last spellbinders teleported away. The shield dropped as an illusory wind swirled around Merlin. He vanished from view.

The knights sprang into action. Lancelot and Elyan aimed for a fistfight that had escalated into two men rolling around on the street, trying to smash each others' heads into the cobblestones. The two knights dragged them apart. Elyan's hostage was relatively calm, but Lancelot's tried to bite him. Lancelot punched the man's stomach. Wheezing, he fell.

"I've told Arthur—Gwaine, look out! I've told Arthur that there's trouble here. He's sending the guard."

Lancelot wished that he knew how to reply in thought-speech. It felt impolite to not thank the warlock for that. He'd just have to do it later.

(Gods, how awful this must be for his poor friend. Merlin should be celebrating, not subtly defusing a bloody riot. When this was over, Lancelot would… figure out something very nice for him. He really ought to focus on the present now.)

The riot wasn't nearly as bad as the ones from last summer when Uther had tightened his grip. Perhaps the knights' presence was enough to nip it in the bud, or perhaps most potential belligerents had remained in their homes. Whatever the reason, it ended within half an hour, as soon as the first reinforcements arrived. The combatants scattered, bloodied and bruised but not a one of them badly injured.

Lancelot would later learn that there were few other outbursts that day, none of which were as serious as the riot that he and his fellows had stopped. The worst incident was a bar fight. ("Wish we'd been there instead of on the streets," Gwaine grumbled.) It could have been so much worse, and there was a distinct possibility—a probability, even—that this wasn't the last outburst they'd see.

They'd expected this kind of resistance, but not so soon. Still, Lancelot consoled himself, it could have lasted longer, spread further, been more intense. Maybe the accelerated timeline meant that resistance would end sooner rather than later.

For his friends' sake, he hoped it would.

---

When the knights returned to the castle, Gwen was waiting for them. "Is anyone hurt?"

"No," Elyan said, just as Gwaine tattled, "Someone stepped on your brother's hand."

The other knight glared. "Traitor." Gwaine just grinned.

"Anyone else, Gwaine?"

"Nope."

Gwen turned to Leon. "Is Gwaine injured?"

The older knight's lips twitched. "Not that I saw."

"Right. Come on then, Elyan. Let's go to Gaius."

"I'm completely fine, you know," her brother groused, but he knew better than to resist. "I'll see you lot at the meeting," he told his fellows before following his sister through the halls. Servants and nobles alike stared at her, and low discussions rose in her wake.

Gwen had almost become accustomed to the whispers that had followed her around since her return to Camelot. She'd had practice dealing with them in the other kingdoms, which had loved gossiping about the unconventional ambassador from Camelot. While she'd hoped that the mutterings would stop once she returned to her own home, to live among people she'd known and worked alongside for years, she hadn't been too surprised to catch whispers of "She's a lady now." People gossiped. It happened. She'd gritted her teeth and borne it, content in the knowledge that the castle was full of many characters who were much more interesting and memorable than a former servant girl. She'd been right. The gossip had died down quickly, replaced by newer news, and she hadn't heard murmurs for days.

Then she'd gone and brought Excalibur to Arthur, and suddenly she was interesting again.

Nobody had witnessed Gwen pulling the sword from the stone. At least, she thought that nobody had seen her. She hadn't been paying much attention to her surroundings at the time, too worried about Arthur and Elyan and the others to think of anything but her goal. But people had seen her and Merlin bringing the supposedly gods-blessed blade to its rightful master, and they weren't stupid enough to overlook the implications even if they'd taken the illusory procession at face value. (Maybe they just… didn't know that spellbinders could produce such a complex illusion, so the possibility had never occurred to them? It had been Merlin's work, after all. He could do things that no one else ever could.)

She and Arthur hadn't had time to discuss this in detail, so Gwen had opted to avoid giving anything away. The former maid had spent the day and a half since drawing Excalibur strategically avoiding people who didn't already know about her and Arthur. When she wasn't attending formal functions, she was holed up in her quarters, fretting over her embroidery about how her father would react if he was the last person in Camelot to know about his daughter's romantic prospects.

The point was that Gwen wasn't immune to this particular species whispers yet. Walking down the hall, she was acutely self-conscious, fully aware of the absurdity of a serving girl marrying a king. Honestly, they probably thought she was some kind of power-hungry monster defying the will of the dead and the gods alike in the pursuit of her goals, and that her temerity would bring horrific divine and/or ghostly wrath upon the entire citadel.

"It wasn't even that bad of a riot," Elyan announced. His words cut through Gwen's spiraling thoughts like a scissors through fabric. She jumped slightly, looked askance at her brother. He continued, "No fatalities, no severe injuries for anyone, didn't last long, minimal property damage. Much better than last year."

"Hopefully that's a good sign," Gwen answered, glad for the distraction.

"I hope so too." Elyan opened Gaius's door. The physician had obviously been waiting for someone to appear; he'd been water for teas, mixing together a moist goop that lessened infection risk, and laying out other supplies. "Gaius, tell Gwen that I'm fine."

"I'll tell her the truth. Where are you injured?"

"Just some bruising here."

After a brief examination and the application of a numbing cream, Gaius pronounced Elyan free to go, though he advised against getting into fights for a few days.

A couple more citizens trickled in, so Gwen and Elyan bade Gaius farewell and stepped back out into the halls just in time to spot someone ducking around the corner. Gwen winced. She really hoped that this suspiciously hasty individual hadn't been eavesdropping—not that they'd said anything bad or incriminating, it was just the principle of the thing. The uplifted maid told herself that her worry was irrational, but she couldn't shake the unpleasant feeling.

"Leon said that he'll arrange a security meeting for four. You should come."

"I'm not sure if I could contribute anything."

"Maybe you could, though. You have good ideas sometimes."

"Only sometimes?"

"Only sometimes. But seriously, it couldn't hurt." By now, they'd reached Gwen's temporary chamber. As much as she missed the house, she knew she was safer in the castle. When the door closed behind them, Elyan lowered his voice and added, "You're going to have to go to a lot more of those meetings once you're queen."

"I know," Gwen agreed, "but with all the gossip going around, I'm not sure how appropriate it would be." She rubbed at her temples. "There's already so much gossip, I'm seriously considering asking Merlin or Morgana for transport to Listeneise so I can tell Dad before he comes back to Camelot. Then Arthur and I can make the official announcement. Oh, I hope Dad's not too hurt that I completely forgot to tell him."

Elyan shrugged, averted his gaze. "Think of it this way: It can't be any worse than when he found out about me and Pritchard."

"Pritchard was a tosser," Gwen reminded him. "That's what Dad cares about. That's what he's always cared about."

"I know that now. My point is that he likes Arthur. You've got better taste in men than I do."

"I'm more worried about his reaction to me forgetting to tell him. Besides, your taste in men has gotten better these last few years." She winked.

"Nope, Gwen, this is about you and how you definitely should talk to Dad as soon as possible. You don't get to change the subject."

His sister winced. "You're right, of course. Do you think they'll have time tomorrow?"

"You can ask them after the security council. But first, do you have anything to eat around here? I'm starving."

---

Leon had been looking forward to Merlin and Morgana's return to Camelot, to seeing them take their places as Arthur's advisors. This wasn't what he'd had in mind, though.

"First things first," Arthur told the people assembled around him. "Captain Brun, report."

The captain stood, sweat beading on his brow. "We've compiled lists of the missing magical artifacts and guardsmen. Thirty-five items have been stolen, and seventeen of my men are unaccounted for. We have not yet had time to investigate the former guards who were fired in last year's audit."

Leon thought of the Raven's Key, of all the devastation that a single artifact had wrought. "Which items?" he and Merlin asked simultaneously. They blinked at each other from across the table, then the warlock grinned and the knight's lips twitched into a small smile.

Brun looked between the Court Mage and the unofficial Head Knight, then decided to address his responses to Arthur. "Sixteen of the items are things called anti-scrying wards." He said the words as though not certain how to pronounce them, or as though he feared getting into trouble just for speaking them aloud. "They keep sorcerers from spying on anything within a certain radius, and the thieves absconded with Camelot's entire supply."

Merlin spoke up. "I did a bit of reading on anti-scrying wards. Apparently it was traditional to recharge them every time a new king was crowned."

Arthur perked up. "They have a limited lifespan?"

"They range in longevity from thirty to a hundred years. If I remember correctly, most of Camelot's are medium-sized and last about half a century, but the two or three smallest ones ought to be useless by now."

"Good," Arthur muttered, drumming his fingers along the table. "What else was taken?"

"Six blood girdles, four tireless halters, two skeleton keys, two flash stones, and all three Triplet Crystals."

"I don't like the sound of blood girdles," Arthur said.

"Don't worry about them," Merlin assured him. "They just make your wounds clot more quickly. Very useful if you're going to fight someone, but not dangerous."

"That's a relief. What are the other things?"

"Tireless halters improve the stamina of horses, skeleton keys can open any lock that hasn't been enchanted, flash stones create a brilliant light when activated, and I think that the Triplet Crystals are used to communicate across long distances." Merlin glanced at Brun, who'd had more recent access to the inventory list. The guard nodded. "Most of it is subtle magic, which could mean that they don't want anyone knowing about their hypocrisy."

Arthur nodded. "So we'll announce all the details as soon as possible, see if that can scare away some of their recruits."

Merlin grinned.

Leon asked, "What are the other two artifacts?"

Merlin's smile faded. Brun winced. The air itself tensed as everyone realized that the captain had saved the worst for last.

"One is a box containing the preserved remains of a Gean Canach."

Merlin's brow crinkled. He frowned, baffled, then his eyes went wide. "Please tell me that the other thing doesn't involve necromancy."

"…I'm afraid that it does. A certain rowan staff that can supposedly summon an army of the undead."

Leon's heart sank. "Can that be used in conjunction with the, er…?"

"Gean Canach," Merlin supplied. "I don't know offhand. I'll have to look into the staff, learn as much as I can about it."

"Question," interjected Gwaine. "What exactly is a Gean Canach?"

"It's a creature that can eat magic," the warlock answered. "They're supposed to be extinct, but Cornelius Sigan somehow got ahold of one. Maybe he resurrected it, though he obviously didn't use the staff for that or his gargoyles would've had some undead friends."

"At least they didn't take the Raven's Key," Gwen consoled everyone.

Morgana leaned forward, frowning deeply. "Merlin, what exactly do you mean when you say that the Gean Canach eats magic?"

"Exactly what I said. It can go up to a spellbinder and suck the power right out of them, rendering them completely unable to use any magic. It takes over a year, sometimes two, to recover. I don't think there's a limit as to how much magic they can absorb, either." He bared his teeth. "Thankfully, they're very flammable, and even if the traitors figure out a way to resurrect it with the rowan staff, we'll have a convenient warning in the form of an undead army. Bit hard to hide those."

"Except then we'd have to deal with an undead army," Arthur pointed out.

"It's not a perfect warning system."

The king glared. "Maybe we should focus on getting these artifacts back before our enemies can unleash an army of the undead on my people."

The humor faded from Merlin's face. "I think, Arthur, that that's a very good idea."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Brun Relates an Ominous Inventory"

So, um, sorry about posting 2 days late. I... yeah.

Next chapter: September 30. Merlin adjusts to being back in Camelot. Gwen and Tom have a long-overdue chat.

Chapter 9: Of Merlins

Summary:

The first 24 hours after magic is legalized.

Chapter IX: Of Merlins

Arthur pressed the royal seal into the last letter. "It's done," he told George. His manservant gathered the letters into his arms, taking them away for delivery.

Now that he was alone in his chambers, Arthur allowed himself a few moments of indulgence. He sighed, rubbed at his temples, closed his eyes. The summonses to Camelot probably wouldn't do anything, he was entirely aware of that. Still, a king had to at least try to head off the oncoming disaster, if only so that no one could say he hadn't tried.

The reprieve couldn't last. Arthur stood, adjusted his shirt, and made his way to the dining hall. With the Conference's business accomplished (except for the snag with Alined), it was time for the other monarchs to return to their own kingdoms. They would depart tomorrow morning; tonight, they feasted one last time. Tonight, Arthur would ignore his worries, forget about the day's riot, push the stresses of the future out of his mind.

Well, at least he'd try.

No matter what else happened, no matter how much they'd underestimated the opposition's cunning, they had legalized magic. Their triumph might not be as sweet as they'd hoped, but it was a triumph all the same. It deserved celebration.

The seating arrangements for this final feast had caused Arthur far too much stress. He'd vacillated time and time again between what to emphasize. Should the focus be on the incipient departure of the other kings (and Yvaine), or should he emphasize the return of magic? He'd almost descended to flipping a coin before deciding that the other monarchs had already been honored and fêted for days on end. This was magic's official return, so magic's representatives—namely Merlin and Morgana—would sit in the places of honor.

If nothing else, they would provide good conversation, not to mention insulation from questions about whether a former servant had really drawn Excalibur.

The witch and warlock were waiting for him by the entry to the hall. Merlin tugged uncomfortably at his torc, but Morgana was calm and resplendent in deep green. "Wait a second," she ordered her brother. She adjusted his crown, drew back, nodded in satisfaction. "Much better. We can go in now."

"Glad to have your permission," Arthur drawled.

They entered. Merlin and Morgana sat, but Arthur had to make a short speech—new era of friendship and prosperity, hope for the future, etc.—before he could join them. Sometimes he wondered what percentage of his time he spent making speeches. Perhaps he should have Geoffrey figure that out for him.

When Arthur finished, the servants entered with the first course. "This is bizarre," Merlin muttered, eyes flitting across the table. "It wasn't that long ago that I was standing where you are, George."

The manservant—who was not, to the best of Arthur's knowledge, secretly a long-prophesied warlock destined to restore magic—stiffened slightly, uncertain of the proper protocol. Arthur rolled his eyes, because of course Merlin would address a servant when he was sitting between two kings. Loth, seated at the warlock's right side, reddened with indignation.

Morgana came to the rescue. "It's a bit strange even for me, but in a good way."

"You'll both get used to it," Arthur assured them. "I know you didn't have much time between the security meeting and now, but have you managed to move back in?"

"Partly," his sister answered. "I'll finish up tonight. What about you, Merlin? What do you think of the Court Mage's tower?"

Something flitted across the warlock's face, but it was gone before Arthur could interpret it. "Much less dusty than I expected. Thanks for having it cleaned out, Arthur."

"Thank Guinevere. I wanted to make you do it yourself."

"Yes," interrupted King Rhodor, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly. "I heard the most fascinating rumors about her and the sword in the stone."

"Ah," said the King of Camelot. He shoved an impolitely enormous bite into his mouth and made a show of chewing. Morgana smirked. Merlin bit his lip to avoid laughing. Arthur kicked them under the table.

Rhodor just waited. Even worse, he wasn't the only monarch watching Arthur's delay with bated breath. Arthur wondered how he could change the subject. He needed to figure it out soon, as there was no way he could get away with not swallowing soon.

"Does the princess of the druids know about these rumors?" Morgana teased.

Arthur regretted his earlier kick. "The druids don't even have a princess," he groused.

"But all the rumors say you're marrying her," the witch protested. "How could they all be wrong?"

"Rumors are wrong all the time."

"Remember those rumors about how I killed and replaced you?" Merlin chimed in. "Do you think they'll stop now that we're in the same place at the same time, or will people come up with some other explanation?"

"Definitely another explanation," Morgana answered. "They'll say that you're disguised as Arthur, I'm disguised as you, and someone else is impersonating me."

"Probably the princess of the druids," Arthur muttered. Laughter echoed up and down the table.

Dinner went surprisingly well after that. Arthur had been worried about his warlock doing something to offend one of the other kings, especially because old Loth was right there, but Merlin was on his best behavior. That boded well for the future, as this wouldn't be Merlin's last formal dinner. Maybe it was those leadership lessons he'd mentioned a few times. Perhaps they were paying off.

By the end of the night, Arthur was pleasantly tipsy and significantly less anxious than he'd been all day. Part of him had expected yet another thing to go wrong, but it hadn't. Morgana had charmed everyone around her, Merlin had gotten to ramble on about the weirdest spells he knew, nobody had asked further uncomfortable questions about Guinevere, the traitors hadn't attacked, and there hadn't been any new riots.

Then Caerleon walked up to him as he left the table, and Arthur found himself wondering if the night was about to get bad again. Or maybe the other king was just too drunk to remember that his own chambers were elsewhere. A man could hope, couldn't he?

"Arthur," Caerleon called, and the younger king's hopes dissipated.

"Yes?"

"I need a word with you."

Damn it. "Of course." It wouldn't be appropriate to hold the meeting in his bedroom, so Arthur led Caerleon to the small council chamber, all the while thinking longingly of his bed.

Caerleon cut right to the chase. "What are your plans about Alined?"

"I haven't had a chance to think it through yet," Arthur answered. "What of you?"

"For starters, I'm going to keep an eye on him. He's a cunning bastard. If he's willing to defy the rest of us so openly, then it's because he has some other plan."

"Yes. He wants to establish himself as magic's greatest ally and attract spellbinders who otherwise would have gone to another kingdom."

"Oh, that's certainly his end goal," Caerleon agreed, "or at least one of them. But I doubt that this is the only step he's taken. If it is, I'll eat my crown."

"What do you think he's doing?" Arthur asked.

"Good question. I wouldn't be surprised if he's helping to supply your rebels and rebels in every kingdom but his own."

Arthur's eyes widened.

"Probably other things, too," Caerleon added. "I'm just not sure what. Just keep an eye out for him, Arthur Pendragon." He made as if to leave.

"Why are you telling me this?" the other king inquired.

Caerleon stopped, but he did not look back as he answered. "We've become allies. You spared my life, our men have fought together, and the woman you didn't deny would become your queen saved my daughter and grandson's lives. Annis would be quite irked with me if I didn't at least try to warn you about a potential threat."

"Thank you," Arthur said quietly.

The older king nodded, and then he walked away.

---

Merlin stood at the door of the Court Mage's quarters. A globe of blue-and-gold light floated at his shoulder, bright enough to light up a good portion of the spiraling staircase. He glanced down the steps to ascertain that nobody was there, then grimaced and stepped into his new chambers.

The first room was a sort of office, one where people could come to meet with the Court Mage on official business and request favors and other public affairs. There was an old desk in the corner, currently empty save for an inkwell. Three shelves had been built into the walls right next to the ash-dusted fireplace. Across the room, another door led to the smaller staircase that connected this floor with the library/lab and, eventually, his bedroom suite.

Closing the door behind him, Merlin performed a quick sweep of the room. Everything was as he'd left it. No traps, no assassins hiding under the desk, no dead, dismembered falcons—merlins—lying on his chair. A bit reassured, he walked up the stairs, through the library, up the stairs again, through the private parlor that was apparently necessary for someone of his new status, up yet more stairs, and finally into his new bedroom. No dead birds in any of those rooms, either. Whoever had left the first one, the one laid on his bed that had filled the entire chamber with the scent of blood, hadn't deposited another while he was away.

Merlin locked the door with a flick of his wrist and stripped down to his nightclothes. When it was time to lay down, he caught himself hesitating. He remembered the mutilated bird left on his bed, a threat in a place where he should be safe, and wondered if he really wanted to sleep here. Then a scowl marred his features, and he pulled back the covers in a harsh jerk.

He was not going to let a bunch of whiners who couldn't accept magic's return chase him out of his own bed.

The feather-stuffed mattress was soft, the pillow full and yielding, the sheets smooth, the blanket warm. Merlin had banished the bloodstains earlier, before he got dressed for supper, and he'd cremated the poor creature's body downstairs. He knew that he was only imagining the stubborn scent of copper.

It still took him far too long to fall asleep. When slumber finally caught him, he kept slipping through its grasp, haunted by unsettling dreams and startling awake at every quiet noise. Morning found the warlock almost as tired as he'd been last night.

Merlin wanted to sleep more, but today was his first full day on the job. He couldn't waste it lounging about in bed.

First thing on the agenda was a fancy public breakfast where he could be seen rubbing shoulders with royalty and nobility, a living reminder that Camelot had a Court Mage once again. Arthur was busy doing last-minute things with the other monarchs, who would all be departing after the meal, but Morgana stuck by his side and directed their conversation. (Gwen was there too, but she was content to let the other lady take charge.) Knowing full well that everyone in a twenty-foot radius was listening in, the witch asked the warlock to go over his plans for the day, the week, the forseeable future.

Between bites of very good breakfast, Merlin explained his goals. He would spend the morning conferring with his kin. ("Would you mind bringing me?" Gwen asked. "Dad is there too, and I really need to talk with him.") He'd have lunch with Geoffrey of Monmouth to go over a few legal and historical details that he hadn't been able to confirm while living outside of Camelot. The afternoon was dedicated to perfecting some of the programs that he'd cooked up over the winter, and he hoped to use the evening to socialize a bit with people he hadn't seen since before fighting Sigan. (Morgana had silently asked him to casually bring up how he'd saved Camelot, and to work in as many other positives about magic as he could.)

"What sorts of projects did you have in mind?" his brilliant lady asked.

"Lots of things. My main goal is to show people that magic is nothing to fear or hate, that it can help them and their families. The law has been changed, but hearts haven't. Well, not all hearts, at least, and you can't change them with laws and treaties. I want to reintegrate magic into society."

"Give an example," Morgana prompted.

"Well, let's start with healers. Albion lost so much knowledge during the Purge, and now there's only a handful of physicians in each kingdom, but the druids know herb-lore as well as healing magic. I know a bunch of druids who would be willing to train up healers in little villages, but I need a way to ensure that the druids are safe, so I'm going to use Geoffrey's records to see which villages had the fewest executions for our kin during the Purge. The druids can start with those places, then spread out once everyone's had more time to adjust."

"Good choice," Morgana told him silently. Out loud, she asked, "What if the townsfolk have changed and try to mistreat the druids?"

"Then the druids can leave, of course, unless they decide they want to give it another try." Merlin added just a little more volume to his voice. "We can't force people to treat us well, but if they choose not to behave with basic human decency, we have no obligation to go out of our way to improve their lives. Villages are perfectly welcome to sneer at our kin, but they shouldn't be surprised when other places begin to prosper and they're left behind."

It wasn't quite that simple. Merlin had every intention of courting detractors, of making friends from enemies. However, he refused to force other spellbinders to do the same. It wasn't fair to put the burden on the people who had been oppressed for so long; at some point, wider society would have to adjust without direct intervention. Villagers would travel to places that treated magic well, or attitudes would gradually soften when those other villages didn't burn to the ground upon accepting spellbinders. Merlin's job was to make that transition as smooth, quick, and just as possible.

"Gwen and I had a few ideas for Camelot," Morgana told him. Merlin knew this already; they'd spent hours in the dream world discussing these plans. As Court Mage, Merlin was responsible for all of Camelot, but Morgana and Gwen could take a narrower focus on the city of their birth, where they were personally known and well-respected. This discussion was for the benefit of their audience, so Merlin made an interested noise and gestured at her to go on.

Morgana obliged and spent the rest of their unnecessarily long breakfast telling Merlin about her and Gwen's ideas. Gaius could train up magical and non-magical apprentices. They could put on demonstrations of playful magic. They could set up little charms to make tanneries smell better and restore the old wards that had once protected the granaries from vermin. They had other ideas, too, but by then they could no longer feasibly draw out their meal without their stomachs exploding, and besides, Merlin had an appointment to make. They agreed to separate for a few minutes before reuniting for their travels.

They landed in Listeneise's general meeting area, the same place the Aithusa had hatched. Gwen scanned the crowd for her father, lighting up when he waved to her. She bustled off in his direction and wrapped him in a hug.

Merlin grinned at his own smiling parents as they approached him. Hunith carried Ganieda, while Aithusa draped across Balinor's shoulders. "How does it feel to be the Court Mage of Camelot?" Hunith asked, stretching up to kiss his cheek.

There was no point in lying to his mother. "Nerve-wracking, but in a good way. Er, a mostly good way. A little overwhelming. But I'm glad that magic is legal again. Obviously."

Hunith's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Later, Mother," Merlin promised reluctantly, making certain that only she and Balinor could hear his thought-speech. Hunith nodded ever so slightly, her dark eyes full of trepidation, but she said nothing either out loud or in the silence of their minds.

The people knew what had happened, of course, but Merlin summarized the events of the last few days anyway before launching into a brief summary of the legal issues and his own plans. He emphasized that Arthur had managed to include a time limit for the most onerous restrictions, that while things were worse than they'd hoped, their kin still had powerful allies.

"But King Alined doesn't have those restrictions at all," said Cyndyrn, neatly derailing Merlin's hopes for the day's discussion.

"He doesn't," the warlock was forced to admit. "Alined did, however, encourage everyone else to put those restrictions into the treaty." He wanted to start ranting at the hypocrisy, but Merlin bit his tongue and held his peace.

That news garnered a reaction, a low murmur of discontent. Good. Merlin couldn't ask his kin to go against their own best interests, but he had no qualms about reminding everyone how untrustworthy certain slimy kings really were. After that, though, it was up to them.

---

It had been too long since Gwen had seen her father, so she felt no (okay, very little) guilt about catching up for almost three hours before she finally broached the reason for her visit. The topic arose naturally, when Tom commented, "He's a good man and a good king. Camelot is lucky to have him."

"He is, and we are," Gwen agreed, looking down at her cup.

Although she couldn't see it, Gwen knew that her father was frowning. "What's wrong?"

His daughter fidgeted, nervously clasping and unclasping her glass. "It's a bit embarrassing, really, and entirely fault—not the thing itself, because that's a good thing, but the fact that I completely forgot to tell you and didn't even realize I'd forgotten until a few days ago. Arthur told me to blame Hunith, but it really is my fault entirely."

"But the thing is good?"

"The thing is good," she confirmed.

"And you didn't tell me about it because…?"

"The best time would have been when I told you about Morgana and how we were trying to sabotage Uther, but there was so much I'd already told you, I thought it could wait until things were a bit calmer. Then, of course, Morgana was exposed as a witch, you and I had to flee with her, the Isle was attacked, everything else."

"Too much going on," Tom agreed, "so something a bit less urgent was left out."

"Exactly!"

Her dad grinned. "That makes perfect sense to me. So what is it?"

Relief bubbled all through Gwen's body. "Arthur and I are getting married."

Tom's mouth went slack. He remained silent for a long moment, long enough that Gwen started to sweat. Then he choked out, "Arthur Pendragon?"

"Yes."

Tom nodded slowly, his mouth clicking shut. "All right. I—I can't say I expected this, but he is a good man. He treats you well?"

Gwen smiled. "All the time."

"Good." Tom smiled back, some of the shock leaving his eyes. "Good."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin Has a Stressful Move Without Even the Modern World's Compensatory Pizza to Soften the Blow"

Fun fact: Tanneries used urine to treat hides. That's why they would benefit from anti-stink spells.

I'm sorry for not responding to reviews. I... was on the edge of burnout from work and sort of went into low-energy survival mode. No reviews, no writing, barely even checking my email for a few days. I'm better now, though still not at 100%, and I'll do my best to answer reviews on Wednesday as per usual.

Next chapter: October 21. Morgana receives an unwelcome surprise.

Chapter 10: The Pyre

Summary:

Relax, it's not as scary as the title makes it sound.

Chapter X: The Pyre

"Busy, Gaius?"

"Not today, Morgana, especially if you help me grind this."

The witch glided over to the mortar and pestle. Gaius stepped aside for her with a smile and grabbed a handful of herbs. "I'm flattered that you came to see me so soon, but something tells me that this isn't a purely social visit." He took up a knife and began to chop his bounty.

"It's not," she acknowledged. "You've heard, right, that I'm trying to reach out to the people of the city?"

"And Merlin will focus on the countryside and the other cities."

"Exactly." There was something wrong with her angle, so she altered it slightly. Much better. "For the last few months, you've been living here as a once and future sorcerer." The physician huffed a laugh. "I suspect that you know better than anyone what the mood is regarding our people."

"I rather doubt that."

"Why?"

"I get a skewed sample of the population," Gaius explained. "Those who hate and fear sorcery avoid me unless their desperation overwhelms everything else, so I haven't seen the people you most need to reach."

"That makes sense. Still, you must have seen a lot of fence-sitters."

"Oh, certainly." The physician's smile was bright as noon. "And I like to think that I've opened at least a few hearts."

"Good." Morgana tipped the pestle, pouring the ground herb into a glass vial. "Tell me about it."

They worked for a time, Gaius relating a few of his more memorable experiences. There were parents who'd begged him to use magic on their dying offspring, promising to pay the fine themselves; he'd succeeded in most cases, but had twice arrived too late. There was the shy young man who'd asked if he could learn healing in secret, as his parents didn't want him to associate with a known sorcerer. There was the old fellow who was absolutely convinced that he was cursed and who'd accused Gaius of causing his impotence. There were others, too many others to count, who'd asked tentative soft questions, who'd listened to his stories, who'd made seemingly casual comments about how they'd once known a spellbinder.

But when Morgana pressed, Gaius detailed the other type of encounter, the sort that showed how much work they had yet to do. Glaring in the streets, loud complaints about the evil spellbinders who'd caused so much harm. A knife, buried almost to the hilt in the door of his chambers, and no one able to say who'd put it there. A drunkard spitting at his feet before fleeing into the shadows.

She had the lay of the land, now, so Morgana began bouncing her ideas off the physician. How did he feel about the druids operating a temporary healers' tent? Would he be able to train new apprentices to send them into the country? When could he start, and how many could he teach at a time?

A pair of squires stumbled into his chambers. They pulled up short at the sight of Morgana, who gave them a little wave before emptying the last powdered herb to its vial. "It was good to see you, Gaius."

"You as well, my lady. Tell that nephew of mine that he should visit soon."

"I think he's coming by tonight. Don't be surprised if he's here for supper."

Morgana returned to her room, half-lost in thought. Back in Corbenic, they'd celebrated the end of the Purge with colorful lights moving through the air like living art. Perhaps she could persuade some of her kin to put on a show, demonstrate that magic could be beautiful and harmless. Some people might come just out of curiosity, and curiosity was a good starting point.

She opened the door, turned to close it. Froze.

There was a miniature pyre beside her door, a collection of wooden boards and rough twine assembled in the unmistakeable shape of a witch's execution. Whoever had left the threat—for threat it was—had even tied a crudely carved human figure to the faux kindling, a human figure with no discernable features save its dark long hair, a streak of black paint running halfway down its back.

For a moment, Morgana was paralyzed in shock. Then she whirled around, eyes wild, scanning the room for any sign of an intruder. Nothing, at least not where she could see. Swallowing hard, Morgana summoned a globe of fire to her fist. She stalked over to her privacy screen. Her shoes clicked across the floor, but her heartbeat thundered more loudly still.

Nothing behind the privacy screen. Morgana kept searching. Nothing under her bed, nothing in the closet, no hidden booby traps waiting to shoot her full of poisoned darts. Nothing except the pyre, the threat, the clear statement that she was neither safe nor welcome here.

Whoever had planted the pyre must be nearby. They were probably still on the castle staff, or perhaps they worked in the guard. It would be someone who could go anywhere without arousing suspicion.

She might have passed them on her way back from Gaius's chambers.

Morgana shuddered. Once she started, she couldn't stop for what felt like an eternity but was really just a minute. Then the witch bit her lip, squared her shoulders. She glared at the pyre and considered burning it to a crisp, but she'd need it as evidence.

The pyre was heavy, but Morgana didn't let that slow her down. She stomped through the halls of the castle, too angry to flinch whenever someone made a sudden move. Soon she was at the door to Captain Brun's office. Her eyes flashed gold, and the door flew open.

Brun wasn't there, which made her dramatic entrance feel a bit silly, so Morgana deposited the threat on the captain's desk and spun on her heel. There was a guard passing by, so the witch demanded, "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Brun!"

"I—I don't know, my lady."

Morgana scowled. She was tempted to use thought-speech, but she had no idea how Brun would react to someone else's words ringing silently in his mind. He'd probably panic.

"I… I can help," the guard continued. "Maybe. At least we can see if I can help?" He looked like he was already regretting this decision.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you."

"Just doing my job, my lady." The guard stepped inside. "Er, I'm Maximus, by the way."

"I'm Morgana."

"I knew that," Maximus replied automatically. He glanced at the desk as though tempted to sit in it. When his eyes lit on the pyre, his eyebrows shot straight up. "Oh!"

"I found this in my chambers just a few minutes ago," Morgana explained. "Whoever put it there has to be nearby. I need to know who did this and who they're working with. Camelot needs to know who wants to sabotage our new peace."

"We'll find them, Lady Morgana. You have my word."

---

Merlin closed his eyes, but for a few moments, letters still swam across his vision. He shook his head to clear it. The imaginary letters disappeared. He closed his dry, complicated legal book without looking at the pages, then levitated it back to the bookshelf. Only when Merlin was certain that he wouldn't see the dratted tome did he open his eyes to gaze out the window. His body said that it was almost suppertime, but the sun's position disagreed. That made sense, though, as he'd eaten a big breakfast and a light lunch.

There was still enough time for one more meeting, so Merlin took out his scrying bowl and searched first for Rience—no luck, as 'Rience' was a damnably common name out east and nobody knew the pharmacist's patronym—then, when that only revealed some random toddler (as usual), for Iseldir. The druid chieftain and his band were camped in a vaguely familiar forest. Iseldir didn't look busy, so Merlin rode the whirlwind to his base.

"Hello, Iseldir, Duria, Mordred, Kara, everyone else."

The druids returned the greeting out loud and with thought-speech. Mordred, Merlin noted, looked oddly guilty, averting his gaze even as he said hello. His friend Kara elbowed him, but Mordred shook his head, mouth set in a stubborn line. Kara huffed, rolled her eyes.

Merlin didn't have time to contemplate their behavior. "What brings you here, Emrys?" Iseldir queried.

"I just wanted to touch base about the national healing program." He vaguely waved a fistful of notes. "I was able to get those last few legal details, so now Geoffrey of Monmouth and his assistants are going to start on the executions data. We obviously can't implement the program until we know what's safe, but I thought we could at least iron out a few more details."

"Of course." Iseldir gestured at his tent.

They spent a productive hour or so on business before concluding that they couldn't accomplish anything further, so they ought to speak of other things. Naturally, the first question Iseldir asked was how Camelot in general was adjusting to the change.

Merlin's smile froze. He tried to inject more light into it, but the druid wasn't fooled. "Not as well as you'd hoped, I take it."

The warlock sighed. "It's not like I thought that legalization would be the end of it," he confessed. "I always knew otherwise. There will probably still be anti-magic sentiments in Camelot long after Arthur and I are dust in the ground. But I'd hoped that… that we could have a bit more breathing room to celebrate the end of the Slaughter before the really vitriolic backlash started."

"But our enemies, too, have made good use of the winter," Iseldir murmured, "and because part of the battleground is public opinion, we are limited in what we can do."

"Exactly," Merlin grumbled. "That and basic human decency."

It would be easy, once he finally found a way around the anti-scrying wards, to kill the anti-magic rebels. It would take him just a few minutes. But that wouldn't sow seeds of hatred and vengeance in the hearts of the rebels' loved ones, it would scatter those seeds far and wide. His goal was to break the red spiral of revenge, not perpetuate it by killing people who might genuinely believe that magic was innately evil. He'd rather fight bigots than terrified men and women trying to protect their country, though he'd fight them too if he must. The trick was separating the deluded from the hate-filled, and Merlin had no spell for that.

"Many of them will come around eventually," Iseldir assured him. "The hatred might always remain, but you can weaken it from a fire to mere embers."

"With time and effort and trial and error, yes," Merlin sighed. "I just wish it were faster and easier."

"We all do."

A few moments passed in glum silence. Merlin broke it with a clumsy change of subject. "Say, is something wrong with Mordred? He seems a bit… off."

"In a way," Iseldir answered. "He has bouts of pensiveness that come and go. Something weighs heavily on him in those moments, but he's told no one save Kara and possibly Arthur Pendragon, when he sojourned with us last year."

"Arthur?" Merlin echoed, surprised. His king had many good qualities, but he wasn't the type to invite emotional confidence. That Mordred had spoken with him over Iseldir was downright bizarre. Perhaps he thought that the older druid was too close to the issue, that he'd needed outside perspective. "Do you mind if I talk to him? I could maybe help."

"You can ask, but I don't know if he will answer."

So Merlin went out to find Mordred, who nearly evaded him but was betrayed at the last moment by Kara. The friends exchanged glares. Merlin wondered if he should just leave well enough alone but, well, he'd never been good at that. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," answered Mordred, not meeting the older warlock's gaze.

Merlin considered. "All right," he said slowly. "If there was something wrong, I'd volunteer to help or listen or whatever you need, but since there isn't, do you want to just catch up instead? It's been a while since I saw you last."

Those pale eyes narrowed with suspicion, but their owner nodded. "You've probably been doing more than I have, Emrys. I've just been wandering around learning more magic and foraging for mushrooms and things like that." Something flitted across his face too quickly for Merlin to make out, but then the druid added, "While you have been fulfilling your destiny."

"Trying to, at least," Merlin admitted. "I'm sure you've heard by now that we're facing a bit more pushback than we anticipated—nothing we can't handle, of course, but not ideal either."

"But your destiny ensures success." Mordred looked away. "It must be nice, having such a good fate to comfort you."

A prophecy seized Merlin by the throat, bubbled up in him like a sacred spring. His voice resonated with power and promise as he declared, "Your own destiny is kinder than you think, Sir Druid. Take heart: You will never betray Arthur Pendragon, not even in the hour of his death."

Mordred gaped at him, jaw slack, eyes bulging. The druid camp had fallen silent, voices and thought-speech petering out in response to Merlin's thunderous proclamation.

Kara punched her friend's arm, a triumphant grin on her face. "I told you so," she gloated.

"I…." Mordred looked at her, at Merlin, at their curious audience. His throat bobbed. "I… th-thank you, Emrys. I needed…." He turned away, overwhelmed but smiling. "That's good to know."

"I suppose you're welcome." Mordred had been… worried about his own destiny? Merlin remembered, now, that Arthur had started asking questions about the nature of fate and prophecy after he'd met with these druids, after he'd spoken with Mordred.

What an interesting coincidence.

But, Merlin supposed, it sounded like Mordred wasn't going to do anything terrible. On the other hand, if he was so frightened of his destiny that he'd sought reassurance from Arthur of all people, he could probably use a bit more encouragement.

Merlin leaned over, spoke in a low murmur. "Prophecies are strange things. They're like—fragments of sentences from lost texts in a different language. You can sort of get the picture, or at least a picture, but you won't know for certain until the prophecy actually comes to pass, and they'll often do that in ways you'd never expect. Sometimes I wonder if the gods give them to us as a lark. Still, this is a good prophecy that I gave you. I don't know what else you've heard about your potential destiny, but… try not to worry too much about it, okay?"

"Okay." Mordred's head jerked in a nod. "Goodbye, Emrys. I need to—eat supper."

"So do I. I'll see you soon."

---

Arthur didn't hear about the threat against Morgana until supper, when he asked Guinevere where their magical friends had disappeared to and she replied that they were probably still with the guards. That had been an unpleasant surprise, and he'd taken it with much less grace than Tom's reaction to their engagement (though Guinevere was more than half-convinced that her father was still in shock).

"A death threat? Someone left a death threat in Morgana's own chambers?"

"Yes." Guinevere's tone was apologetic. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew." Anticipating his next question, she went on, "The guards haven't found the culprit yet. They've talked with a few suspects, but so far everyone has had an alibi."

Arthur stabbed at his potatoes with unwarranted venom. "So there's definitely at least one person in this castle who's willing and able to threaten my s—foster-sister's life. They're probably a spy for the enemy, too."

"Probably," Leon agreed.

"They might not be in the castle, though," Elyan speculated. "You saw petitioners today, right?"

Gwaine shook his head. "The petitioners would have to smuggle in all the materials. No, it's somebody with full access to the castle."

Percival pushed his plate away, eyes wide with alarm. "They've checked the kitchens, haven't they?"

Arthur's other dining companions eyed their food with varying degrees of trepidation. "They must have," Guinevere concluded. "Unless the entire guard was in on it, someone would have checked there before letting the king and half the court eat. Besides, they're primarily after spellbinders." She grimaced. Arthur wondered if she was remembering the attack on the Isle of the Blessed.

"Plus none of us are foaming at the mouth yet," Gwaine joked.

Guinevere frowned at him. "But we should take extra precautions now that we know for certain an enemy is at large. Ask Gaius to make sure his antidotes are up to date, screen visitors more carefully, things like that."

"We could use a buddy system," Leon suggested. He didn't say that scouts often did so during wartime.

Gwaine scowled. "Nothing like treating your own home like an active war zone, right? I wish that the rules of scrying were different and Merlin could just tell that magic bowl of his to show us the spies, maybe make them glow purple or something so they'd be easier to spot."

"We could try luring them into a trap," Isolde suggested.

"I like the way you think," Gwaine chortled. "Let's talk with Merlin and Morgana after dinner, see if they can come up with some kind of illusion or booby trap."

"Merlin has Sigan's grimoire," Guinevere recalled, "and Sigan's tomb was full of traps. Maybe he can modify something so that it won't affect the serving staff."

They spent the rest of supper concocting increasingly elaborate and ridiculous magical booby traps, few of which were entirely ethical and many of which, they would be told, were either impossible or ridiculously difficult. After dinner, they traipsed to the Court Mage's apartments, where they found a scowling Morgana, a sheepish-looking Merlin, and a guard who would rather be anyplace else.

"Guess who else got a death threat but didn't bother telling anybody about it?" Morgana growled.

"You too, Merlin?" exclaimed Guinevere.

"Why would you not tell anyone?" Arthur demanded.

The warlock muttered some inanity about how it had made sense in his head. Arthur sighed, rolled his eyes. "You're the Court Mage, you twit. An attack on you is an attack on my entire government."

Familiar mischief flitted across Merlin's face. "Did you just call your entire government a twit, sire?"

"That kind of attack doesn't count," the king decreed. "We have a few suggestions about ways to catch whoever threatened you."

Morgana's smile was a vicious thing. "Do tell."

They told.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Morgana Teaches Merlin the Appropriate Reaction to a Threat Against One's Person"

Next update: November 11. Gwen goes on a trip to town. Merlin and Morgana tell stories. Probably more things, but the author needs to do a lot of heavy editing because the original direction I went in was stupid.

I'll be doing a lighter version of NaNo this year. The full 50k leaves me unable to write for most of December and January, so I'll try 30k this time in the hopes of avoiding that nasty burnout. Theoretically, I should be able to finish the first draft of the entire fic by the end of the year. Once that's done, I'll start posting once a week instead of every 3 weeks.

Chapter 11: The Secret of King March

Summary:

Gwen visits the people. Merlin and Morgana host a storytime.

Chapter XI: The Secret of King March

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Gilli asked for what must be the twelfth time.

"Yes," Gwen reiterated. "Someone needs to reach out to the people who are uncomfortable around spellbinders, who seek to avoid them, and I have experience explaining Arthur's plans."

"To stuffy monarchs, not the smallfolk," Gilli replied.

"Those smallfolk are the people I grew up with."

"They also think you're a witch," Isolde pointed out, "and then there's all those very true rumors about you and the sword in the stone. Maybe wait until you and your fiancé have made the official announcement before you start this… outreach thing."

Gwen winced. She'd hoped that the rumors about her having magic would have faded by now. Instead, they'd returned with a vengeance, merging with the tales about her and Excalibur so that people were claiming she'd used evil magic to subvert the will of the gods. The maid-turned-lady wasn't entirely certain that this new tale had originated naturally. Merlin and his kin had used the rumor mill very effectively in the last year and a half, and Gwen feared that they'd inadvertently inspired their enemies.

"I'd really rather nip some of the wilder suggestions in the bud," she told her friends. "And I think it might help people to see that those of us without magic can get along perfectly well with spellbinders, just as I do with Merlin and Morgana." She didn't mention Gilli and Sefa. They'd opted to keep their own magical abilities secret for a while longer, hoping that tensions would lessen sooner rather than later so they could safely be themselves.

"I don't think we're going to change her mind," Tristan sighed. "You know how stubborn she gets."

"I'm stubborn?" Gwen echoed, only to be met by a unanimous chorus of affirmation. She hmphed, mock-outraged, before confirming, "You're right, you won't change my mind about this. I was thinking we could start with some neighbors of mine who were always rather vocal in their hatred of sorcery. Would any of you like to come with me?"

Sefa preferred to remain behind, but Gilli, Tristan, and Isolde agreed to accompany Gwen on her self-imposed quest. They set out for Gwen's neighbors after only a brief stop by Geoffrey of Monmouth's library to pick up some of the statistics he'd compiled. While Gwen had memorized a fair few of those numbers over the previous winter, she wanted the papers as a talisman against accusations of making things up.

The first stop went a thousand times better than she'd expected. It turned out that Gwen's old neighbors had kin among the druids, so they'd been extra-loud in their fake hatred of magic as a defense mechanism. Now that magic was legal, they were looking forward to reuniting with their relatives.

It went so well that Gwen and her entourage were lulled into a false sense of security. They stopped in a tavern for lunch, intending to mingle with the general public.

That was when things started to go wrong.

They'd just ordered their food when Gilli nudged Gwen. She followed the warlock's gaze to a table by the wall full of citizens who watched them with suspicion. Gwen smiled at them, gave a little wave. A child waved back, opened her mouth as if to say hello, before her mother (or possibly an aunt) grabbed her wrist. "Don't talk to witches."

"Yes, Mama," the little girl mumbled.

"I'm actually not a witch," Gwen replied, "or a sorceress either. Some of my dearest friends have magic, though, so rumors started that I do too."

"A traitor either way." The mother spoke softly, but her voice carried, and she kept her gaze fixed on Gwen's face. A challenge, and one that the maid-turned-lady intended to meet.

"I want what's best for all the people of Camelot, as does our king. I don't see how that counts as treason."

The woman stood. "Magic has no place here," she declared, jaw jutting out, chin lifted.

In Gwen's peripheral vision, Gilli flinched. Tristan and Isolde shifted closer to him.

"Magic has always been here," Gwen retorted. "Magic quite literally built this city."

"And then Sigan turned traitor," the other woman sneered. "I haven't forgotten him destroying my house last year." A murmur went up from her family.

"Come off it," scoffed the barmaid. "The fire burned down one wall before the magical rainstorm quenched it. Your home took more damage from the riots."

"Riots incited by people like her," snapped a man who was presumably the first arguer's husband, pointing at Gwen and her party. "Maybe she did it herself!"

"I distinctly remember her starting a fire brigade for at least one of them, though," a bystander interjected.

With that, the floodgates burst. Everyone in the tavern had been watching, but now they felt able to chime in with their own opinions and anecdotes. Magic was evil, magic was neutral, magic was wonderful. It healed, killed, cursed, blessed. It had no place in Camelot and shouldn't even exist; the city had, as Lady Gwen pointed out, been built by magic, and Court Mages had served loyally for hundreds of years. Arthur Pendragon was weak, foolish, brainwashed, brave, brilliant, good, strong. He didn't know what he was doing. He was secretly planning to use this apparent reversal to lure magic out of hiding and wipe it out for good. He was guided by his conscience to do what was right. He was weak and short-sighted, and his foolishness would doom them all.

The entire pub was involved. Workers debated (or yelled at) customers, who debated (or yelled) right back, giving as good as they got. One man got up and started shouting about how sorcerers shouldn't be allowed near children because they would groom the little innocents into their evil sorcerous ways. When the bouncer (whose shift, he grumbled to Gwen, wasn't supposed to start for hours, and who had been summoned from his home to deal with this) dragged him out, he was going on about how the sorcerers were also planning to replace the nobility with sorcerers disguised as nobles. Thankfully, by that point, the other arguments were loud enough to drown him out.

Gwen and her companions split up for maximum coverage. Each one approached a… discussion… and began defending magic. Her cluster consisted of four customers and two staff who were evenly divided between pro-magic, ambivalent, and anti-spellcaster.

The argument involved a great deal of repetition, basic education, and generous usage of Sir Geoffrey's statistics. One of the magic-haters flatly refused to listen to any of Gwen's points, digging in deeper every time she opened her mouth, but the other seemed to be softening somewhat, one previously undecided individual was now cautiously supportive, and the other uncertain citizen was definitely more open to magic's return, although she remained unconvinced. Perhaps Gwen could have made more progress, but the irate bouncer stalked over then and kicked them all out.

"Is anybody else exhausted from that?" asked Gilli.

"Yes," Tristan groaned as Isolde and Gwen silently nodded.

"At least we had some successes." Gwen tried to be optimistic.

"Did you?" Tristan asked. "For me, it was like trying to punch down Hadrian's Wall."

"Same," Isolde sighed.

"I definitely convinced one person," Gilli assured them.

"As did I," Gwen seconded, "and I think someone else softened, but…."

"Some of them don't want to change," Tristan finished for her. He met her eyes. "What are we supposed to do when someone chooses hate over everything else?"

"I don't know," Gwen was forced to admit.

"What else can we do but keep trying?" Isolde sighed.

"Keep them from causing damage, that's what," Gilli replied. "Take away their power to act on that hate so that they can't hurt anybody."

"That's exactly it," Gwen agreed. "I wonder…. Do you think that we can ever completely eliminate that, that kind of thinking?"

Gilli's eyes were tired. "No. But we should never stop trying."

---

Merlin had to hand it to Cornelius Sigan. The man certainly knew how to make people regret entering his territory, and he'd thoughtfully recorded dozens of nasty traps in his grimoire. While some of them were a bit gruesome and/or fatal for Merlin's tastes, there was enough left over to keep unwanted visitors out of the warlock's new home.

The spell he eventually chose was one of the simpler ones, an enchantment that would knock out anyone who entered Merlin's solar when he wasn't there. He wouldn't be able to have servants, but that was all right. He'd been uncomfortable with the idea of his own staff anyways, and besides, his magic was so much more efficient with chores.

There were a few other spells that looked promising, but Merlin didn't have time to put them up. He tried scrying various people, including King Alined (still on the road. How boring), without expecting to see anything useful. Sure enough, most of his targets were sticking close to the anti-scrying wards, and when he tried to find Rience the pharmacist, he found yet another random fellow with that name. Grumbling, Merlin put away his scrying materials and headed to his next engagement.

When Merlin was a boy, his magic had bubbled up in him like a wellspring. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop it entirely. He'd dream of magic and wake to find his blankets levitating and his mother checking to make sure that the curtains were closed.

So Hunith had decided to have her son channel the magic into something inconspicuous. He could whip up dust with little air currents, forming tiny tornadoes and sudden gusts. As his control had grown, he'd learned to shape the dust into increasingly complex states. By age ten, he could make little human and animal figures from dust, ash, and embers. Hunith would tell a story, and Merlin would act it out with his ephemeral puppets.

The dust figures were a bit too indistinct for what Merlin and Morgana had in mind, but the idea—using magic to illustrate stories—was a sound one. They were going to hold a storytime. First Merlin would speak and Morgana would demonstrate with crude figures of light (the illusions couldn't be too complex lest people remember the procession of the dead), and then they'd switch. Depending on how well things went, they might repeat the process.

His lady was waiting for him by a public bench, her hand raised in greeting. The people of Camelot left an empty space around her, not quite daring to get too close to the witch. They did the same for Merlin, which he told himself was a good thing because he didn't have to worry so much about traffic.

"Chosen your stories yet?" the warlock called.

"Of course. You?"

"Of course," he echoed. Morgana rolled her eyes, but the gesture was a fond one. "You've heard of King March ap Meirchion, right?"

Her eyes softened. "I've heard a couple versions. I assume that your mother always told you the nicer variants?"

"Yes," Merlin admitted. Pink tinged his cheeks. Was it really that obvious why he liked the tale? "But you're ready?"

She spoke the incantation, summoning beams of light that she sculpted into a crude humanoid figure with horse ears. The shape was mostly purple, but a band of gold encircled his head.

The people flinched away, but some of them—enough of them—slowed or even stopped. Perhaps they were just incredulous about spellbinders using magic in broad daylight, but Merlin liked to think that a few were curious.

"King March ap Meirchion had a secret," Merlin began. The light puppet pressed a finger to the place its mouth should have been. "Specifically, he had the ears of a horse. No one knew this except his faithful barber—" A second figure, this one silver-gray, appeared next to the king "—who was sworn to secrecy." The barber pressed a finger to his own lips and nodded. He and March smoothed the king's ears, hiding them against his head.

"But the secret weighed heavily on the barber. One day, he could stand it no more." The gray figure knelt on the ground. "He whispered what he knew to the earth. It lightened his burden, and he went home with a smile. However, reeds sprang up where the barber had spoken—" Morgana summoned thin strands of green "—and these reeds were cut into pipes." A new figure, this one red, plucked up the green reeds and pushed them together. It strode towards the other characters, pressing the new instrument to its mouth.

"The piper played before the king, but he really should have tested his pipes out before attempting to entertain royalty." Someone chuckled. Morgana grinned; she'd heard it too. "The pipes sang out that the king had horse's ears before the whole court." The witch muttered the spell again, conjuring three flickering figures of dusky gold. March, the barber, and the piper shimmered as though about to dissolve, but Morgana stopped them in time.

"March ap Meirchion was appalled, humiliated, furious. His horse ears snapped right up, quivering with emotion and confirming the newborn rumor. The poor barber fell to his knees to beg for mercy." The gray figure did just that, arms outstretched imploringly. "But despite his rage, March was a just king and a good man. He knew that the barber hadn't meant for this to happen, so he declared that the man would not stand trial for an accident. His forbearance so impressed the court that they didn't even mind his ears, but accepted them completely." The courtiers clapped in unison. March's ears twitched. "And the barber served a good king for the rest of his days."

The light puppets bowed, vanishing into a burst of sparks. A few onlookers clapped a few times, quickly falling silent when others glanced askance at them. It was about what Merlin had expected.

"My turn," Morgana announced. "Long, long ago, centuries before Camelot was founded, a Greek king abandoned his infant daughter in the woods." Merlin muttered the incantation, hastily conjuring a March-like purple figure and another, much smaller form in light purple. He'd never heard this story before, so he'd have to stay on his toes. "The girl's name was Atalanta, and she was raised by bears." A shaggy brown quadruped nuzzled at the little lavender shape.

"Growing up as she did, Atalanta became a talented hunter, a skilled wrestler, and the fastest runner in all Greece." Merlin conjured a little table between Atalanta, now full-sized, and the bear. They began to arm wrestle, with Atalanta quickly triumphing. Morgana's lips twitched as a few chuckles arose from the crowd. "Eventually, word of her legend spread to other kingdoms, and a prince named Meleager invited her to become his hunting companion." Meleager's figure was a very dark purple. He came to Atalanta with a small pack of gray hounds and offered her a spear. The hounds wagged their tails.

"They fell in love, but it was not to be. Meleager died—" The dark figure vanished. The dogs and woman lowered their heads "—and Atalanta returned to the land of her birth, where she somehow reconciled with her father. I've always thought he took advantage of her grief in the hopes of using her for a marriage alliance now that she was so accomplished and famous, but that's just my theory." Merlin, grinning, made the king-shape rub its hands together in exaggerated greed. The audience laughed again, more loudly this time.

"But Atalanta wasn't about to marry someone unworthy. She declared that she wouldn't marry any man who could not beat her in a footrace. Anyone was welcome to try, but if they lost…."

Merlin conjured a pair of bears licking their chops.

"Probably not that," Morgana chuckled, "but the losers did forfeit their lives."

"Do you have any proof that she didn't feed them to her bears?"

"I suppose not," she admitted. "Anyways, a few men tried, but nobody could outrun Atalanta. Merlin, stop that!"

"No," the warlock said. The bears, their tongues lolling, continued dragging a yellow figure away.

"You're ridiculous," she teased. "But back to the story. One day, a man named Hippomenes approached Atalanta for a footrace." Hippomenes was blue. He and Atalanta lined up by a freshly conjured starting line as the king and the bears watched. "But Hippomenes had a plan. He had prayed to the goddess of love, who gave him three golden apples and told him to use them during the race."

"How exactly does one use an apple in a footrace?"

"Three apples, and you'll see." Morgana winked. "The race started, and Atalanta immediately took the lead. Halfway down the track, though, Hippomenes flung the first apple as hard as he could. Atalanta saw it. Curious, she veered off-track, slowing down enough to pick it up. This gave Hippomenes enough time to pass her, but by the time they reached the end of the track, she'd caught up to him again. Hippomenes threw the second apple, and once again, Atalanta went after it. Hippomenes turned around and made for the starting line, which was also the finish line. It took Atalanta longer to catch up this time, but soon she pulled ahead. They were almost at the finish line when Hippomenes, with a silent prayer to the goddess, threw the third golden apple aside. Perhaps the apple was enchanted, or perhaps Atalanta was impressed by Hippomenes's cunning. Either way, she went to grab that one, too, and Hippomenes won the race."

The bears clapped Hippomenes on the back. He and Atalanta shook hands.

"They were married, and spent many happy years together. Contrary to what Merlin is implying, the bears did not conduct the handfasting."

"Says who?"

Merlin's characters bowed, then dissolved into a shower of sparks. The audience—and it was a proper audience, too, one that had stopped to watch—applauded. These claps were the loudest yet, and so was the laughter.

"Bears can't talk."

"Maybe Greek marriage customs are different than ours and don't require the officiants to talk."

"You're impossible."

"And you love it!" Merlin turned to the crowd. "Any requests for our next tale?"

Silence fell. Apparently having the scary spellbinder actually address them was more intimidating than just watching a show. As the quiet stretched on, Merlin began to fear that he'd pushed too far.

Then a voice piped up. It was a child, too young to fully understand the significance of her request. "Are there any more stories about Atalanta? I want to see more bears."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin Takes Artistic Liberties with Greek Mythology"

So. I'm a week late. I'm sorry about that. And I failed again to answer reviews. I'm sorry about that too. It's been... very stressful in my life lately, and I'm not even 100% certain why. NaNo's not going so well either.

Next update: December 2. Arthur holds an important meeting, Merlin hears disappointing news, and Gwen makes an alarming discovery. I will be on time this time!

Chapter 12: The Man on the Throne

Summary:

A long but important meeting, followed by an alarming discovery.

Chapter XII: The Man on the Throne

Leon was not surprised when Arthur asked him to discuss strategies for putting down a potential revolt, but the confirmation nonetheless weighed heavily in his stomach. He approached the small meeting chamber slowly, though of course that wouldn't ward off the upcoming violence.

When he arrived, he found Arthur and Morgana already there. The witch was telling him about her show in the square that afternoon. The king listened with the air of someone who'd heard enough already and was not interested in further details but couldn't think of a polite way to escape. Leon took pity on his liege and cleared his throat. "Who else will be here?"

Gratitude flitted across Arthur's face as he rattled off a list of names. Leon raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure everyone will fit?"

"Yes. I had extra chairs brought in." He scowled at the table as though it had offended him. "Do you think it would be easier to hear everyone if this was shaped like a sunburst?"

"What?" Leon and Morgana asked simultaneously.

"A sunburst," Arthur repeated, drawing the shape in the air. "Only the spikes would be blunted so we could fit someone there, too."

"Why not just do a round table, then?" Leon wondered. His confusion had not alleviated the slightest bit. "Seems a bit less likely to have people backing their chairs into everyone else's chairs that way."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "The ancient kings of Camelot did that," he recalled. "They had circular tables to represent the equality of all those seated there."

"Or they didn't like running into corners," Morgana joked.

"Who didn't like running into corners?" asked Elyan as he swanned into the room with his sister and her retinue.

"No one," Morgana answered, just as Arthur replied, "The ancient kings."

People arrived quickly after that: Leon's parents, Geoffrey of Monmouth with Blanchefleur at his heels, Merlin and Gaius, the Captain of the Guard, the rest of Arthur's favored knights. They chatted as they took their places, but when Gwaine settled in and the king called for silence, they quieted immediately. This meeting might be between friends (and Brun) who shared the same goals, but their subject matter was as serious as life and death, and they all knew it.

"We need to discuss the rebellion," Arthur stated. "Merlin, have you had any success in scrying them?"

"None so far, sire," the warlock sighed.

"Right. Keep trying twice or thrice a day. They can't stay in range of the wards forever." Merlin nodded, his lips set. Arthur turned to Brun. "How fares the investigation into the death threats?"

"Not well, sire." The captain launched into more detail. Leon was pleasantly surprised to realize that the guards actually were doing a good job, even if it wasn't successful (yet, he hoped). He was particularly intrigued when Brun mentioned that one of the servants with access to Merlin's chambers had left suddenly, citing a death in his family. "To me, fleeing like that is as good as a declaration of guilt."

"Not necessarily," Merlin interjected. "It means they don't think they'll be able to prove their innocence. That's not quite the same thing."

Brun looked baffled, but Arthur nodded slowly. Warm pride glowed in Leon's chest. "Send a man to confirm the story," the king ordered. "If Dougall really has lost his father, give him my condolences."

"Yes, sire," the still-confused captain confirmed.

The meeting continued in that vein for a good long while. Leon and his fellow knights had inconspicuously surveyed the city from a military perspective, locating a few weak spots in their defenses that could be exploited by an insurgent army. Gaius and Merlin had found records of the citadel's magical defenses, and the warlock already had plans to bolster them. Geoffrey and Blanchefleur had compiled a list of nobles who'd already responded to Arthur's recent letter. Most of them had declared fealty, but three conspicuously did not. (Several other nobles had failed to respond, but Camelot was a big enough kingdom that mail took time to travel.) They gave the relevant names over to Merlin, who by this point had acquired quite an impressive list, to scry.

There were other items on their unofficial agenda, mostly reports on public sentiment regarding magic. However, Morgana forestalled that with a simple question: "What will you do to the perpetrators once we've put down this rebellion?"

Silence fell, not the comfortable sort into which friends often lapsed but the tense, heavy type that always felt like the air before a downpour.

"…I am still considering my options," Arthur said. It was a diplomat's answer, the sort used when the asker wouldn't like the answer.

Morgana frowned, her brow furrowing. "All right," she said, voice still light and airy, "what are some of your ideas?"

Leon intervened. "Are you looking for suggestions, Arthur?"

"Not at the moment."

It really should have been enough, but Morgana was like a dog with a bone sometimes. Leon respected that, but gods knew it could be inconvenient. "Why not?" she asked. "The sooner the better, and it's hardly outside the scope of the meeting to discuss the end goal of this mess."

Arthur attempted another deflection. "I will do what the law indicates, nothing more and nothing less."

"The legal precedent varies widely," his foster-sister pointed out. "Bruta executed the leaders, married his loyalists to the rebels' female kin, and displaced the foot soldiers with their families. Your great-great-grandfather did all that and decimated the foot soldiers, but his son left the peasantry in place and confiscated half the nobles' fortunes. I was always told that his choice led to Vortigern gaining power."

Arthur looked like he'd bitten into a moldy lemon. "If you wish to make suggestions, I will consider them, and then we can turn back to the meeting."

Morgana considered, then accepted the compromise. She folded her hands neatly on the table and stated, "I think you should most closely mirror Bruta's actions. Execute the rebel leaders and dispossess their heirs. Grant their properties and titles to those who have served you loyally. As for the foot soldiers, start developing a plan of relocation to dilute them as much as possible. Also, put them under a sort of legal probation so that they'll face harsher penalties for disobeying the law. Only execute peasant soldiers who have committed particularly egregious crimes."

The king relaxed, as did most of the rest of the room. Morgana's suggestions were on the harsher side of reasonable, but they weren't disproportionate. Arthur would probably go for something a bit more lenient to better fit with his presentation as a merciful king who wanted the best for all his citizens, but this plan could work.

"I'll consider it," Arthur reiterated, considerably warmer than before. "But for now, let's return out attention to the agenda we had planned. Guinevere, what do you and yours have to report?"

"We went out to speak with the people directly…."

---

"We've been talking," Cyndeyrn said.

Merlin kept his face smooth, unruffled, pretending that there wasn't a frission of tension running up his spine. That opener rarely heralded a good conversation. "About what?"

To his credit, Cyndeyrn met the other warlock's eyes squarely. "About where to go."

"Deorham," Merlin surmised.

"Yes." A deep breath. "I was born in Camelot. I'd like to go back there, and maybe someday I will. But right now, Deorham is the safest place for my family and me. There's… too much going on in Camelot."

Merlin sighed. "It's your decision," he pointed out.

"You don't approve."

"Not really," the younger warlock acknowledged. "I don't trust Alined. It was a dirty trick he pulled, supporting the nastier restrictions put into the new treaty and then refusing to sign it. I'm worried that he'll entangle his kingdom's spellbinders in some dangerous scheme to shore up his own power. But you and your family are free people, with the right to make your own decisions, and… I do understand, you know. In the short term, at least, our people are likely safest in Deorham. Just… be careful, all right?"

"We will be," Cyndeyrn promised. The older man had relaxed appreciably, his voice warming. "When I say 'we,' I'm not just referring to my immediate family." Wariness returned to his frame, though not to the same degree as before. "There's almost ninety of us who will be immigrating to Deorham's capital."

Merlin's eyes widened. "Ninety?" he parroted.

"Ninety."

"That's—" Awful, part of him said. "—good, that's good. There's strength in numbers."

A wry twist of the lips. "You don't actually think that."

"Of course I think there's strength in numbers."

"You don't think it's good," Cyndeyrn clarified.

"It's a matter of perspective," Merlin deflected. "It's good for you and yours, because you'll get that strength in numbers, but from my point of view, which is… less… personal, less individually oriented… it's a blow, because I do worry about how Alined will try to leverage this and you."

"I've always heard that that's part of being a spellbinder. People without magic will always want to use those who have it."

"You're probably right." He was most certainly right. "Just be careful. Use that strength, both numerical and magical, to protect yourselves. And if there's ever anything you need, especially something that you can't ask Alined's Court Mage for, you know where to find me."

"That we do," Cyndeyrn agreed. "I…. Thank you."

"I'm not sure what you're thanking me for, but you're welcome." Merlin forced a smile. He'd been getting a lot of practice with strained grins recently. "When are you leaving?"

"Rhia and I are leaving tomorrow to investigate housing."

"Good luck."

They chatted for a few minutes longer about light, easy things before Merlin politely excused himself. Cyndeyrn wasn't the only person he wanted to speak with on this morning visit to Listeneise, and he was hoping to have lunch with his parents and sister before returning to Camelot.

Still, the older warlock's words hung over him all morning like a sun-dimming cloud. He could almost forget about it by focusing on the moment, conversing wholeheartedly with the others, but the knowledge that ninety spellbinders were moving to Alined's clutches always lurked in the back of his mind. By the time lunch arrived, forcing himself to ignore the bad news had taken its toll, and Merlin found himself disproportionately tired and hungry.

"What's wrong?" Hunith asked as they sat down to eat.

Merlin told her about his conversation with Cyndeyrn. When he elaborated that almost ninety of their kin were going to Deorham, Ganieda blew a raspberry into the air. The tension broke, chased away by a flash of laughter. Balinor wiped his daughter's mouth clean of drool and made a go on gesture with his free hand. Merlin continued in better spirits than before. This was still a blow, but it no longer felt quite so severe or so personal. "It could be better, but it could be a lot worse, too," Merlin concluded. "I've also spoken with one family that's going to return to the countryside of Camelot and another that will live in the citadel proper, and of course there's Tom."

"I don't suppose you could convince Tom to stay?" Balinor half-joked. "He's a good man and a good blacksmith."

"Sorry, but I'd prefer it if Gwen and Elyan continued speaking to me. And I thought he'd made you a surplus?"

"He did," Hunith confirmed.

"There you go."

"My own wife and son, betraying me," the dragonlord chuckled.

Ganieda blew another perfectly timed raspberry. Her family startled, then burst into laughter.

---

Gwen was a little nervous about her father moving back to their house, but Merlin had promised to lay wards as soon as he brought Tom back from Listeneise. If she was honest with herself, that oath was probably the only reason she hadn't begged her father to stay in Corbenic just a little while longer, until everything died down and she could be certain that he'd be safe.

A curse from Elyan interrupted her musings. She turned to him, one eyebrow raised in question. "There's a rat," he explained.

"Makes sense," noted Leon, the only other knight who'd volunteered to help them make this place habitable again. "You didn't have time to get all your food, right, Gwen?"

"Right. I probably should have done something when I came back for dresses, but I didn't think of it."

"You were on a tight schedule," Elyan reminded her.

"Still."

There was more evidence of rats all around the house, namely their droppings. Gwen grabbed her broom, began to sweep them up. Elyan and Leon stripped the bed, replacing the sheets with a softer specimen from the castle. "Not much to save here," Elyan sighed. "Damn moths."

"Save it anyway. We can always find some use for it."

"If you say so, Gwen."

"I do, and so you shall."

Elyan pretended to chuck the balled-up sheets at his sister, who exaggerated her unnecessary dodge.

The work passed quickly. Gwen sank into a reverie, her worries forgotten. There was something so immensely satisfying about being able to see the progress you were making, she mused as they slowly rendered the little house habitable.

When they were finished, the trio headed outside. Conversation naturally revolved around Tom's imminent return and the family dinner they were planning, with lots of gentle teasing about how they'd be taking most of the food from the castle kitchens rather than preparing it themselves. (Elyan and Gwen would be spending the entire afternoon catching up with their father, so they wouldn't have time to cook. Thankfully, being members of the nobility had its advantages.)

Since it was a lovely day and they'd cleaned more quickly than they expected to, the trio meandered a bit, wandering the streets of Camelot in comfortable anonymity. They'd dressed down in old clothes they wouldn't mind staining, so even Leon could have passed as a random peasant. It was a relief to not be recognized, Gwen mused, to not feel the weight of stares upon her lady's dresses and her maidservant's hands that might or might not have drawn Excalibur.

At least they'd be able to answer that rumor soon. It would only widen the gulf between her and her former peers, but she wouldn't have to deal with all the speculation anymore. Except, she realized, announcing their engagement would only set off a new round of ridiculous theories about how she was secretly an evil sorceress or the princess of the druids or something….

"You okay, Gwen?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, Elyan. Just lost in thought. It's nice to just… be among the people, don't you think? And it's different when you're not wearing your real or metaphorical red cloak."

Her brother nodded. "Definitely. What do you think, Leon? What's it like for someone born to the nobility?"

No response. The siblings paused, looked around in confusion and mild alarm. Gwen almost wished that the knight was wearing his red cloak. It would have earned them unwanted attention, but at least its color was more distinctive than the dull brown he currently sported.

"There he is." Elyan pointed, began to walk back down the street.

"What's he looking at?" For Leon was half-hidden in a side street, his face hard and focused.

"No idea."

They didn't have to ask. When they joined the knight, it was obvious what had caught his attention.

Graffiti was uncommon in Camelot, especially in parts where the guards were known to linger. This was not one of those parts, so the artist had felt secure enough to create quite a detailed piece, a whole story written in charcoal and rust.

The first scene: An army, or perhaps a raiding party, led by a man with the head of a lion. They traveled under the ancient Pendragon pennant and Uther's personal sigil. The second scene: The lion-headed man sat upon a throne with supplicants kneeling at his feet. The same two banners hung to his right and left. Finally, the last scene: Heads on spikes, one with massive ears and one with long dark hair and others with triskels on their brows. A lit pyre with a human figure tied to it. Smoke rising above charred bones.

Chills coursed down Gwen's spine. It wasn't just the obvious death threats against her friends, the implication of what would happen to Arthur should this ugly fantasy come to pass. It was the story's protagonist, unknown and yet familiar.

Trembling, Gwen pointed at the usurper king with the head of a beast. "Morgana has seen him in visions."

"What?" Leon exclaimed.

"A man in a lion mask," she elaborated. "Him."

"What happens in her visions?" Elyan demanded.

"He has strings around his limbs," Gwen recalled. "Each one is a different color or combination of colors, and they disappear into a thicket of shadows. Sometimes the strings are thin, sometimes thick. Sometimes he pulls on them, but other times it's the opposite and they control him. He wears badly fitted iron armor and a mask of fool's gold."

"No crowns, though?" Elyan inquired.

"No, thank all the gods."

"The lion was Uther's personal sigil," Leon recalled, gesturing to the picture of the old king's banner. "So… someone taking up Uther's old cause, but he has people trying to control him and might not be well-suited for the task, hence the fit of his armor."

"Seems about right," Elyan muttered, eyeing the graffiti. "At least the version in the visions doesn't have that." He tapped the leonine figure's crown, its throne.

"Still dangerous, though," Gwen reminded them.

"Of course he's dangerous. He's obviously some sort of figurehead for renewing the Purge." Leon took one final look at the tableau, long and hard and focused. "We need to tell Morgana and Arthur about this. Merlin too, once he's back with your father. Come on."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Proper Table Shape Continues to Haunt Arthur"

Next chapter: December 23. Tom comes home, Morgana visits an orphanage, and Gwen has a chat with Merlin.

NaNo is over. I survived it, barely. My buffer now goes all the way through chapter 20 and the start of chapter 21, though of course it'll need more editing. Thanks for being so patient with me!

Chapter 13: The Last Returnee

Summary:

Tom is home, which is pretty nice.

Chapter XIII: The Last Returnee

"I missed you, Dad. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Gwen, Elyan." Tom squeezed his children tighter.

For a few wonderful moments, all the stress of the last few days evaporated. Elyan forgot, if only briefly, about the simmering unrest, about the missing artifacts, about the quick but unproductive meeting they'd had to warn the others about the lion-headed man, about the people who wanted him and his family and their friends all dead. For a handful of heartbeats, he was safe in his dad's arms.

Then, of course, he had to withdraw back into the stress-filled world of adults. Still, his shoulders were looser than they'd been five minutes ago, and he thanked the gods that his father had returned safely, that they'd reconciled after what Gwen swore up and down was a huge misunderstanding. Elyan believed her, mostly, but there was still a little niggling voice in the back of his head that told him not to talk about Leon.

He and Gwen hadn't planned on doing this, but they avoided discussing current events for as long as they could. Over delicious food and quality wine, the little family caught up on what they'd done over the autumn, the winter, the very earliest parts of spring. Gwen made them all laugh with descriptions of her time at Bors's court. Tom went into great detail about the strangest things he'd crafted for spellbinders and the most bizarre magic he'd witnessed. Elyan talked about training as a knight and his slow uphill battle for the respect automatically offered to his highborn peers.

But they couldn't avoid the present forever. After dessert, when they were all pleasantly stuffed and sipping their wine, the topic loomed above them like that enormous dragon friend of Merlin's. Conversation dimmed, died. Elyan considered starting the dishes to put the discussion off further, but he was warm and physically comfortable and didn't want to move.

Tom broached the subject before his son could decide. "I've heard that there have… been some problems recently here in Camelot."

"You could say that," Gwen sighed. Elyan just groaned.

"What happened?"

Gwen did most of the talking, with Elyan jumping in with details or incidents she hadn't been present for. Tom had always been a good listener, and tonight was no exception. He let them speak, asking no questions except when he needed clarification, wincing or nodding when appropriate.

"The guards are trying to find more names," she finished, "but it's a slow process, and Arthur is worried that they might have been given false leads. I asked Tristan and Isolde to ask around after we found that picture, but they haven't gotten back to me yet. They will soon, though, and then we'll have more information than 'the people who hate magic have a figurehead.'"

"And Merlin still hasn't been able to scry the main rebels?"

"No. They're very careful to stay within the wards while they gather their strength. We'll have to wait until they make a mistake, but when they do, we'll be ready."

"There's some comfort in that," Tom sighed. "It must be exhausting, being on your guard all the time. It almost makes me feel guilty for spending so much time in a place where I didn't have to worry about all this, at least not as urgently. As good as it is to be home, I'll miss that about Listeneise."

"I certainly did," Gwen agreed. She'd told her brother and their friends all about how Listeneise had been a refuge, a sanctuary. She'd been safer there than she'd been since realizing that Morgana's dreams weren't just dreams. "But in a way, that's what helped keep me going when things seemed hopeless. I want everywhere to feel like that."

Tom raised his goblet. His son and daughter clinked their cups against his, and together they drank to a brighter future.

---

Morgana had few memories of her mother, but Gorlois had been fond of telling stories about her. He'd spoken of her charm, her wit, her ceaseless desire to better the world, which she had done through acts of charity. The girl had taken her father's words to heart. After Gorlois died and Morgana was sent to Camelot, she made a point of learning about the city's poorhouse and orphanage, about opportunities to make a targeted impact with a bit of largesse. While her duties as de facto lady of the keep had occupied most of her time, she'd tried to at least keep her fingers in a large number of charitable pies.

However, she hadn't been able to continue her work once Uther renewed his Purge. While she had managed one or two small acts, her rebellion and short-lived regency had kept her busy. Of course, those very actions could count as charity depending on one's perspective, but the point was, she hadn't been able to do proper work with charities for the better part of a year.

Last time she'd been to this orphanage—an idea of Uther's mother, who thought that funding an orphanage was better than hundreds more pickpockets in the streets—the children had crowded around her, their caretakers had joked with her, and a few former residents had come by to pay their respects. Now, however, Lady Morgana was a known witch, and her reception was very different. The children remained on the periphery of her awareness, peeking around corners but never approaching. The two caretakers who'd met her at the door were stiff and formal and distant. No visitors had come to see her.

Morgana told herself that she didn't care, then grimaced. The lie sounded unconvincing even in her own head, and she knew that she couldn't make herself believe it. Well, she reminded herself, she shouldn't care because it didn't matter. She'd known that the people of Camelot, including the ones she'd befriended, were wary of magic. Even the ones who supported spellbinders in the abstract might find it difficult to deal with the presence of a powerful witch.

Their reactions didn't matter because she was here to change that.

The orphanage had escaped damage from last year's riots, fires, and attempts by undead warlocks to destroy the city. However, the building was an older one, filled with chinks that let in the cold and hosting unpleasant growths in its dark corners. During the summer especially, they had problems with rats and bugs. It was inevitable; any building with that many children in it would inevitably have scraps of food lying about, a tempting treat for vermin.

Morgana went through each room. First, she cast spells against pests on the threshold and shutters, then she inspected the chamber to see if it needed more work, which it usually did. She killed molds and mildews, stoppered holes against the distant winter. Between incantations, she kept up a steady stream of narrative. The witch explained what each spell did, what they didn't do, how long the effects would last. The matron, a plump blonde woman named Hilda, nodded along uncomfortably.

Hilda did not ask questions. Morgana remembered the older woman's old garrulousness and tried not to mind. She failed miserably, but she tried.

A side benefit of her chatter was that it let the children who were 'sneakily' following them around know when she was about to exit a room. Every time Morgana approached a door, she heard the soft pitter-patter of retreating footsteps.

So Morgana was quite surprised when she stepped into the hallway only to discover that one child, a girl of eight or nine, hadn't fled. The child stared at her with great hazel eyes, then blurted, "How come there's so many spells for keeping away bugs?"

"Because there are so many different types of bug," Morgana answered.

"But they're all bugs," the girl protested. "So there should be a spell to get rid of all the bugs."

"If there is, I haven't learned it yet."

"Oh. How come? I'm Winnie, by the way. I don't like bugs."

"Good to meet you, Winnie." Morgana gave a shallow curtsey, to which the girl responded with a huge grin. "I only started learning magic a year ago, and it was a very busy year for me, so I don't know all the spells yet. It's also possible that the spell doesn't exist yet. I imagine that if it did, people would just use that one instead of learning all these more specific incantations."

The girl mulled this over for a few moments. "Is that what the Court Mage is for? Making new spells?"

"That's part of the Court Mage's job, but they're also responsible for making sure that people with and without magic all get along."

Winnie's eyes lit with comprehension. "So when we didn't have a Court Mage, that's why we weren't friends. But now there's a Court Mage again so we can be friends?"

"Now that there's a Court Mage again, we can start building friendships," Morgana clarified. "Friendships take time to grow." It would be a lot easier if everyone immediately liked them, though.

"You should tell the Court Mage to make a spell that will get rid of all the bugs," Winnie declared. "Then everybody will like you."

"I'll tell him at dinner," Morgana promised. It would be better than more speculation about the lion-headed man. "For now, though, I have to finish up with my magic. Did you want to watch?"

"Nope," Winnie answered, popping the P. "Bye!" She scurried away.

"Sorry about her," said Hilda. "She's a bit… rambunctious."

"I noticed." Morgana smiled. "Don't worry about her. It was nice to have one of the children ask questions."

"I… imagine it would be when you're trying to recruit more."

Morgana's smile faded. "If Winnie is a witch born or wants to become a sorceress one day, I'll gladly help her, but I didn't come here to convert anyone."

"Of course, my lady," Hilda acquiesced.

"Do you know the difference between a witch and a sorceress?" Morgana inquired, raising her voice ever so slightly. She wanted their hidden audience to hear this.

Hilda blinked. "I… thought they were the same thing."

"Not really. People who don't know the difference use them interchangeably, but the words have very different meanings. Witches and warlocks are born with magic; it comes to us whether we want it or not, and we must learn to control it so that it doesn't act out on its own. Sorcerers and sorceresses aren't born with the gift, but they can learn to channel magic. Gaius is a sorcerer. When the Purge came, he could give up his magic like a knight giving up his sword. Merlin, the Court Mage, is a warlock, and I'm a witch. We can't give magic up. If we don't use our magic when we're awake, it seeps out in our sleep."

The matron's eyes were very wide. She said nothing.

Down the hall, the children whispered and muttered to each other. Morgana pretended not to hear them. She stared Hilda down, waiting, but the older woman held her silence.

As much as Morgana wanted to push, she knew that giving into her impulse would be counterproductive. "There's still three or four rooms left, right?"

"…Yes, my lady."

"Excellent. It's been so long since I've been here, you'll have to show me which ones I still have to do."

"Of course."

The hidden children fell silent. No sound echoed down the corridor save for footsteps and the quiet swish of skirts.

The next chamber was yet another bedroom. Hilda closed the door behind them, then half-whispered, "Witches really have no choice?"

Morgana took the hint and answered in a low murmur. "Not really."

"So you and Lord Merlin have no choice."

"Not in this. All we can choose is how to use our magic."

A nod. Hilda's forehead furrowed, a deep line appearing between her eyebrows. "So you and he are…. You're absolutely certain? About the king?"

"What about the king?"

"That… this is genuine. I remember—I was just a girl at the time, but King Uther apologized for the Day of Pyres, offered reparations, but it was only a ruse to lure your kind out of hiding. Sympathizers, too."

"I don't think Arthur is that good of an actor," Morgana assured the older woman.

As the witch cast her familiar spells, she mulled over the implications of Hilda's concerns. How much of Camelot's reticence was due to fear of a trap? Once people realized that Arthur and his fellow monarchs weren't just luring spellbinders out of hiding, how much trepidation would evaporate? How much would remain? If she was reading Hilda right, the matron's nervousness wasn't just because she feared being exposed as a sympathizer. She'd thought that Morgana's actions were a silent recruitment drive. While Hilda was correct in assuming that the lady's actions weren't entirely altruistic—she wanted people to see magic being used as a force for good—Morgana had done enough for the orphanage in the past that Hilda should reasonably have assumed that this trip wasn't entirely selfish.

It was a mess, she concluded. The individual people of Camelot had entire bouquets of reasons for wariness. Even if Morgana alleviated one concern, the others would remain.

But they'd known from the beginning that this wouldn't be easy. The big successes—legalizing magic, Merlin taking his rightful place as Court Mage—were just the beginning. Every successive victory would be smaller, though still hard-won. And that was without the rebels gathering their strength….

One step at a time, she told herself. Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither was Camelot, despite what certain legends implied.

She stepped into the next room.

---

"They call themselves what?"

"The Sons of Uther," Tristan repeated.

"Yes, that's what I thought you said." Gwen shook her head in disbelief at the audacity of the rebel group. Their very name was a slap in the face to Arthur. "Did your informant have any other information?"

"Afraid not," Isolde sighed. "It's one thing to do a bit of harmless trade facilitation, but messing around with the king's sworn enemies? She's not going to risk getting involved."

"Drat," muttered Gwen. "I can hardly blame her, but it's still inconvenient." She looked at the other men and women gathered around her. "Does anyone else have new information?"

They didn't.

"Oh. Well, no surprise there, as we've only just gotten started. Still, knowing the name could help us immensely, act as a sort of secret password to let us into their secrets. Yes, Sefa?"

"It's about the name," the druid girl began. She squirmed as every eye turned to her but carried on gamely. "And… that art you saw, with the lion-headed man. What if this name is more than an insult to the king?"

"What do you mean?" asked Blanchefleur.

"In the graffiti, the lion-headed man ended up on the throne. He hung Uther's banners beside the Pendragon sigil. Now that his men are called the Sons of Uther, well, I think that this person might be pretending he's Uther's bastard in order to rally the opposition."

A low murmur filled the room as people turned to their neighbors, softly asking if they thought this could be true. They settled quickly on a consensus, reasoning that this stratagem was far too likely.

"Well deduced, Sefa," Gwen said quietly.

"Thank you, my lady," she mumbled.

Gwen raised her voice to cut through the conversation. "This seems like the most likely explanation, so I'll alert King Arthur immediately after his meeting is over. Can any of you think of likely candidates? I mean, which nobles hate magic and are of a reasonable age to make this claim?"

Attention turned to Blanchefleur, Marrok, and Leon. Of the twelve people present, they were the only ones who'd been born to Camelot's noble class. (Morgana and Arthur were otherwise occupied.)

By the meeting's end, Gwen had a list of six names, men who bore a passing resemblance to the old king and weren't too old to have been his secret offspring. Arthur wouldn't be available for a while, so she decided to bring the names to Merlin. Perhaps he could scry them.

She strode through the castle, smiling as she passed her old coworkers. Most of them did not smile back, though many started whispering once she was gone. It was a relief to reach her friend's door.

"Come in," Merlin called in answer to Gwen's knock.

She had only been in the Court Mage's chambers once, before Merlin officially moved in. The place had been plain and dreary and cold, somehow, despite the warmth of the day. Although the rooms hadn't changed much in appearance, the chill had vanished, pushed away by the new resident's bright presence.

Merlin was sitting at his desk with a scrying bowl. When he saw who had come to visit, the tiredness and frustration vanished from his face, chased away by his usual brilliant smile. Gwen grinned back.

They were hugging before they knew it. This was the first time they'd been alone together for far too long, and Gwen wished she'd thought to visit before business brought her here. She would come back tomorrow, she decided, and drag Merlin away from his anxieties long enough to decorate—not too much, but enough to claim the space.

"What brings you here?"

Gwen hated to wipe the smile from Merlin's face, but in the long run, he'd be more upset with her if she delayed. She explained as succinctly as possible, watching her friend's expression change from cheery to pensive to angry and back to pensive again. "That makes sense," was all he said. "These are the names?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll scry them now. If they really are using one of these men as their figurehead, taking him down could hamstring them."

"That would be wonderful," Gwen said.

"Too bad it's not going to happen. Nothing is ever that simple, especially for us."

The first candidate was sitting at his desk, finishing his paperwork as a candle remnant flickered pitifully. The second was sitting on the side of his bed drinking from a goblet. The third was talking to a frightened child about how she shouldn't be afraid of the dark. The sixth was fast asleep.

The fourth and fifth men could not be scried.

Merlin's smile was a tight, frustrated thing. "I hate those anti-scrying wards," he declared. "I really, really hate them. Still, at least we know that these two are somehow involved."

"There has to be some way to bypass the wards," Gwen said. "Some way to—I don't know, to get some information about our enemies, even if you can't spy on them directly."

Merlin nodded slowly. "You're right," he realized. "Gods, I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not," Gwen automatically corrected him.

He chuckled softly. "Thanks. But I've been going about this all wrong. Instead of trying to brute force my way through the wards or catch the conspirators when they're out of range, I should be looking for people and, more importantly, places that I can't scry. Once I've found them, I can spirit-walk for more information."

"They might be moving, though," Gwen pointed out. "They probably are, especially since we think they're still in the recruiting phase."

A grimace. "Then I'll have to move fast. I had to anyways, but this is just extra incentive. Gods, I almost wish they'd done something after lighting those fires. Then I'd at least have a place to start."

"Ask Morgana about that," Gwen advised. "She'll know their territories better than I do. But for now, Merlin, go to bed. You're exhausted."

The warlock bowed with a playful flourish. "As my queen commands."

The not-yet-queen huffed, fighting back an unladylike snort of laughter. "Oh, shut up, Merlin."

"You sound like royalty already!"

They laughed together, and for those few precious moments, all was right in the world.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Gwen is Basically the Queen Already, Which We Already Knew"

Next chapter: January 13, yay. Continued investigations and some more ominousness.

Happy holidays to all, and to all a good night!

Chapter 14: A Day in the Life of the Court Mage

Summary:

Two very different responses to magic's return.

Chapter XIV: A Day in the Life of the Court Mage

Merlin started his morning by scrying his usual list of names. As usual, none of the lords had gone too far from the wards, so he had no luck in finding them. Alined had finally arrived back home, but he was enjoying his breakfast rather than monologuing his evil plans. Cenred was sulking in his cell in the Orkneys, glaring at his own breakfast of chunky gruel.

The warlock silently called to Morgana, asking if she'd like to break her fast with him. She would, so Merlin went to the kitchen to pick up their food. The staff were a little more comfortable with him, he was pleased to see, a little less quiet, their stares not quite so intense. It wasn't the easy camaraderie they'd shared when he was Arthur's definitely-not-a-warlock manservant, but it was approaching something that the new Court Mage could live with.

Morgana was waiting when he returned to his chambers. "You know," she said dryly, "you can ask someone to bring you meals."

"It's good for me to get a little break," Merlin answered.

Their conversation remained mostly light until the end of the meal, when Merlin told his lady about Gwen's visit. The witch's scowl deepened with every word, save when she winced at the idea of a fake bastard. When Merlin explained his plan to look for hidden places, however, the angry lines in her face disappeared. "That's a good plan."

"Thank you. I thought so myself."

"Do you have any maps in here?"

"There's two maps in the library, one of Camelot and one of Albion. I'll go get them."

They unrolled the map of Camelot first. Morgana traced the parchment with her fingertips, leaving behind a translucent green film whenever she touched a rebel's territory. When she was finished, Merlin replicated the modified map. Morgana's modifications on the original disappeared, but on the new parchment, the unfriendly territories remained green.

"Start here," she advised, pointing to the center of the largest green blotch. "Maybe work your way out in a spiral, or you could sweep around the streams and rivers. They won't be too far from a water source."

"Good thinking. Maybe a lake or a pond, though, someplace where they don't have to worry about trade traffic." Merlin gestured to a small oblong body of water. "I'll start here."

"Or," suggested Morgana, "you could have other people start there."

Merlin flushed. "Right. I… keep forgetting I can do that sort of thing."

Morgana covered his hand with hers. "I imagine it takes some getting used to. Next time Gwen comes to visit, you two should talk about it."

"As usual, love, you're full of brilliant ideas."

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"None whatsoever. Though I do wonder how many people will be able to dedicate much time to scrying, what with so many folk preparing to move and all that."

"So? They don't have to scry every minute of every day. You aren't. You've been scrying between your other duties. Speaking of which, you could start scouting out villages for your pilot program with the druids today. I know you've been wanting to do that."

"Just full of good ideas," Merlin repeated fondly.

"Obviously."

"I'll pop over to Corbenic with the maps, then, and I'll go directly from there to a couple of likely villages."

"Make sure to stop by Tintagel. You could maybe have supper with Cador. Just make sure you're back before sundown. I want to go over our plans for the walls one last time tonight."

Merlin bowed with an absurd little flourish. Morgana rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips.

"As my lady commands."

---

Perhaps direct outreach hadn't been Gwen's best idea.

She still maintained—and probably always would—that one-on-one conversation was a powerful tool for making people see sense. The problem was that so many people didn't want to see sense, or change, or good things happening to an Other; and that this desire could manifest as an attempt to silence anyone speaking on behalf of sense and change and Others.

Gwen would have liked to ponder this further, but she was distracted by another man attempting to stab her. Yelling, she twisted to the side. The blade sliced through her sleeve, but it didn't draw blood. She used the momentum of her turn to slam her mug, still half-full of water, into her attacker's temple. He went down.

Tristan, Isolde, and Gilli formed a living wall in front of Gwen and Sefa. They had no shields, but their swords blurred in the air. The men—gods, how many were there?—couldn't pass through the metallic whirlwind, but they still tried, stabbing clumsily with crude knives. Those knives were intimidating enough, but for Gwen, the real terror was the hatred that contorted their faces.

She seized her fallen attacker's knife. Should she join her defenders, or would she just get in the way? Gwen knew a bit of swordplay, but she'd only ever been mediocre, nothing like the remarkable display keeping her and Sefa safe.

"Can you call Morgana from here?" the former maid demanded. Sefa's head jerked in a nod. "Then do it!"

"Right."

Merlin, she ought to call for Merlin. Gwen fumbled for the amulet she always kept on her person, eyes scanning the crowd. The men were falling, wounded by her protectors' blades, their bodies forming a field of tripping hazards that slowed the tide, but not all of them were unconscious or too wounded to move. Some were stabbing at the defenders' ankles, forcing them to divide their attention and dance around. Their swords slowed.

Gwen's fingers closed around the charm just as she looked up, searching for anyone who might try to charge them. Her blood froze.

"Archer!"

The first arrow flew towards them, swift as the falcon whose feathers fletched its end.

Sefa screamed a word, and the arrow veered impossibly to the side. The archer nocked again, but the druid spoke another incantation. The bowstring snapped, whipping into the archer's face.

"Merlin, Merlin, Merlin!" Gwen yelled.

For a few heartbeats more, the chaos continued. Gilli shouted, stumbling; someone had stabbed his leg. Sefa's magic (or perhaps his own, Gwen didn't know) jolted the offender's knife from its wielder's grip, burying it in the ceiling.

Then all was silent, save for two people breathing and Merlin asking, "What's going on, Gwen? We have really got to stop meeting like this."

The lady's heart slowed. She shuddered. "I wanted to—to speak with the people, tell them face to face that there's nothing to hear. Someone I spoke with yesterday recommended this pub, and like an idiot I brought us here without backup."

Merlin looked at the pile of bodies. "I think you did have backup."

"I could have gotten us all killed, Merlin. Gilli's hurt."

The warlock knelt down, inspected the red stain on the other spellbinder's pantleg. "It's nothing that Gaius can't fix up."

"It could have been so much worse." Gwen's stomach roiled at the mere thought.

"Did you come here unarmed? Not you personally, but you as a plural. You came in a group, and everybody had something they could use for defense." His smile was gentle. "You hoped for the best, but you were prepared for the worst. Now, what do you want me to do with them?"

"Capture them, of course!" Gwen disagreed with Merlin's assessment, but she knew better than to argue when time itself was paused, especially with him. His stubbornness could be incredibly endearing, inspiring, or annoying, sometimes at the same time.

"What I meant is, how much do you want me to terrorize them?" His smile held a few too many teeth.

"Not at all!"

He arched his brow.

"Only a little," Gwen sighed.

"Right then. Showtime!"

The world resumed. A great force swept out from Merlin's stave. It only rustled Gwen's skirts, but when the shock wave reached the attackers, it seized their weapons and flung them across the room.

Merlin spoke again. Ropes snaked around the attackers' wrists, binding them together. A cacophony of swearing—first confused, then horrified—rose from the downed men. Gwen couldn't blame them for their terror.

Gone was the smiling, laughing boy she'd met in the stocks. In his place stood a warlock with a Sidhe staff, his golden eyes alight with barely tempered fury.

Only terrorize them a little, she'd said. Now, she realized that her request was probably impossible. Emrys commanded terror just by existing as one's enemy.

Not for the first time, she was very glad that Merlin was on their side.

Her friend closed his eyes, took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he turned to Gilli, pointedly ignoring the men he'd captured. "Do you need emergency healing, or can you wait a few minutes before I get you to Gaius?"

"I'll be fine," Gilli assured him. "It looks worse than it is."

"Sefa, can you keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't pass out?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I really do hate being called that," Merlin groused, but he said nothing aloud. He simply nodded in a gesture he'd picked up from Arthur or Morgana, then turned back to the captives. Some of them were struggling, while others were frozen and one appeared to be playing dead. "So, who wants to get on my good side by spilling the beans?"

Silence, and tension, and shiftily exchanged glances.

Gwen leaned over. "I don't think they'll answer in front of their comrades."

"Damn, I should have thought of that. Time for a new strategy."

Merlin's fingers drummed across Béothaich. He suddenly pointed the staff at a random fellow towards the front of the pack. "You there. Was this planned? I recommend answering before I lose patience and use a truth spell on you."

(Gwen distinctly remembered Merlin telling her that truth spells weren't real, but it was safe to assume that these men didn't know that.)

The door blew open, and Morgana sprinted inside. She pulled up short, half-embarrassed and half-relieved. "Right, the amulet."

"Sorry," Gwen apologized. "I should have had Sefa or Merlin tell you."

"I'm just glad you're all right." Her smile melted as she fixed the perpetrators with a baleful gaze.

"Pretend that truth spells have horrible side effects," Merlin said. "Morgana, you know more about the law than me. If I cast a truth spell on this fellow, will the side effects get me into legal trouble?"

Morgana hummed, tapped her chin. "You'd probably just have to provide care for him for the rest of his life."

"We planned this!" the man blurted. "We knew—we knew that she was doing this, and there's those rumors about how she'll kill the king after she marries him and then we'll have a witch-queen for the next hundred years. We had to stop her."

"I'm not a witch, though," Gwen pointed out, exasperated. "You can have witch friends without being one yourself. Look at Arthur and Merlin! And I'm not going to assassinate the king. Even if we weren't—friends—why would I want to murder the man who brought magic back to Camelot?"

"We aren't the ones who want Arthur dead," Morgana confirmed. "That would be people like you and your friends here." She gestured at the other attackers. "I can handle this from here, Merlin. You should get back to… whatever you were doing."

"Making arrangements for a druid visit in this lovely little Gedrefi village."

"Yes, that. You should probably go explain what happened."

"Good luck," Gwen added.

Merlin hesitated a moment, but he knew how capable his lady was. "Good luck to you too," he said, then vanished in a gust of wind.

Things got a bit blurry after that. They marched the captured attackers through the streets, ignoring every baffled stare until a guard worked up the nerve to approach them with questions. Morgana explained in short, clipped sentences, commanding him to join their procession, Gwen assumed for legitimacy. They were almost at the castle when Tom raced up to his daughter, eyes wide with concern. "Are you all right, Gwen?"

"I'm fine, Dad. Really."

He gave her a dubious once-over but, seeing no injuries, concluded that she hadn't told a white lie to make him feel better. "What about the rest of you?" he asked her friends.

They were mostly fine, though Tristan and Gilli had minor cuts. Tom wanted them to see Gaius, but they eventually convinced him that it could wait until after their official debriefing with Brun. That debriefing ended up lasting almost twice as long as it should have because Arthur burst into the room right when it was about to end and demanded to know if everyone was all right.

Tom gave the king a long, appraising look. Gwen prayed that his delayed shock wouldn't catch up with him now. The last thing she needed was her father suddenly fully comprehending the implications of Gwen's engagement.

"Everyone's fine," Morgana assured him.

"They aren't," Tom argued, gesturing at Tristan and Gilli. "They said they'd go to Gaius after this debriefing."

Arthur scoffed. "Is their part finished?"

The injured men exchanged glances, then nodded. Their king made an impatient gesture of dismissal, and they walked away.

"Now, tell me what happened."

Gwen gave him the short version, watching as his already thunderous mien darkened further. "They tried to kill you," he growled.

She nodded.

"I think they see her as an easy target," Tom blurted. "She doesn't have the same protections as the rest of your court."

"She will soon," Arthur vowed. He turned to his lady. "I'd like to announce our engagement tonight. What do you say?"

Brun made a garbled choking sound, his eyes bulging nearly out of his head. Tom patted him on the back.

Gwen took her fiance's hand. "I say yes."

---

Lord Edmund visibly jumped when Merlin reappeared. Iseldir's reaction was subtler, the tension draining from his shoulders. Merlin winced. He hadn't thought about how the druid chieftain might feel about being abandoned with a lord of Camelot with only a hurried "Gwen needs me, back soon, sorry," for an explanation.

"I must apologize," the warlock said, the formal speech patterns awkward on his tongue. "Last year, I made special amulets for certain members of the king's court that would allow them to alert me if they were under attack. The nature of the summonings means that I can't predict them."

Lord Edmund nodded slowly. "Is this… Lady Gwen?... all right?"

Merlin grinned at him. Apparently he'd chosen a good man to start this project with. From Iseldir's expression, he thought so too. "Lady Guinevere is perfectly fine. She is King Arthur's unofficial ambassador to the common people of Camelot, and she's been helping Lady Morgana and me reintroduce magic to the kingdom. Since she doesn't have magic herself, some people see her as an easy target for their frustrations."

"No injuries?" Iseldir inquired.

"A couple of minor wounds, I think, but nothing that the Court Physician can't handle." Was he using too many contractions? Morgana had told him to cut down on contractions until he'd gotten to know the lords and ladies he was talking with. Better safe than sorry, he decided. "Lady Morgana arrived shortly after I did, and she is fully capable of handling what is left of the situation. Shall we return to the matter at hand?"

"On one condition," Edmund answered solemnly.

Merlin tried not to tense too visibly. "What would that be?"

"That you convey my best wishes to this Lady Guinevere." The lord's faux sobriety evaporated, leaving behind a brilliant smile.

Iseldir chuckled. "Mine as well, Emrys."

Merlin beamed back at them. Oh, he'd chosen well indeed. It wasn't a surprise—Cordelia the selkie, her husband Cagan, and Anhora of the unicorns had all spoken highly of this minor lord of Gedref—but it was a relief. "Gladly."

They settled in for their discussion. "You were saying something about a demonstration before anything else?" Edmund prompted.

"Yes. I thought that the people who need healing or other assistance might feel more comfortable if they could see harmless, fun magic before anything more personal."

"What sorts of magic did you have in mind for the demonstration?" Iseldir asked.

"Lady Morgana and I recently put on a sort of light puppet show in the citadel. We'd attracted quite a crowd by the end of it."

The druid was as baffled as the lord. "Light puppets? I've never heard of such a spell."

"There is probably another name for them, but I have always thought of them as light puppets. May I demonstrate?" At the other men's nods, Merlin conjured the crude brown bears that had so captivated his audience. "One of us narrated the story, and the other illustrated it. We were taking requests by the day's end."

Iseldir was nodding. "We used to do something similar when I was a boy, but the spellbinders would make their illusions as complex as possible."

"It sounds like good practice," Merlin acknowledged, "but I actually sort of like the look of them when they're this simple." Another contraction. Well, Lord Edmund had joked with him, so they were probably on more casual terms now. Nothing like what he had with Arthur, but friendly enough that he didn't have to guard his tongue so closely.

"You'll probably get requests for both versions," Edmund supplied. "My youngest daughter will even if no one else does."

Yes, they were definitely on contraction terms. Merlin's smile widened. "Then I'll have to practice. Does she have a favorite animal?"

"At the moment, she is bizarrely obsessed with seals."

"I can do seals," Merlin laughed. One of his illusory bears flopped onto its belly, shape changing as it fell.

"So can we," Iseldir added. "Emrys, I believe that you should start and finish the demonstration, but my volunteers should have an opportunity as well."

"Oh, definitely. Perhaps each volunteer could prepare a miniature demonstration and then we could all take questions and requests at the end?"

"Only for a set amount of time. We could dedicate the morning to making the citizens more comfortable, then carry out our tasks in the afternoon…."

They continued on in that vein for quite some time, finessing all the little details that went into a plan like this. In three days, Merlin, Iseldir, and a quartet of other druids would arrive in Lord Edmund's village. They would demonstrate their magic through stories—Iseldir would make sure that his people practiced—before the question-and-answers session. After that, the spellbinders would have lunch among the villagers and ask about their problems, which their afternoons would be dedicated to solving. If all went well, they'd sup with the smallfolk as well before going their separate ways.

All the spellbinders, even the mighty Emrys, would work in pairs. Merlin might be an optimist, but he wasn't stupid. He knew not to take unnecessary risks. Gwen's experience was a stark reminder that not everyone was so accepting of magic's return.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin Must Act Like the Magical Royalty he is (and is Better at it than he Realizes)"

Next chapter: February 3. The fallout of the attack, in which Team Magic takes steps to make their most vulnerable members less so.

So I'm late again. There's probably a deep-rooted psychological reason that I keep doing this lately. I really don't intend to, it just... happens. Well, tomorrow I'm marking each update day in my calendar. Hopefully that will help me, you know, stay on track.

Chapter 15: The Weakest Links

Summary:

Sefa has concerns.

Chapter XV: The Weakest Links

A timid knock sounded at Merlin's door. "Come in," he called, looking up from his scrying. He might have people scouring the landscape for areas they couldn't see, but he hadn't wanted anyone else watching Alined. King Caerleon's suspicions weren't public knowledge, and though Merlin and Arthur were both certain that it was only a matter of time before the former caught Alined at something, they didn't think their spying would go over well with the spellbinders who wanted to live in Deorham.

Sefa, Gwen's druid friend, stepped inside. Huh. Merlin didn't think the two of them had ever spoken alone before. She might have become comfortable with the People's Queen, but Emrys was another story. Still, she was one of his, and she looked frightened.

"What's wrong?" Merlin inquired, keeping his voice as gentle as he could.

The druid hesitated before blurting, "I had to use magic today. In front of people, I mean."

"When you were with Gwen during the attack, you mean?"

"Yes. But—" She fell silent, hunting for words. "I shouldn't be afraid, but I… am."

"Because now the people who hate our kin know what you are," Merlin deduced.

Sefa nodded, chewed her lip.

"All right." The Court Mage considered. "You're obviously worried about people in general, but is there anyone specific who frightens you?"

"Not yet, I don't think." Her brow furrowed as she presumably thought through a list of names. "The other servants who've heard, they and the guards are… leery… but they haven't done anything to make me feel threatened. It's just that… I'm not very strong, and I can't defend myself physically like Gilli can, and even if I knew how I don't think I could bring myself to actually hurt anyone. I feel like—like I'm the weakest link."

"The most vulnerable scapegoat," Merlin supplied.

"Yes! Like there's a target on my back." She swallowed hard. Moisture glinted in her eyes. "I know you're busy, Emrys, and you have so many more important things to be doing, but… is there anything you can do to keep me safe?"

"Protecting you is important," the warlock corrected her. "I can whip up another of those amulets, probably by lunchtime tomorrow. You're staying in Gwen's suite, right?" A nod of confirmation. "There are a couple more security spells which I was already going to put up, what with the announcement and all…. Do you know the spell to unlock doors?"

"Tospringe."

"Exactly. We can get you a new lock for your bedroom, let you keep the key inside. Hmm." He tapped his chin. "Charms of general protection are surprisingly hard and time-consuming to make, which is why I've never done it, but I think there's one in the vaults."

Sefa was horrified. "That should go to someone else. Gwen, maybe, or the king."

"There might be more than one, and if there isn't, we both know they'd want you to have it."

The druid, having met Arthur and Gwen, was forced to acknowledge that Merlin had a point, but she still felt like the possibly-hypothetical amulet should go to someone else. Maybe there was a protective charm she could learn to, say, put on her dresses? Or a disguise of some sort? Or—something?

"What about a demonstration?" Merlin asked slowly, a wicked smile growing on his face.

"What do you mean?"

He told her.

---

It was done. The word was out.

Camelot knew that Gwen would be its queen.

Well, some of Camelot knew. There hadn't been much warning that Arthur would deliver a sunset proclamation, so relatively few people were standing down in the courtyard. Murmurs rose as the shocked silence—a peasant queen!—gave way to shocked gossip and speculation. To Gwen's straining ears, the susurration was more curious than appalled, which could only be a good sign.

Then again, this was only a small slice of Camelot's population. It might even be the slice that most supported and approved of their king.

Arthur and Gwen lowered their entwined hands. The crowd's tenor changed. Belated applause merged with the voices, then crescendoed until the clapping eclipsed all the words except a few shouts of "King Arthur!" and even "Queen Guinevere!"

Gods. Queen Guinevere.

It was beginning to feel more real now. Queen.

She had no idea how to be a queen.

Arthur was grinning. He pressed her hand to his lips in a gentle kiss. Gwen smiled, tremulous but genuine. "I told you it would go over well," he murmured.

"You did," she answered, just as soft. "I can't help but worry, though, about… all this and about Dad and everything else."

Arthur's jaw hardened. "We will get through this," he vowed. "It's easy to focus on the hatemongers and enemies who want to make this kingdom worse, but they're here too." He nodded at the cheering crowd. "We just have to remember that."

"I try."

A grin, almost roguish. "This is the part where we wave to the crowd," Arthur confided. He waved; the crowd roared. Gwen's wave was smaller, shyer, but the reaction was just as loud. She found herself wondering if their people, and especially their spellbinders, had infiltrated the populace. It would be just like Merlin or Morgana to magically augment this cheering.

If they had, it was a very sweet gesture. Gwen waved again, this time in tandem with Arthur. She was smiling. Magically augmented or not, these people were celebrating her engagement, sharing her joy.

The people of Camelot shouted again, louder than before.

"We keep this up for about a minute," Arthur murmured. "Anything longer is gauche."

"We wouldn't want that. Should I start counting seconds?"

"No, I've been doing that. One more time, I think, then we turn around and go in."

They retreated into the castle, where the guards stared at Gwen in something like disbelief. Her smile faded as self-consciousness reared its ugly head, but Arthur was still holding her hand. Gwen smiled at the guards, nodded in a fashion that she hoped was both regal and friendly.

Tom and Elyan were waiting a bit further in. They wrapped Gwen in a hug as soon as she came within grabbing distance. Arthur tried to step away, but she tugged at their combined hands and told her family to make room. Tom looked a bit uncertain, but Elyan helped his sister reel Arthur in. The king was stiff, so Gwen squeezed his hand and murmured, "It's all right. I promise they won't bite if you don't."

"He bites?" Elyan joked.

"Only food," Arthur retorted. He was beginning to relax, even lean into the unexpected embrace.

"Welcome to the family," Tom said quietly. The blacksmith's eyes darted to Arthur's crown, and he shook his head in disbelief. "I never thought I'd say that to Arthur Pendragon, but you're a good man and I know you'll be a good husband to her. I wish you all the happiness in the world."

Arthur's breath hitched. Gwen pretended not to notice. If Elyan or Tom realized, they didn't let on either.

Uther Pendragon had not been a good father. In her heart of hearts, Gwen wasn't entirely convinced that he had loved Arthur, though she hoped for Arthur's sake that Uther had. If he had, it was so tangled with toxic possessiveness and rigid expectations and redirected bitterness over Ygraine's death that it had warped into something dark and twisted that demanded absolute obedience. But Arthur had loved his father, brightly and fiercely, even as he grew, reluctantly, to understand that Uther was neither a good king nor a good man. It was a thorny sort of love; the tighter Arthur grasped at it, the deeper it cut into his hands. But it was love nonetheless.

He loved very much, her Arthur. Not always well, not always openly, but the love was still there.

Gwen hoped that he could learn to love her family as his own. Arthur deserved Tom's supportive acceptance, Elyan's loyal companionship. She prayed that he would let them in.

"I'm afraid you're stuck with us now," she told Arthur. They were not quite in public, but there were enough people around that he was on his guard. He wouldn't respond well to something more heartfelt, not in these circumstances, so she went for a teasing tone instead. "Gods help you, you'll never get rid of us. We'll haunt you forever."

"Gods help me indeed," Arthur drawled, his voice steady and even. But he squeezed her hand once more before letting it go. He understood.

---

"How do I look?" Merlin gave a little twirl, his skirts flaring around his legs.

"Perfectly realistic," Elyan told him.

"Not perfectly," Gwen disagreed. "Look at how Sefa is holding herself. She's a bit… shyer."

Merlin gazed intently at the druid girl, altered his posture. "How's this?"

"Much better," Gwen assured him. "Now try walking, both of you. I've noticed that men usually walk differently than women, so…. Smaller steps, Merlin."

"I don't miss skirts," Isolde chuckled. "Well, most of the time. They're all right once in a while."

"You look amazing either way," Tristan declared.

"He doesn't have to be too convincing, though," Gwaine pointed out. "They aren't going to waste too much time stalking 'Sefa' here before they try something."

"Not necessarily," Leon replied. "Any spies left behind are likely to be more cautious. They could spend days observing 'Sefa.'"

"Unless they think they have a time limit," Arthur mused. "Like if Merlin is making a protection amulet that will be ready tomorrow, or if she's leaving soon."

"We can spread the word this morning, have you go out in the afternoon," Leon suggested. "It just depends on which rumor we use."

"You can drop the illusion, Merlin," Arthur said. "It's odd seeing two Sefas."

"He's afraid he'll forget who's who," teased Gwaine.

"We wouldn't want that." Merlin dropped the illusion. "Sefa, have you been getting people asking you about Gwen?"

"Of course."

"Maybe let slip that you'll be back for the wedding."

"I like that," Gwaine chuckled. "You don't even have to give a date, you can just let them come up with details on their own. Nicely done, Merlin."

"I try."

"You should start spreading the rumor right after we finish breakfast," Morgana decided. "Then Merlin can impersonate you in the early evening, when they'll think they have the cover of darkness. You could act like you're going to buy a traveler's chest."

"Or presents for your family," Lancelot supplied. "We could get you a traveler's chest this afternoon, make it that much more urgent for them to take you out immediately."

Sefa shuddered. Morgana patted her shoulder, sympathetic. She understood; she'd experienced the constant back-watching and wouldn't wish it on anyone. Perhaps it would be good for Sefa to take some time away for real. Morgana wondered if she should suggest that without offending the druid girl. Probably, if she was delicate about it.

If all went well, though, perhaps she wouldn't need to.

With business concluded, they spent the rest of breakfast, short as it was, engaged in small talk before dispersing to their various duties. Morgana had arranged a meeting with several members of the guard, people whom Lancelot and/or Leon vouched for as 'mostly reasonable.' The idea was that if she could win them over to magic's side, then their example could convince the more reticent guardsmen. Peer pressure used for good.

There were fewer guards in the conference room than she'd hoped for, but Morgana didn't let that get to her. She wouldn't. Instead, she plastered a bright smile onto her face. "Welcome! I'm glad to see you here. Today, I'll be explaining the basics of how magic works, what it can and can't do, and how it will affect your day-to-day lives. Leoht."

Several men jumped or flinched or both. Morgana ignored them. "Human magic enables spellbinders to alter reality in accordance with out wills…."

---

"See anyone yet, Elyan?"

"Not yet. You?"

Elyan and Leon meandered through the streets of Camelot, following Merlin on his mission to bait assassins. Leon nodded slightly, pointing his chin towards a man across the street. "I think he's been following Merlin, but I can't be certain. Keep an eye on him."

"Will do."

Merlin-as-Sefa made a show of examining a basket. He shook his head, then started walking back the way he'd come from.

"I think Merlin's noticed our friend too," Elyan muttered. "Look, he's doubling back."

"Seeing if anyone follows," Leon agreed. His gaze was glued to the suspicious man, whose own eyes were on the fake Sefa. He, too, began to amble in the same direction as the disguised warlock.

Elyan, Leon, and the other plainclothes knights dotted through the crowd were not there to protect Merlin. The warlock was fully capable of guarding himself, but he had only two eyes and one voice. The knights were witnesses, observers, there to scout out suspicious activity while Merlin focused on his Sefa act. As the Court Mage continued down the lane, Elyan and Leon watched the suspicious man pause near another two citizens. He said something that they couldn't make out, and the other two men joined him. Their walk had become purposeful, almost menacing.

Leon's lips curled up. "Good. More traitors to interrogate." He didn't know if they were the so-called Sons of Uther or simply opportunists, but either way, spellbinders would be safer if they took the bait.

"I like how they need to outnumber her three to one," Elyan agreed. "Wait. What's Merlin doing?"

"He's… staring into a random alleyway. I assume he wants to create an excuse to go someplace they can ambush him."

Merlin was a good actor. He took a couple steps further into the side street, hesitated, hands wringing at his illusory skirts. (If this gave his pursuers more time to catch up, then that was a happy coincidence.) Then he darted forward, out of the golden sunlight of late afternoon and into the long shadows of the alley. The three men follow.

A moment of quiet, then shouts erupt in a blazon of curses. Elyan and Leon picked up their pace, rounding the corner just after Marrok and Gwaine but before Percival and Lancelot. Merlin stood beaming in the center of the alley, using his magic to hold the three followers against a wall. Two of them held knives.

"Three traitors and would-be murderers. Not bad for a single evening's work," the warlock chirped.

The first man snarled a curse. The second gasped, "This is just a misunderstanding, we weren't going to do anything!"

Merlin shot the second man an arch stare. He flicked his wrist, and the knives flew out of the first two men's hands to land at his feet.

"Well—Lucky got out his knife first, so that's why I did it."

The third man groaned. "Oh, gods," he muttered.

"You're all under arrest for attempted murder," Leon informed the captives. "Sir Lancelot, do you have the ropes?"

"Of course."

"I was going to protect her. Uh, him," the second captive babbled.

"Stop. Talking," the third grated.

"It can wait until we're back at the castle," Gwaine stated. He gestured at their audience, a crowd of about twenty citizens who'd come to gawp. "Then you can talk as much as you'd like. Merlin, you've got that truth potion, right?"

"Just the quick-brewing one," the warlock lied. Truth potions didn't exist, as he'd told them several times, but the anti-magic faction wouldn't know that. "You know, the one with all the side effects." Teeth gleamed within his smile.

"Wouldn't it be kinder to wait for the slow-brewing one?" Lancelot asked, carefully bland.

"Yes, but that would take too long. Besides, we caught this lot red-handed. We know they're guilty, so I don't have to worry about innocent people suffering from all those side effects."

"I'll talk!" the second man cried.

"Good plan. Sir Leon, do you want to walk to the castle, or should I bring us?"

"We'll walk, I think."

Merlin bowed extravagantly, released the first man. Gwaine and Percival grabbed him, forcing him into manacles.

With the three prisoners secured, the captors made their way back to the castle. They attracted a fair few stares on the way back, but enough people recognized the former-then-demoted-then-promoted-again Head Knight and the new Court Mage that they weren't challenged despite their lack of uniforms. Elyan knew Camelot well enough to realize that the story (and a dozen rumors) would be all over the city by morning. The rumor mills were working overtime in the wake of the king's shocking engagement.

Three knights took the first and third men to the dungeons, while the rest of the party took the second man, Macsen, to a chamber near the library that had become Blanchefleur's de facto office for interrogation. They'd question Lucky and Connor later, once they had enough information for specifics. (Also, it would be easier to make them answer when they knew their comrade had already spilled the beans.)

"Don't use the potions," Lucky begged as the door closed behind them. "I'll tell you everything I know."

"All right," said Merlin, "we won't use the truth potions on you, just your friends. Just thought you should know that in case you got any ideas about lying." He leaned forward, magic-golden eyes almost glowing in the firelight. Lucky flinched. "So. Start talking."

He talked. He and his friends (and several other people) had been feeding information to a farm woman who frequently visited the city to sell her wares. She had connections with another country woman who either was in direct contact with the gathering rebels or knew someone who was, Macsen wasn't certain.

"And what exactly have you lot been doing?"

So far, it was mostly information gathering and rumor seeding. Their enemies had noticed the power of gossip, so they manufactured as many ugly stories as they could. Lucky had heard that other members of his coterie had been planning other missions, including strategies to betray the citadel to an invading army and to assassinate high-visibility spellbinders, but he swore he didn't know any more details about that.

"We'll get back to that later. For now, give us as many names as you can remember."

In addition to his two co-conspirators for the evening, Lucky knew three other people who were definitely on the rebels' side. One of the names made the interrogators start. Grainne was a maid in the castle, someone with easy access to Merlin and Morgana's chambers.

Elyan volunteered to find her immediately. "Even if she's not the one who left those death threats, she'll know who did, and we can't risk her getting away." Some of the spies would escape, an inevitable consequence of marching their captives through the streets, but this one was in a position to be especially dangerous if she broke away.

"I'll go with you in case she has allies," Leon said. Elyan grinned at the other knight, and they began their march to the servants' quarters.

Their grins died when they arrived at their destination to find it abuzz with a conversation that died at their entry. Elyan tensed. He automatically scanned the five assembled servants for signs of guilt or, worse, weaponry. He found a good deal of the former but not much of the latter.

"What happened?" Leon demanded.

They hesitated, loyalty to their friend—for Elyan recognized them now as friends of Grainne's—warring with their ingrained response to a nobleman's demands. The latter won out. "We—well, I—heard about you catching a group of traitors, so I came here to tell everyone about it. I'm off-duty," she added, as though that were the issue here. "We're all off-duty, I swear."

"Noted."

"Well, I came here to tell everyone that some spies had been caught, but then Grainne… took it strangely. She asked who they were, and I said that I don't know yet, so she went to go see, but…. Beca, tell them what you saw."

"Grainne was leaving the castle," Beca grudgingly admitted. "She was probably going to tell her parents what's happening, or maybe she wanted to learn more. There are a lot of reasons that she might have left. She's a good person, and loyal to the king. I'll swear to it."

As gently as he could, Elyan explained, "The traitors named Grainne as part of their network of spies. We've come to apprehend her."

"No!"

"She wouldn't."

"Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods…."

"They're lying. Grainne wouldn't do that, she wouldn't."

Leon raised a hand for silence. The servants quieted except for the one who was muttering "Oh gods." Beca elbowed him, snapping the boy out of his stupor. He jumped but stopped his mumbles.

"Where do her parents live?" Leon asked. "We'll not harm them, not unless they attack first. You have my word on that."

"They wouldn't either," one servant whispered. Elyan couldn't tell who it was, they spoke so softly.

Seren gave them directions, both to the parents' home and to Grainne's older sister's house.

"No time to get the others," Elyan stated as they rushed back through the halls. "I'll go to Grainne's parents' place. I know that part of town better."

"Then I'll pay her sister a visit."

They were almost at the stables, where they shouted for the grooms to help them saddle their horses. The stable boys worked at record speed, and soon Elyan and Leon were thundering through the streets. The common-born knight raised a hand in farewell as they separated.

It seemed like barely a moment before Elyan arrived at his latest destination. He swung off his horse and lunged at the door. He spared a moment to hope it wasn't locked before grabbing at the handle. His hopes were answered; it wasn't locked, and he erupted into the little house without interruption.

A middle-aged couple gaped at him. "Who are you?" the woman gasped. "What do you want?"

"I'm Sir Elyan, one of the king's knights. Is your daughter Grainne here?"

The man's gaze darted to the window. His wife choked, "What do you want with her? She wouldn't do anything wrong, she's—"

Elyan backtracked, shooting off on foot in the direction that Grainne's father had looked. Night was falling fast, but there were still a few people going about their business. Elyan looked from face to face, but he didn't see Grainne. Then a blur of motion caught his eye, a shape ducking hurriedly into an alleyway.

It would be immensely ironic if she was luring Elyan into a trap just as Merlin had earlier done to her comrades. She wouldn't, though. She'd barely escaped the castle and hadn't had time to organize an ambush. Her only hope was to outrun him, and Elyan wouldn't bet money on her being able to manage that. She'd been on foot all the way from the castle, with only a few minutes' respite with her parents, and she was wearing a skirt. Gwen, Morgana, and Isolde had all commented on how much more quickly a person could run in trousers.

"Stop!" Elyan bellowed. "In the name of the king!"

Grainne—for it must be Grainne—sped up. Elyan followed suit. The distance between them halved, quartered. She swerved, narrowly avoiding her pursuer's grasp, but she couldn't repeat the trick. Elyan grabbed her skirt and pulled. The fabric held. Grainne fell with a cry of pain and shock.

"You're under arrest," the knight announced.

"You're the traitor," she spat. "Damn you, you're the traitor! I'm loyal to the real king!"

"You can tell that to the guards," Elyan snapped. "Now get up. You're coming with me."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which the Heroes Collect Several Captives for Interrogation"

Next chapter: February 24. We get a name.

I really, really need to reread this fic, then get back to writing it.

Chapter 16: The Face of the Opposition

Summary:

Arthur gets a name.

Chapter XVI: The Face of the Opposition

Arthur had strongly suspected that this was coming. Guinevere had warned him of her suspicions after seeing the graffiti, so he'd braced himself for this news. Still, it stung.

"All three confirmed this?" he asked.

"All four," Merlin corrected him. "Grainne gave his name too."

The king nodded. "I suppose that this makes sense," he sighed. "There were, what, five nobles we thought might be passing themselves off as my bastard brother? They were the right age, their mothers are conveniently dead, they've expressed anti-magic sentiments…. And Madawg was one of them."

"Madawg was one of them," Morgana confirmed.

His head hurt. He thought longingly of his bed, reminded himself that he could sleep soon. "First thing in the morning, I'll write to Madawg and order him to Camelot. That will force this into the open. Merlin, try to scry him again before bed."

"Of course. I'll have the other scryers focus on searching his lands, too."

"Good. For now, we'll keep Madawg's part quiet, wait until he receives the letter."

"…Why?" Morgana's brow was crinkled.

"Because I'd prefer to settle this as quickly and quietly as possible. If I don't publicly name him, then there's a slight chance he'll lose his nerve and abandon the rebellion of his own volition. It's a very, very small chance, but I do need to take it."

"That makes sense," Morgana acknowledged.

"…Is there some reason we can't teleport?" Merlin asked. "Go in, have him talk to the king, solve the problem right away."

Arthur weighed the suggestion. The rebels depended on secrecy, unpredictability, fear. The shadows were their only armor; once they were exposed, it would be easy for the knights of Camelot (not to mention the most powerful warlock in the world) to crush them. Remove the leader, learn names from him, and half the rebellion's strength would evaporate. "I can't think of one," he finally admitted. "We'll go tomorrow morning, Merlin, you and me and the knights."

"I'm looking forward to it," the mage said.

"If that's the case," Guinevere stated suddenly, "then you ought to go to bed now, Merlin, make sure you're rested for tomorrow morning."

"What?" Merlin's brow crinkled.

Something stern girded Guinevere's smile. "I really think we ought to start dispersing."

Comprehension lit the warlock's gaze. "You're right. Good night, Arthur, Morgana." He and Guinevere made their escape, leaving the two confirmed children of Uther Pendragon alone.

Morgana rolled her eyes. "Very subtle, those two," she groused.

"When you think about it, it's amazing that they could keep any secrets at all," Arthur agreed. "Especially Merlin."

"You can be a fantastic secret keeper without being subtle."

They were quiet for a few moments, knowing that the conversation had to be held but not wanting to start it. Morgana broke first. "Is it possible that Madawg really is our half-brother?"

Arthur slumped into his chair, his eyes closing of their own accord. "I don't know," he confessed. "I wish I could assure you that of course he isn't, but…."

Morgana's lips twisted in a rueful grin. "Oh, I know, Arthur."

"I don't think he is," her brother continued. "He's, what, two or three years older than me? Mother was still alive then, and I have trouble believing that Father would betray a living wife. Everyone agrees that he absolutely adored her. But I can't know for certain. Maybe they had a fight."

"If I recall correctly, Madawg's mother is dead." Morgana's fingers drummed the table. "And we know that his father is dead because he's the active lord. Without dabbling in necromancy, we can't ask them."

"Necromancy?" Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he wanted a distraction, however brief.

"The magic of animating and communicating with the dead. If we were desperate to know, Morgause could probably summon Madawg's mother for us." She frowned. "Except I think that ghosts can lie or refuse to answer, so perhaps not."

"Let's not," Arthur seconded. "I don't want to know that badly. Summoning the dead feels like the sort of thing that would leave you cursed."

"Necromancy is known for going disastrously wrong," his sister agreed. She looked away, her hair falling like a dark curtain between them. "But even if we had proof one way or the other, it wouldn't matter."

"Of course it would matter."

"To you and me, yes, but not to the rest of the world. What matters is that reasonable people can reasonably claim to believe that Madawg is Uther Pendragon's firstborn son. What matters is that Madawg can claim legitimacy, and his supporters can say that any counterclaims are lies and denials from evil corrupt sorcerers."

"I really do hate it when you're right," Arthur muttered. "On the other hand, though, it might matter to me. To us."

"I don't need more brothers," she scoffed. "Or more sisters, either."

Arthur wondered if they did have other siblings out there. Once, he would have found the idea unthinkable. Now, he realized that there was no reason Vivienne had to have been his father's only lover or the only other woman he'd gotten with child. He'd never seen Uther treat anybody the way he treated Morgana, but maybe their half-siblings were being raised far from Camelot. Maybe Uther had never known they existed.

He shook his head as though to physically exorcise the thoughts. Morgana was right, it didn't matter, at least not with regards to their everyday lives. He couldn't acknowledge any half-siblings, just as he and Morgana had never made their own kinship public.

"Arthur? Are you all right? You're uncharacteristically quiet."

"Just thinking, that's all."

"Don't hurt yourself."

He snorted. "Don't worry about that. If we do capture Madawg tomorrow without anything going wrong, will that be enough to cripple the rebellion? If they found one long-lost secret bastard son more suited for the throne, then they might find another."

"It would buy us time and delegitimize both claims," Morgana pointed out.

"I don't suppose you've seen anything in your dreams?"

"The man in the lion mask," she answered. "It's just a mask, which I think is more evidence that he's not Uther's."

"With multicolored puppet strings," Arthur recalled. "Anything else?" For obvious reasons, they'd stopped their dream-world meetings. The lion-headed man had appeared that winter, but Morgana might have seen something more recently.

She mulled it over. "A dead tree," she finally said, very slowly. "Its trunk is covered in claw marks that might have come from a lion. I'm not sure, though. There's a cup in the tree's top branches, impossible to reach without magic." The witch blinked. "I don't know why I said that last bit, but it feels important. You can't reach the cup without magic."

"That's… good?"

"I think it's good." She closed her eyes, nibbled at her lips, searched her memory for more leonine imagery.

"Just tell me everything," Arthur advised. "Something might be relevant in a way that we won't understand until it happens."

"A castle with weeping walls, but then it begins to laugh. Corbenic restored, with dragons flying around its towers. A green man carrying his own head. A trail of slime dripping into a goblet right next to a mortar and pestle. A white stag with tines of silver. Seven men standing before a giant. The flash of a dagger." Morgana shrugged, helpless. "It's either bizarre and symbolic or too generic to be useful."

"The slime might be poison," Arthur speculated. "I'll not eat anything he offers me, and I'll tell the others to refrain as well."

"Marrok could probably smell poison."

"Yes. Can you think of anything else you've seen?"

"No other images, but I should tell you more about the dagger. It's very distinctive. Assuming it's an actual object and not a metaphor, you'll want to be able to recognize it."

Arthur made a 'go on' gesture.

"The hilt was gold," Morgana recounted, "and covered with gems, black and white. The blade was mostly iron, but the shape of a bird was etched across it. I think it was a magpie, but I didn't get a good enough look to be certain. I don't know who that might represent, so I asked Geoffrey to search personal and family crests until he finds someone who might be represented by a magpie. If the dagger is real, it's fancy enough that it could only have been commissioned by a member of the nobility. If it's a symbol, the magpie would represent their identity."

"Do you think the black and white gems represent the dagger's family colors?"

"Possibly, or they represent the coloration of a magpie. Possibly both. And before you ask, yes, of course I'm having Geoffrey take notes if he finds people whose sigils are magpie-like birds and not just magpies."

"What's Madawg's family crest?" Arthur wondered.

"I think it's an eagle, but I'm not certain. I'll check that for you tomorrow morning, before you leave for your confrontation. It's getting late, Arthur. We really should go to bed."

"You're right. Good night, Morgana."

"Good night, Arthur."

---

"Watch out for poison and a dagger," Merlin repeated. "The dagger, if it's real, has a bird on it that is possibly a magpie or possibly an eagle, the sigil of Madawg's house. Did I miss anything?"

"Just be on your guard," Arthur ordered.

"Especially against poison, fancy daggers, and magpies."

"Yes, Merlin," the king sighed. "Especially against those."

"We will be," Leon promised. Lancelot nodded his agreement, face grim.

Merlin had scried the area around Madawg's keep (at least the parts that he could scry. Some were obscured from his sight) during breakfast. He chanted the whirlwind spell, bringing the party and their horses to a secluded place a few hundred feet from the nearest road. They trotted to the worn path, attracting baffled stares from the peasant family walking toward town with their cart. The mother's eyes widened as she noticed Arthur's crown. She hissed something at her husband and their brood, and the ones who weren't sitting in the cart dropped into clumsy bows.

"At ease," Arthur said. He smiled, waved at the gawking children. One waved back. She was quickly joined by three of her siblings. The fourth, older than the others, gaped wide-eyed at Merlin, with his blue cloak, sorcerous staff, and magic-golden eyes. The warlock followed Arthur's lead, smiling and waving.

The boy ducked for cover. Merlin's smile froze.

Gwaine scowled, but thankfully he had enough sense and restraint to not rebuke a frightened child of perhaps ten years. He waited until they were out of sight before asking, "You okay, Merlin?"

"I'm fine."

The knights snorted, arched their brows, and made various other gestures of nonverbal disbelief.

Merlin amended, "A little disheartened, but it's nothing I can't handle. Seriously. Lots of people gape at me or react strangely. I'm getting used to it. It'll die down once they're more accustomed to me."

"Still," Lancelot protested, "you shouldn't have to experience that sort of thing."

"That's what we're working for, isn't it? By tomorrow, the boy will be telling his friends all about seeing the king and his knights and his scary Court Mage. If he's smart about it, he can milk this encounter all summer. He'll be the most popular child in town.

Lancelot looked doubtful. "If you say so."

"I do say so. Now, we were about a mile from Madawg's castle, so we should be seeing it soon."

"I see it," Percival informed them, indulging Merlin's ungraceful change of subject. Elyan stood in his stirrups, nodded in confirmation.

The rest of them laid eyes on the keep about two minutes later. It was a perfectly ordinary, serviceable castle except for an unusually tall tower at the northwestern corner. A village had grown around its base, small but prosperous, with its own tannery and smithy and potters' building. The villagers came out to see their king. A few cheered, but others eyed Merlin with trepidation and remained silent.

"Looks like our friend from the woods won't have bragging rights after all," Gwaine observed.

"Of course he will. He just has to make up some story about bravely defying the scary warlock. He can get his family to back him up."

"It's easy to tell that your only sibling is still an infant. Trust me, Merlin, brothers and sisters don't work that way. He'd have to bribe them, and they'd still 'slip up' within a few days."

"And I say that his family would back him up wholeheartedly. Leon, you have more siblings than the rest of us combined. Who's right, me or Gwaine?"

"I'm afraid it's Gwaine," the knight replied.

Gwaine cackled. Merlin gasped. "Traitor," he declared.

A man who must be Madawg met them at the gates of the keep. Merlin scanned his face for any resemblance to Uther, Arthur, or even Morgana, but found nothing. His hair was brown, his eyes deep blue (like Arthur's, but the king's coloring came from Ygraine) and small and shifty, his nose slightly misshapen from some long-ago brawl. There was nothing of the old king in his features.

Then again, both of Uther's known children took after their mothers. Merlin made a mental note to look for a portrait of Madawg's mother, his father, any other relatives.

But although this lordling didn't look the part, he certainly dressed it. His tunic was Pendragon red with gold scrolling—not quite the dragon rampant, but if you were looking for it, the embroidery suggested a draconic shape. The sword and dagger at his hip were resting in gem-encrusted scabbards, and their handles bore elaborate filigree. No gems of black and white, though. Good.

"Your Majesty." Madawg bowed. "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have prepared a better welcome for you." He looks over the rest of the party, gaze lingering on Merlin. For a moment, pure hatred flashes through his eyes, but he veils the emotion quickly, loathing hidden behind a bland smile.

"I'm sure you would have," Arthur said dryly.

"I'll have a luncheon feast prepared for you. Chambers as well, so that you and your men can recover from your travels."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary. We'll only be here for a brief time. Bring us to a place where we can speak in private."

Another flash of quickly concealed rage. He didn't like being reminded which one of them was king. Had he always been like that, or did it spring from his new royal ambitions?

"Of course, sire. Follow me. Grooms, stable their horses."

By the time the party had dismounted, two more people had arrived at the castle threshold. Judging from their attire, the curly-haired woman was Madawg's wife, and the wide-eyed toddler by her side was their son. The boy did a double-take as he took them in. He pointed a chubby finger at Merlin and shouted, "Yellow!"

The Court Mage smiled at him. "Yellow indeed, little lord."

If looks could kill, Madawg's glare would have struck Merlin dead before he once again masked his anger. Merlin was starting to wonder why he even bothered forcing down his emotions. Surely he realized that they'd seen his true feelings, right?

"May I present Lady Delyth, my wife, and our son Eliwlod."

"Your Majesty." Delyth curtsied, murmured for her son to bow. He ignored her, still staring in wonder at Merlin's bizarre eyes.

"Bird?" the boy asked hopefully.

"Yes," Merlin confirmed. Had he been in the city, he would have conjured an illusory bird out of ropes of light, but it felt like a bad idea to do that with Madawg right there. The man might stab him.

A wicked idea struck. Grinning, Merlin pulled himself and Eliwlod out of time. The boy didn't notice, though, because the moment Madawg could no longer see them, Merlin created a bright eagle, yellow and red. Eliwlod's jaw dropped, his eyes went wide, and he clapped his hands together in delight. "Bird! Bird!"

(If Merlin was wrong and Madawg actually was Uther's bastard, then little Eliwlod would be Arthur's nephew. Possibly Merlin's nephew, too, if things kept going well with Morgana. The boy's father might be awful, but he seemed like a perfectly pleasant child.)

Merlin threw the eagle into the air, and they watched it fly away. Time resumed when the child turned back to face the warlock in an approximation of his earlier position. It wasn't perfect, but if someone didn't know about Merlin's time-pausing capabilities, they wouldn't realize what had happened. Lancelot gave him a suspicious glance, but he knew better than to say anything.

"Bird, bird, bird," Eliwlod rambled, tugging his mother's hand and gesturing wildly at Merlin.

"Yes, sweetheart," she said indulgently. "Does Lord Bird have a name?"

"My Court Mage, Merlin Caledonensis," Arthur answered. He rattled off the knights' names, including Gwaine's relationship with Loth and Lot, then, unnecessarily, his own identity. Another reminder for Madawg, Merlin supposed.

"An honor, sirs, Your Majesty."

"The honor is all ours, my lady. Lord Madawg, if you would."

"Of course, sire."

"Do you want me to come along?" asked Delyth.

"Not necessary, my lady."

"Very well. I'll arrange refreshments."

They followed Madawg through his castle. Merlin glimpsed servants lurking behind corners, heard them whispering about the visitors. He paid only a little attention to them, just enough to ensure that they weren't going to suddenly charge or shoot or something. They gave no indication of hostility, though.

Most of Merlin's brain was occupied with Delyth's promise of refreshment. Unless she and Madawg had planned for the eventuality of the king, Court Mage, and several knights suddenly appearing and asking for a meeting, there was little chance that she'd risk poisoning them. The risk to her husband would be too great.

Then again, maybe she didn't like him. If he also died, little Eliwlod would become the figurehead of the anti-magic movement, and he'd need a regent.

"Arthur, when Delyth comes back, could you invite her in? I'd like to see how she reacts to whatever she's feeding us before we put anything in our mouths."

"She wouldn't risk Madawg."

"We don't know what their marriage is like. Not every couple is as happy as you and Gwen, and we already decided not to eat anything."

"Very well then, Merlin. If you insist."

"Thanks, Arthur." The warlock broke the connection.

The room Madawg led them to was small, with a great window to the east and a long table taking up most of the interior. One door, Merlin noted, and the table made maneuvering difficult. A bit of an odd choice. Merlin had Béothaich and yellow eyes, so Madawg had to know that their side had magic while his had to rely on force of arms. Was this his way of playing dumb, of silently indicating that he had no idea why the Court Mage might have cause to use magic against him? Was there some sort of ward in the walls? Perhaps he was hiding other rebels in the castle and didn't want to risk the king's party coming across them.

Or perhaps this was the nearest room and Merlin was overthinking things.

He tried to relax, he really did, but his unease continued after Delyth and the servants arrived with the refreshments: various cheeses, including some very fragrant specimens that might have come from Gaul, cold cuts of meat, bread and jam, and wine to wash it down. If anything was poisoned, it would be the wine or the jam. Merlin eyed the bottles and jars with suspicion, but they appeared to be unopened.

Arthur invited the lady of the castle to join them. Her eyes widened incrementally, but like her husband, she knew how to keep her poise. "Of course, sire," she demurred.

Delyth took her seat. The servants passed around plates and goblets. Merlin scanned his for strange powders or sheens or clumps of matter, but he found nothing.

The wine was poured, the food passed around. Delyth and Madawg took a little bit of everything. Merlin was more selective, was pleased to see that the others were too. Marrok discreetly sniffed one of the cheeses. The werewolf made a face, but when Merlin asked him through thought-speech if anything was wrong, he shook his head minutely.

The lord of the castle slathered a generous helping of blackberry jam onto a slice of fine white bread. "The local specialty," he said, "and Eliwlod's favorite. We always have a few jars on hand for him."

"Not just his favorite," Delyth chuckled, covering her own bread in the same substance.

"But I doubt that you came all this way just to speak of jam. How can I serve, Your Majesty?"

"You can serve by ceasing your rebellion against me."

It was like the temperature plummeted. Madawg's hand convulsed around his goblet as his composure cracked and finally, finally stayed away. "What?" he asked, genuinely startled that Arthur would be so blunt.

"We captured a spy cell yesterday," Arthur drawled. "One of the women named you her king. Apparently you're my long-lost half-brother, which makes you the perfect figurehead for the anti-magic movement."

Merlin hid his grin behind a piece of cheese. (Delyth had already eaten one, so he knew it wasn't poisoned. This cheese, the white bread, and the blackberry jam were all safe.) Madawg looked like a small child whose parents had caught him in wrongdoing, startled and frightened and guilty.

The king leaned forward, his crown glinting in the morning light. "This is, of course, high treason."

"I didn't," Madawg lied. "I'm not a king, Your Majesty, and that spy must have been lying. I'm loyal to you and to Camelot. I don't know a thing about this, this treason."

"Then you'll have no qualms about remaining my guest in Camelot until this entire unpleasantness blows over."

"He can't, sire," Delyth blurted. At Arthur's arched brow, she elaborated, "I'm with child."

"What?" squawked Madawg.

His wife nodded rapidly. "Yes. That's why I've been so slow and sleepy lately. Sire, I'm afraid for my health—mine and the babe's, even Eliwlod's—if I have to spend the next seven months worrying about my husband."

"You can come to Camelot as well," Arthur decided. "Gaius is the finest physician in the kingdom, and we have access to resources that you don't. Have you heard the tale of Princess Angharad's pregnancy?"

Delyth groaned softly. She really did look a bit green around the gills, Merlin observed. Yet he didn't think she'd always looked like that. Was the stress causing her symptoms to flare up?

"We have no need of sorcery," the pale-faced Madawg spat, slamming his fist on the table. "Rience is more than capa—"

"Rience?" Merlin interrupted. The warlock leapt to his feet. "Where is—ooh, not good." His head swam, vision blurring.

Delyth's lips twitched as her eyes slid closed. She was smart, Merlin realized. She'd known that they wouldn't eat or drink anything that might be contaminated, so she'd poisoned herself and her husband to trick Arthur's party. Now the effects were catching up with them, too.

Merlin grabbed at his magic, the whirlwind spell fresh in his mind, but the poison moved quickly. His legs gave out under him, and he fell into the dark.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which a Bunch of Idiots do the One Thing They'd Decided not to do Because They Knew Damn Well That it was a Bad Idea, but I Guess the Food Must Have Smelled Really Good"

Next chapter: March 17. Villain POV time!

Madawg (or Madoc, or Madog) ap Uther is a super-obscure figure who is briefly mentioned in, like, three or four early Arthurian poems, including one called Arthur and the Eagle (hence his family sigil). He's listed as a son of Uther and the father of Eliwlod.

Chapter 17: Failure to Return

Summary:

We catch up with Rience, and Morgana begins to worry.

Chapter XVII: Failure to Return

The last few months had been difficult for Rience.

He'd been so certain, last year, that this so-called Merlin Emrys was magic's last stand. The sorcerer had gathered his kin around him and bewitched the Crown Prince, but King Uther was clever. With Rience's herbs, he would crush the final remnants of sorcery once and for all.

Things had not gone as planned. They'd put down a good number of the scum, but then the sorcerers had rallied and slaughtered the good men of Camelot and Essetir, including poor brave Maddox. Rience had escaped with his life and tried to return to the citadel, but he'd barely entered the gates before hearing of the king's death. The pharmacist had fled, reasoning that he'd be safe in Amata, where he could assist another worthy king in putting down magic. Perhaps—or so he'd let himself hope—he would be able to save Uther Pendragon's son from those who had ensorcelled him.

That had also ended in death and disaster, and Rience had been forced to flee again. That second time, he hadn't known where to turn. An upjumped servant girl had been gallivanting all throughout Albion, speaking poison into kings' ears, very likely using her own foul magic to snare them one by one. Rience had been so careful, wandering from one end of Camelot to another, selling his expertise and seeking out like-minded people.

(Sometimes, he couldn't help but remember that he hadn't walked the kingdom as a pharmacist since before the Purge began. Anyone who worked too closely with herbs was viewed with suspicion, and he hadn't felt it safe to venture far outside his home range, where people knew that he wasn't a sorcerer. Now, though, with Arthur's future plans for magic known to all—with the sorcerers who'd flaunted their depravity in ostentatious 'good' deeds—he could more safely reveal his profession to strangers.

He always shut these thoughts down as quickly as he could. The pharmacist had the feeling that he wouldn't like the logical conclusion.)

But slowly, ever so slowly, his efforts had borne fruit. He'd found others who loathed magic as much as he did. He'd forged connections between them, whispered rumors about the treasonous scum who held their new king's ear.

And then, as the sun strengthened and the first shoots poked through the ground, he'd found his latest patron.

Rience didn't know if Lord Madawg was King Uther's son or not. He knew, though, that this man was no slave to sorcery; that he had a noble-born wife who'd already given him a healthy son, Eliwlod; that he was a skilled warrior, an experienced lord, a canny strategist; that he was Camelot's best chance of overthrowing its magical tyrants.

(He wondered if King Uther would approve of this plan, this conspiracy to unseat his only trueborn son. Madawg might be the king's blood as well—if nothing else, his legal father was a distant cousin of the Pendragon line—but would that have been enough? Arthur was Queen Ygraine's son as well. Would his alliance—maybe willing, maybe not—with Uther's enemies cancel out his mother's identity? Rience vacillated between thinking that Uther would understand and approve of the magic-lover's downfall, even if he wouldn't be happy about it, and fearing that he would have defended Arthur no matter what. He pushed those thoughts away, too, exiling them to the same place as the others.)

For the last few weeks, he had been serving as Madawg and Delyth's physician. Their castle was a sort of communications hub and, more importantly for the pharmacist, their supply center. Rience had been doing his best to stockpile things like medicines and bandages. He'd also attempted to train a brace of local boys as his assistants, but the two brothers were utter fools. They tended to avoid Rience, and he rarely sought them out.

Still, sometimes he did require a bit of help. Rience was weighing the benefits of hunting down his worthless aides when Lady Delyth burst into his chambers. "Arthur Pendragon, his sorcerer, and some knights have been spotted coming through the village. Prepare a poison now. No—a fast-acting sleeping draught, something that can take them out before the sorcerer has a chance to respond."

"Would it not be easier to poison them?" the pharmacist asked.

"If they have any brains whatsoever, they won't eat anything that Madawg hasn't sampled. Also, I want to interrogate them, and the sorcerer could help with our… research project. Does that draught exist?"

"Yes, and I have some. It just needs one more ingredient to activate."

"Good. Finish the potion, then bring it to the kitchens."

"Your Majesty." Rience bowed from the waist to his queen, but she was already out the door.

The pharmacist grabbed his ingredients, stirred them together as quickly as he could. He half-ran to the kitchens, where Delyth was instructing the servants. "Put it in the wine and blackberry jam," she commanded. Rience obeyed.

"My lady?" It was one of the cook's girls, wide-eyed with horror. "That's—that's the king, my lady."

"Not for long," the lady of the keep retorted. She pointed at a guard and began delegating. "You, take this girl to the dungeons. You two, guard the kitchen. Let no one in or out. Alys, Marta, you'll serve the food. Rience, you're to prepare the antidote."

"I'm afraid that the only antidote is time."

"Then just remain nearby."

"Yes, Majesty."

Rience lingered as close as he dared, straining his ears for shouting or the clash of swords. Nothing. The pharmacist told himself that the quiet was good. It meant no conflict, which meant no suspicion.

The minutes stretched. Finally, when he could hardly stand the tension, one of the servants stepped back into the hallway. "Well?" Rience demanded.

The servant smiled, triumphant. "It worked."

They scurried into the room. Most of the inhabitants lay half-sprawled across the table, having fallen unconscious in their chairs, but one man had stood before succumbing to the drugged sleep. Rience had never seen him before, but he knew him all the same, for he was the only invader with a cloak of navy blue instead of bloodred. Merlin Emrys, the newest Court Mage of Camelot.

Merlin Emrys, who had started all this.

For a moment, Rience could barely breathe. Hatred welled inside him like a volcanic eruption; his hands spasmed into fists. It was all he could do not to kill the hateful creature. He could take some poison from his chambers, he could wrap his hands around the sorcerer's neck, he could take a knife and stab him through his unnatural yellow eyes. He could kill him. Gods knew he wanted to.

But Queen Delyth had plans for him, so when Rience went back to his chambers, he stayed away from his poisons. He might have looked longingly at his store of hemlock, but he did not touch it. Instead, he mixed more sleeping draught. The first dose would be wearing off soon, so he'd need to drug their prisoners again.

The pharmacist returned just in time. The queen was beginning to stir. Rience ran to the sorcerer, poured the drink down his throat, then moved on to the knights and Arthur Pendragon.

(King Madawg looked nothing like his supposed half-brother, but then again, Arthur was known to favor his mother.)

Guards entered with rope and, more importantly, a set of magic-blocking chains, bought for five times their weight in gold from some unknown ally outside the kingdom. They were rough, especially with the sorcerer. He'd bear bruises by the end of the day.

Queen Delyth, groaning, finally regained full consciousness. Her bleary blinking gave way to shocked remembrance and a relieved grin. "Thank all the gods that worked."

Her words finished waking King Madawg. "You poisoned us!"

"Yes."

"Rience, can—whatever you two used—harm an unborn babe?"

Horror chilled the pharmacist's blood.

"Calm yourself. I'm not with child, I just lied about it to buy us time. You should know that, Madawg. I was just complaining of moon cramps last week."

"I don't know how early women can tell," he muttered, but his fear was gone. Rience breathed a sigh of relief.

"What now?" asked the highest-ranking guard. He eyed the sorcerer nervously. "And—pardon, my lord—"

"Your Majesty," the king corrected. "The time for subtlety is over. We'll send out messengers proclaiming my ascension later today… and ordering our troops to begin their strikes."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I'm only afraid—have these chains been tested? Considering their… provenance… I can't help but fear that they are but ordinary shackles."

Madawg mulled it over. "They're real," he concluded. "That old magpie's a greedy bastard, but he's not stupid enough to endanger himself with that sort of betrayal."

"As you say, Your Majesty. What shall we do with the prisoners?"

"We should separate them," Delyth counseled. "Arthur and the knights to one camp, the sorcerer to the other."

Her husband considered, nodded. "Take the sorcerer to the camp by Sable Hill. It's nearer. Put the others in a wagon and bring them to the border camp. Have my horse saddled. I'll be riding along with the so-called king. Rience, you're to go with the sorcerer. Take enough drugs to keep him confused and malleable. Tell Elisedd to interrogate him thoroughly and to make sure he's asked about the slug."

The pharmacist bowed. A true king indeed, he thought. "As you command, sire."

---

Morgana's ability to see the future was limited to dreams. She saw things, heard them, even felt them sometimes, metaphors and occasional uncensored visions without a whit of context. It was Merlin—and, to a lesser extent, Hunith—who got funny feelings, little whispers that something important was happening or that something wasn't right or, all too often, both. Merlin could let his intuition guide him; he was not limited to the prophecies that occasionally spilled unbidden and cryptic from his mouth.

Maybe Merlin was rubbing off on her, because Morgana had an awful feeling that something wasn't right.

She tried to distract herself. The witch headed for the library, where she searched for a magpie sigil until Geoffrey and Blanchefleur got tired of her fidgeting and tossed her out. At least they let her take a pair of books along, though she couldn't focus any better in her own chambers.

Gwen stopped by with lunch. "Did they tell you when they'd be back?" She didn't need to be more specific.

"No." Morgana looked outside again, taking in the position of the sun. It had moved perhaps another inch towards its zenith, but she couldn't tell for certain. "I suppose that they could be interrogating the servants or something. Maybe Madawg betrayed his men and is leading the knights to wherever they're hiding."

"You're probably right. Between Merlin's magic and everyone else's skill at arms, there's not much that can take them down."

"Especially since they're not eating," Morgana agreed.

"Maybe that's why they're late. Maybe they went to get lunch at a tavern."

Neither woman believed that, but it lightened the mood for a brief moment. "I'll scry them after lunch if they haven't come back by then."

"Good idea."

They did not speak much during their meal. Neither was particularly hungry, but they ate quickly and well, knowing that if something was wrong, they'd need all their strength.

When they were finished, Gwen stepped outside to hand their plates to a passing servant. Morgana sent out a tentative pulse of thought. "Are you here, Merlin?"

No answer.

Gwen stepped back inside, closing the door behind her. The former maid's face was grim. "They aren't back yet. Do you still keep that water flask by your bed?"

"Yes." A bowl flew to Morgana's hand, followed quickly by the flask. It was only two-thirds full, but that was enough. The witch pictured her beau's face, his smile. She spoke the words, pouring magic into the water.

Nothing.

Morgana's heart stuttered. For a moment, she feared that Madawg had killed him, killed the man she hoped to marry, snuffed out his light forever. Hunith and Balinor would lose their son, Ganieda would never know her brother, and everyone who'd known and loved Merlin (for how could anyone really know him without coming to love him?) would weep.

If Madawg had killed him, Morgana thought, she would destroy him. Forget blowing up his head. She'd make it last.

But, the witch reminded herself, there was another entirely plausible reason that she couldn't scry him. Their enemies had anti-scrying wards. They might have brought one into Madawg's castle.

The wards. What other artifacts did they have again? A rowan staff that could raise the dead, the corpse of a gean canach, blood girdles, the Triplet Crystals, tireless halters, skeleton keys…. Nothing dangerous save for the staff and the slug, but they'd need to figure out how to use the staff (not likely) to revive the magic-eater.

"The rowan staff," she realized.

"What?"

"My dream," Morgana explained. "I dreamed of claw marks on a rowan tree. The tree must represent the staff."

"So Madawg has… damaged it?"

"Maybe." She would pursue that thought later. Now, she pictured Arthur's face and repeated the scrying spell. If she couldn't find him either, then he and Merlin and the others were almost certainly behind an anti-scrying ward.

(The other possibility was unacceptable.)

The water showed an image. Arthur, the knights, and Marrok were unconscious and bound with ropes, stashed inside a wagon. A man in armor stood guard over them, wincing whenever the wagon rode over a bump.

Morgana swore. Gwen hissed, "How in the name of all the gods did the visit go so wrong?"

"We'll have to ask," Morgana said. Her ears were ringing. The room blurred at the edges of her vision.

Merlin wasn't there. Everyone else, but Merlin wasn't there. She couldn't find him. She—

"Morgana!" Gwen had grabbed her arms, was on the verge of shaking her. "Morgana, they might have separated them. That's what I'd do, I think. I'd—I'd keep the person who could summon lightning bolts unconscious as long as possible, hide him as well as I could, and try to get answers from the people who can't blow up my head with an angry thought. Merlin is fine, Morgana. Breathe."

She breathed. In, out, in out. It helped, a little.

"I hope you're right."

A pained smile. Gwen was worried too, though she was trying to hide it. "Of course I'm right. Now what do we do?"

That was easy enough to answer. "We rescue them. We start with Arthur and the knights, then find Merlin and rescue him, too."

"I like this plan." She swallowed hard, forced herself to get her anxiety at least somewhat under control. "Let me move the scrying point so we can see what we're up against."

A bit more snooping revealed that their friends were being taken down a poorly-kept dirt road that meandered up and down tree-covered hills. Every once in a while, the wagon had to stop while the guards removed a fallen log. There were five mounted guards, plus the one standing in the wagon. They followed behind a man in Camelot red and gold scrollwork.

He was wearing Arthur's crown.

"That's Madawg then," Gwen observed tightly. It was rare for the gentle-hearted former maid to openly dislike anyone, but this rebel lord proved and exception. "Good. He'll be easy to capture."

"I think that if we get Gilli, Isolde, and Tristan—"

The images blurred, faded. Morgana's heart hammered, but she reminded herself that Arthur couldn't have succumbed to whatever was keeping him unconscious. They knew that these people had access to anti-scrying wards. Her brother had simply been hauled within a ward's borders.

But just to be certain, she scried for Elyan. The witch sighed in relief when she couldn't find him.

Gwen was less relieved. "They'll be going into a camp. How many men do you think they'll have?"

"Enough that we'll need to be smart about defeating them. I have a few ideas."

"All right. How many people can you bring along with the whirlwind spell?"

"I'll have to take two or three trips to not exhaust myself, and I'll get Morgause to come along too. Maybe she can bring another spellbinder."

"Ten people total, maybe?" Gwen suggested.

"We need to know how many people we're up against first," Morgana argued. "I'll go ahead to scout. You can arrange things here."

"I'll assemble some members of the guard and talk to Gaius," she decided. "Maybe he'll know a way to wake the prisoners up."

"Brilliant. Good luck, Gwen."

"You too, Morgana."

The People's Queen slipped out the door. The Royal Witch counted to one hundred, then rode the whirlwind to the place she'd lost sight of Arthur.

Hoofprints and wagon tracks like claw marks lined the road, trampling infant plants and digging into the half-dried dirt. Sometimes they wound around divots and fallen branches, but mostly they remained straight and even. It wasn't just one set of tracks, either. There was enough travel across this isolated path that ruts were beginning to form. It made her wonder about the fallen logs. Perhaps they thought the dead trees were effective camouflage?

Morgana followed the tracks, every sense on full alert, magic simmering just under her skin. She didn't think the outlaws would have a scout here, but something had taken out Merlin and Arthur and the knights. She couldn't underestimate these people.

A bulky shape loomed up ahead. Morgana slowed. She whispered the words of an illusion spell, rendered herself invisible. Still, she was careful to keep quiet as she finished her approach.

The road continued on—and that part, too, had been well-traveled—but a trail branched off from it. A line of trees had been hacked down, their stumps removed, the resulting pits filled in with fresh dirt. The trail was too narrow for wagons, but hoofprints and footprints crisscrossed it. Morgana crept along. She heard voices up ahead.

Sure enough, this led to a camp full of ragged men and a truly alarming quantity of weaponry. Madawg stood on a broad stump that must serve as their central podium, stolen crown glittering on his brow, delivering a speech to his fellow traitors. Arthur and the knights lay in the dirt at his feet, bound and filthy but still breathing.

There was no sign of Merlin.

Morgana wanted nothing more than to attack. They wouldn't be expecting magical retaliation; they'd probably flee in droves, leaving their prisoners and wounded behind. She indulged in the fantasy for a few sweet moments before sighing silently. There were too many of them. One lucky blow, one person smart enough to hold a knife to Arthur's throat, and it would be over.

So instead of attacking, she closed her eyes and thought of Morgause. Morgana threw her magic into the ether, an arrow with a message attached. "Sister, I need you. Find another powerful spellbinder and bring them to my chambers in Camelot. I'll explain everything then."

The priestess's response was faint but heartening: "I will."

Morgana smiled. She retraced her footsteps to the road, then continued into the woods until she found a small open area that would make a good arrival point. She took a good look around, memorizing the location as well as she could, before breathing out another incantation and arriving back in Camelot.

It was time to plan their first rescue.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Rience Borders on Self-Reflection and the Potential for Growth but is too Stubborn and Full of Hate to Pursue his Wayward Thoughts"

Next chapter: April 7. The rescue begins.

Chapter 18: Streams of Magic

Summary:

Merlin wakes up.

Chapter XVIII: Streams of Magic

Consciousness returned slowly, reluctantly, as though Merlin was swimming through a stream of molasses. As he neared the surface, the warlock became increasingly aware of his new discomfort. His knees hurt, his throat was dry, his head pounded and spun. When he tried to shift into a slightly more comfortable position, he found that his arms and legs were bound.

He woke up rather quickly after that.

Aside from a brief, involuntary moment of stiffness when he realized that someone had taken him captive (how embarrassing and also frightening), Merlin kept up the pretense that he was still asleep. He went limp, managed to not grimace when his face smacked into a horse's smelly side, and cracked open his eyes.

The horse he'd been unceremoniously slung over was a pleasant shade of brown. He couldn't see anything else. Merlin probably should have thought of that before opening his eyes, but his brain was all… murky. The molasses was still gumming up his thoughts.

"Is he waking up?" a frightened male voice asked.

"He shouldn't be," another man answered. "Hit him. See if he responds."

A fist slammed into Merlin's side. He allowed himself to groan but gave no indication of consciousness. He needed time to gather information, to make his head stop spinning, to figure out why he felt so… wrong.

Delyth had drugged herself, her husband, and them, he recalled. Was the drug behind this awful emptiness? He didn't think so. This felt… deeper… than anything a few herbs and mushrooms could manage. Not that he had much experience using herbs and mushrooms—well, he did, but he'd prescribed them rather than used them. Except for that one time he'd had a headache and grabbed the wrong potion from Gaius's stash, which was his own fault because he had been meaning to label them but hadn't gotten around to it yet.

…Gods, this potion was messing with his head. He needed to focus. He also needed to take stock of his resources without letting on that he was conscious. A few moments' thought gave him an idea. He reached for his magic, intending to rouse his companions with thought-speech.

Something blocked him.

Merlin's breathing turned ragged. He tried to calm it, but his lungs wouldn't obey any more than his magic would.

They'd blocked his magic. How the hell had they blocked his magic? None of the artifacts they'd stolen from the vault could block someone's magic, and there were no magic-nullifying chains left in Camelot. Uther had used them all to bind Kilgharrah, which Merlin had always thought was an incredibly stupid investment. One dragon versus potentially hundreds of human spellbinders? Especially when you had to keep buying sheep to keep the dragon fed. That must have been expensive.

No, no, focus. Maybe the drugs were messing with his abilities like they were messing with his head. Had Gaius ever mentioned something like that? No, and logically, if there were drugs that could block magic, then Uther would have used them all the time. Those herbs or mushrooms or whatever would be Camelot's number one export. Perhaps Amata's too.

Focus.

Merlin tried using thought-speech again, paying extra attention to how it felt. There was a heat around his wrists when he made his attempt. The shackles, then, and not some recently discovered potion or, gods forbid, a resurrected gean canach.

Panic flailed around inside him, wild as a swarm of bees. Chains like these had kept a millennium-old dragon bound for twenty years. They'd needed to combine their magic to destroy the bonds.

But, he reminded himself, he and Kilgharrah had destroyed those bonds. They could be destroyed. It was too bad that Merlin no longer carried around that one scale that could summon him. He'd love to see these traitors' faces when a massive fire-breathing dragon swooped out of the sky. Then Kilgharrah could take Merlin's shackles and breathe on them and he was losing focus again. Stop it.

Get the facts. He'd been taken hostage because Delyth poisoned herself as well as them, so Arthur and the others would be hostages too. Were they nearby? Madawg's crew might have separated them. Maybe they'd had to bring Merlin to the magic-suppressing shackles and left the others behind.

He listened some more. It was hard to tell for certain, but he thought he heard only three horses. No carts or wagons, though, so probably just Merlin and whichever poor saps had the misfortune of guarding the scary warlock. A regular guard or knight, probably, and someone with the knowledge to keep Merlin drugged. Rience. That was right, Rience was here. Rience, who had murdered hundreds of people on the Isle of the Blessed.

"I think he's waking up," the first man said. "Can you give him another dose?"

"I suppose," the other grumbled. Rience? Probably Rience. "How much longer until we reach the camp?"

"Ten minutes, maybe?"

Probably-Rience was annoyed. "Then there's no need to dose him again."

"But what if he…?"

"What if he what?"

"…causes… trouble? Somehow? Maybe we shouldn't let him wake up until he's completely secured. And surrounded."

Probably-Rience sighed. "Very well then. A few more drops."

The clip-clop of hooves stopped. A body slid from its mount. Hands grabbed Merlin, dragged his limp form off the horse. The guard pushed the warlock into a sitting position, and probably-Rience grabbed his face, pried open his jaw.

Merlin bit him. Hard.

Probably-Rience shrieked. The guard shrieked. Merlin ground his teeth and tried to shake his head like a dog with a rat. Probably-Rience was significantly heavier than a rat, though, so all Merlin managed was a bit of scraping. Still, he tasted blood, so he counted it as a win.

He'd also made probably-Rience drop a vial. Merlin elbowed the horse they'd bound him to. The animal neighed and danced in place, hooves crushing the vial.

Merlin straightened as much as he could, grinning like a maniac. "You must be Rience," he said. The warlock lowered his chin in a way that he knew made his golden eyes catch the light. "Good to meet you. I'm Merlin Caledonensis. We have a lot to talk about."

"Hit him!" probably-Rience shrieked, scrambling away. "Knock him out!"

"What if he curses me?"

"He can't curse you, he's helpless!"

"Then you hit him."

"You could release me, you know," Merlin coaxed the guard. "I can be very reasonable when it comes to people who didn't massacre my kin."

The moment the words left his lips, he realized he'd made a mistake. This guard served a staunchly anti-magic lord, had presumably, based on his age, done so for many years now. No doubt he had slain Merlin's people. So it was no surprise when he drew his sword.

Merlin grabbed for his magic again. Still nothing, and a very large man was (cautiously) approaching him with a very large sword. "Do you really want to do that and explain it to your lord and lady?"

"Hit him," almost-definitely-Rience spat. "Knock him unconscious."

"No need for that," the warlock sniffed. "I'll go with you. It will be nice to finally see one of those camps that I can't scry. Do you know why I can't scry them? Because your lot has used magic to protect themselves. Bit hypocritical, really."

"Don't answer him," Rience ordered. "Now hit him before he tries to ride off."

"Like this?" Merlin gestured with his chin at his general position. "You greatly overestimate my horsemanship."

Rience's eye twitched. Merlin smirked.

The pharmacist hit him, fast and surprisingly strong. It left the hostage warlock dazed for a few precious moments. When he regained his wits, the pharmacist and the guard were already remounting.

"Rude," Merlin muttered, just loudly enough to guarantee that they'd hear him. He'd bitten his tongue from the force of Rience's blow, though, so he decided not to say anything else.

Besides, he had other problems to deal with. His hands were bound, he was slung over the back of a horse, he had no magic, he didn't know the area, and they were properly mounted upon their horses. He didn't have much choice except to go along with them, spend the ten minutes of riding time reaching for his magic. At least the pain of the blow was helping him focus.

He and Kilgharrah had destroyed Camelot's entire supply of magic-nullifying chains, so they'd gotten these from another kingdom. Fantastic, but the deduction didn't help him. Yet if he just had enough time, then surely he could figure out a way to get out of these chains.

(He had to. He'd never been without magic before, and the longer he went without, the emptier he felt. The magic was part of him and he was part of it, and he needed it back. It wasn't even a matter of defense—well, not entirely—but a matter of the world feeling so very wrong without it.)

Merlin closed his eyes. Since his face was pushed into the horse's flank, his captors didn't notice. He reached deep within, searching for any trace of power.

He found something. Not the magic he'd been born with, no. That was locked up tight. The land-bond with Listeneise. It was weaker than usual, subdued by distance and the chains, but it was still there.

Merlin could work with that.

Breathe in, breathe out. Reach for the land-bond. It took him a few minutes this far from Listeneise, but by the time they reached their destination, he'd gotten ahold of it.

They did not arrive at the army camp that Merlin had expected. Instead, their destination was a small cabin, the sort of thing that a hunter would shelter in overnight, flanked by a brace of tents. Wary men emerged from all three habitations. Merlin recognized one of them; he'd been trying to scry the fellow ever since his return to Camelot.

"A gift from King Madawg," Rience said softly. "The sorcerer Merl—"

"I'm a warlock," Merlin interrupted. "Warlocks are born, sorcerers have to learn. It's a massive difference."

He could almost hear Rience grinding his teeth. "The king presents you with the sorcer—"

"—with the warlock Merlin Caledonensis, sometimes called Emrys, Court Mage of Camelot. I'd usually give a little flourish-y bow right about now, but as you can see I'm tied to a horse. Lovely to meet you all."

Shockingly, the gentlemen didn't seem to agree. They also seemed rather irate at their captive's sunny disposition, as though they'd rather have him quivering and sniveling in terror. Well, Merlin wasn't going to give them that satisfaction. Frightened as he was inside, he was also angry and stubborn and far closer to freedom than they realized. The land-bond was in his metaphorical hands, and the drugs that clouded his mind weren't working as well as they believed.

"Why is he alive?" demanded a fellow with browning, half-rotted teeth. Merlin mentally dubbed him Stink Breath.

The guard untied Merlin from the horse, manhandled him to the ground. The warlock's entire front was covered in horse hair, and his shoulders were beginning to ache from the way his hands were bound.

"The king believes that he could prove useful for your research," Rience grumbled.

(Merlin pictured the chains' ability to nullify his magic a massive dam. Behind it pooled his magic, vast as the ocean itself, bearing down on the wall that separated them with all its considerable weight, pounding it with waves and tides. The dam was thick and tall, but it was also old, and the land-bond was a long sharp skewer in his hands. He probed the great edifice, searching for a point thin enough to stab all the way through.)

"What research?" Merlin asked. They probably didn't have specialized implements for torture hiding in that shack, but he'd rather not discover the hard way that he was wrong about that too. Even if they didn't have fingernail pincers or iron maidens, they did have swords and knives and probably a few other weapons, too.

No answer. They glanced uncomfortably at each other like they thought Merlin could help them without knowing their research topic. Wait. Was he the research topic? Were they experimenting with ways to more efficiently kill spellbinders? Or maybe they were working with drugs to keep his kin from accessing their magic, something that Rience could slip into the water supply to kill them all.

He strained against his metaphysical bonds, stabbing frantically with the land-bond but not quite able to reach his magic. His breathing quickened despite his attempts to remain calm, so he held his breath. His heart rang in his ears.

"The gean canach," Rience finally admitted. Merlin's fists clenched behind his back. Something must have shown on his face, because the pharmacist smirked, visibly more confident. "You will tell us how to restore it, and then we will destroy your kind once and for all."

"There are several flaws in this plan," Merlin pointed out. "First of all, the gean canach is dead. You need magic to restore it, which is supposedly—"

Pain exploded on his temple. Merlin stumbled around like an idiot, nearly fell, but kept his balance and kept talking. "—completely antithetical to what you're doing, but since you're already using other forms of magic, I suppose the rank hypocrisy doesn't bother you. Second—"

"Does he never shut up?" demanded a man with lanky hair.

"Hit him again," Rience ordered. His nostrils flared with rage, his lips tightened. He looked ready to hit Merlin himself.

"—I don't know necromancy. Never studied it. Hey! Stop that!" Merlin sidestepped a swinging fist.

The guard drew his sword. Merlin stabbed wildly with the land-bond, straining for the magic.

Pain seared his wrists, his hands, as the manacles flared white-hot.

The guard's sword flew from his hands, sinking deep into a tree-trunk.

Grinning viciously, Merlin showed his erstwhile captors his newly freed arms, the shattered remains of the magic-nullifying shackles. One of the men whimpered. The others staggered away.

"Third," laughed Merlin, "I'm not your prisoner anymore."

---

"There were no head injuries on any of the captives?"

"None that we could see," Gwen confirmed. "No blood in their hair, no noticeable swelling, and I can't think of any plausible ways that Madawg's men could physically knock all seven unconscious without some sort of poison." She grimaced. "Is there, I don't know, some sort of powder that Madawg could throw in their faces?"

"No," Gaius answered. "There is a substance that you can soak a rag with, but the attackers would either need to take our men one at a time or all at once, and I don't see how they'd manage that either." He stood, tapping at his chin and frowning. "It was likely a liquid potion, which leaves a few options. I'll get you a remedy for the one I think most likely, but…." The frown deepened. "You're certain they wouldn't have voluntarily eaten or drunk anything?"

"Yes," Gwen repeated, a bit more shortly than she'd intended. She grimaced. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize, Gwen. Did Arthur's party bring, say, waterskins with them?"

"They didn't. I don't think they intended to be gone long enough to need refreshment."

"But Delyth would have had to offer," Gaius murmured.

"What are you thinking?" Gwen asked.

"What if… Madawg and Delyth poisoned themselves as well? They ate whatever was contaminated, which led our team to believe that the food was safe. That's the only explanation I can think of."

"We'll ask once we get them back," Gwen promised. If they had eaten when they weren't supposed to, she and Morgana would give those dolts a piece of their minds.

Gaius hustled over to his herbs, mixing things together as quickly as he could. Gwen moved to help, but the physician shook his head and she backed away.

"How long will this take to work?"

"Assuming I've got this right, it should take five to ten minutes, depending on how much potion they've ingested." He grimaced. "Unfortunately, the antidote becomes dangerous if administered in too high a dose. You'll have to be careful."

"Can you pour it out into individual vials for me? I'd rather not risk hurting them more."

"Of course."

"Gwen," Morgana called, "Morgause is here, and some of the people you've called are beginning to arrive."

"Just a few minutes," she answered. "Did you hear that, Gaius?"

"Yes." He increased his pace. "Just two more minutes."

Gwen got him eight glass vials and the accompanying corks. The physician smiled, murmured his thanks. Then the former maid was half-running upstairs.

Morgana and Morgause could bring three passengers each. Gwen was coming along as a healer. Gilli, Isolde, and Tristan, the first three people Gwen had approached, mingled with the two spellbinders and a pair of uncomfortable guards who were trying but failing to not gawp at the women.

"I know who you are, Dai, but I'm afraid I don't recognize you." Gwen smiled at the second guard, hoping to put him at ease.

"Neifion, my… lady?"

"Just Gwen will do," she assured him. "After all, we're all working towards the same goal. Do you two know everyone else's names?"

They did.

"What did Gaius have to say?" Morgana asked. Gwen summarized their conversation, showing the glass vials with the restorative potion. Morgana took them, murmured an incantation that her friend couldn't quite make out. The glass seemed to shimmer before returning to normal. "There. The glass won't break."

"Wonderful. Thank you."

"We'll scout the area first," Morgana stated. "After that, we'll reconvene at our starting point to discuss our strategy. Now everyone needs to grab some spare weapons, then come over to Morgause or me. It's time we got going."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Being Magical Royalty Saves Merlin's Hide"

Next chapter: April 28. The next rescue.

I've needed to rethink the almost-end so many times...

Chapter 19: Reunion

Summary:

The rescue of Arthur and the knights.

Chapter XIX: Reunion

It was good to be Emrys.

Magic surged through him like a storm, brilliant and terrible. It filled his blood with lightning and his eyes with light. It obeyed him as easy as thought—easier, in fact, with the remnants of the mystery drug in his system.

All this was to say that without the shackles, Merlin's captors stood no chance. He willed their weapons to fly away, and they did, clustering right above Rience. A thought, and dust rained down upon the pharmacist's head. Another impulse (not even a thought, less formed than that, more primal and instinctive) grabbed hold of the men and slammed them together. Ropes appeared from thin air, binding them tight to each other.

The whole series of events took roughly five seconds, and it barely quieted the tempest within. The ocean was surging through the broken dam. Merlin wasn't afraid of being swept away in the flood, but he didn't want to accidentally kill the poor horses. Or the prisoners, he supposed, but mostly the horses.

The land-bond hummed as Merlin redirected the wild flow of magic. In his mind's eye, he watched grass and flowers spring up around the ruins of the Dark Tower, saw the fields and rivers ready themselves for new life.

It felt as though the surge lasted forever, but logically, it couldn't have been more than a few seconds before Merlin's magic settled down. He pushed a bit more towards Listeneise—the entire kingdom, as he was too far away to aim for anything more specific—then wrenched his attention away from the no-longer-quite-so-perilous lands and stoppered the flow.

His wrists hurt. Merlin lifted his arms to inspect them, wincing at the twin rings of blisters and the red swelling around them. Clear liquid oozed from broken skin. Not good. He'd need to see Gaius when he got back, but right now, he had far more pressing matters. "Where is Arthur?"

"He's—" the guard began.

"Don't tell him," Rience ordered. "Keep your fool mouth shut. Don't answer any of his questions, any of you!"

"Not even about what your favorite animal is?"

"What?" The pharmacist's bafflement was strong enough to momentarily overcome his rage and fear.

"I'm thinking of turning you into animals," Merlin bluffed. While he knew the spell, he'd never actually performed it. "If you're not going to talk, you don't need human tongues. I'm thinking something small and easy to transport in a saddlebag. Maybe birds of some sort. I like birds."

"There's another camp!" the guard shouted. "It's to the east, off an overgrown dirt road that leads into the woods."

"Be quiet!" Rience ordered.

Merlin squatted down, met the frightened guard's gaze with unsettling, unblinking eyes of yellow gold. "Keep talking," he advised.

The guard told him everything: location, defenses (rudimentary, thankfully, especially against what he had in mind), weaponry (less rudimentary), numbers. Merlin nodded along, committing every word to memory. When the guard was finished, the warlock sent his prisoners into enchanted sleep and levitated them into the cottage. He'd have to come back once all this was settled so he could go through the papers and books kept within, not to mention the gean canach, assuming it was here. For now, though, he had a rescue to attend to.

It seemed counterintuitive to teleport away from Arthur, but Wyrmbasu was faster than any horse. The red wyvern blinked in surprise when the warlock appeared before him, tilted his head in question. "Smart enemies," Merlin summarized. "That's the worst kind, especially when you don't realize right away how clever they are."

Basu hummed.

"Of course we can make a dramatic entrance! What do you take me for?"

The wyvern, pleased, knelt down so Merlin could clamber onto his back. "I'm going to teleport us most of the way. I swear it's no impingement of your capabilities, but they're a couple hundred miles away from our current location and I'd rather not leave Arthur and the knights with their captors any longer than necessary."

Basu deemed this an acceptable compromise. Merlin scratched him in his favorite spot as he recited the whirlwind spell.

Listeneise vanished, and the forest of Camelot surrounded them. Merlin had brought them to the cottage's roof, reasoning that this way Basu wouldn't have to maneuver through branches. The red wyvern spread his great wings and leapt into the air.

Merlin sent out a silent message directed to his friends. "I'm coming. I'll be there soon. Just hold on."

---

It was a small camp, barely worth the name. Just thirty men lived in these tents, but they were armed to the teeth. Spears, swords, maces, shields, bows and arrows, fine armor…. Even their horses were high-quality.

Madawg (still wearing Arthur's crown, which made Morgana's blood boil) had ordered his goons to erect two poles in the center of the little army camp. The knights and Marrok had all been tied to one, but Arthur was alone on the other. The prisoners still looked a bit groggy, but they were conscious.

One less thing to worry about, Morgana told herself.

Merlin wasn't there. Unless he was hidden within a tent, he hadn't been brought here with all due haste. Morgana told herself that there might be another camp hidden in Madawg's lands, separated in case one was discovered. She'd have kept the men together to get the most use out of the anti-scrying wards, but she could see the logic behind their caution.

Assuming that this other camp existed and they hadn't just killed the most dangerous warlock in Albion.

Morgana gave herself yet another little shake. Focus on what she could do for now, burn the world down later. Except knowing where Merlin was would help them plan.

The knights and Marrok couldn't use thought-speech, though they could hear it if it was directed at them. Arthur had tried to teach them over the winter, but without a spellbinder nearby to provide practical experience, they hadn't been able to pick it up, and things had been so busy since magic's return to Camelot that they hadn't had time for lessons. Only Arthur and Gwen knew how to respond to a spellbinder communicating through thought-speech. That would be enough.

"I'm here with Gwen, Morgause, and five warriors," Morgana projected, making sure to let her fellow rescuers hear. Dai and Neifion startled, looked at her closed mouth, but they said nothing.

"That makes this much easier," commented a wonderfully welcome voice. Morgana's grin nearly split her face. "Basu and I are in the skies." The rescuers looked up, but their view was blocked by leaves. "I promised him a dramatic entrance, so perhaps you could use that as a distraction."

"Much more effective than your first idea," Arthur grumbled.

"I'm so glad you're all right," Morgana told Merlin privately. Tears of relief prickled at the corners of her eyes. "Gods, Merlin, I was afraid they'd killed you."

"I thought they'd kill me too, but it turns out that they somehow managed to acquire a pair of magic-nullifying shackles," the warlock answered solemnly. Morgause sucked in a breath. "There aren't any left in Camelot, so these people clearly have contacts outside this kingdom."

"I suspect it's Alined," Arthur interjected, "but we won't know for sure until we've captured these traitors and interrogated them."

"What's a Basu?" whispered Neifion, clearly dreading the answer.

"Merlin's wyvern friend," Gwen explained just as softly.

Morgana managed to slap her hand over Dai's mouth before he squawked out "What?!" but it was a near thing.

"Are any spellbinders close enough to undo these knots?" Arthur asked.

"Not yet," Morgause replied, "but we will be soon. I'll unknot them as soon as I'm in range."

"You could walk up invisibly and borrow some weapons along the way," Merlin suggested. "Then, when Basu and I drop down, you release the prisoners and the rescue party can charge in from the forest. Most of them are facing Arthur's front, so we could try to trap them between our parties."

"A good idea, but we don't need to steal weapons. We brought extra."

Most spellbinders couldn't send the impression of a smile and laugh through thought-speech, but Merlin wasn't most spellbinders. He managed it just fine.

"I'll circle around the camp to make certain that no strays escape," Morgana volunteered. "Are we in agreement?"

They were. Even Marrok and the knights were making clear, if subtle, gestures of approval.

Morgana was already on the move. "I'll let you know when I'm in position," she told the group. Her next words, though, were for Merlin alone. "Thank all the gods you're still alive. I was terrified."

"I'm sorry. I should have realized that you'd be worried when we didn't return in time and tried to make contact."

"You were more focused on the rescue mission," Morgana pointed out.

"Yes, and you could have helped. You are helping."

"Bad habits break slowly."

"That they do."

"What happened anyway?"

"Smart enemies. Delyth, Madawg's wife, knowingly ate contaminated food, or perhaps the potion was in the wine. We assumed that she wouldn't drug herself, so we ate the same things that she'd already tried." A grimace. "And here we thought we were so clever."

"Gaius thought it was something like that." Idiots, all of them. Now that the worst of Morgana's fear had abated, she had the emotional space to feel annoyed.

"…He's going to kill me, isn't he."

The witch smiled. "He might just tell your mother."

"That's even worse!"

"I might tell your mother. She can help me lecture you."

"Mercy!" It was only half a joke. "But I suppose I deserve it, don't I."

At least he was somewhat self-aware. "Yes," the witch replied, letting anger tinge her mental voice before she redirected it. This conversation had to end. She sent her thoughts out to all her allies, not just Merlin. "I'm in position. Morgause?"

"Ready."

"So am I," Merlin said.

"Then let's begin."

An earsplitting roar—possibly magnified with magic, possibly just Wyrmbasu's natural ability—split the air. A red blur swooped down, crimson wings flaring at the last moment. The wyvern and rider had chosen their landing place well; Arthur was between them and the knights, so their location allowed them to cut off a possible escape route.

Gwen's party burst from the trees, swords at the ready. They cut down three men almost before the shocked, panicked rebels realized what was happening.

By that time, the knights had fanned out from their pole, grabbing for the swords that had suddenly appeared by their feet. Arthur followed suit a half-moment later, grabbing a sword of his own. Morgause appeared between him and Merlin. She too held a sword, but hers was on fire.

"Fight back!" shouted Madawg. He drew the sword at his hip. Excalibur glinted in the sunlight; the impostor king had stolen more than just Arthur's crown.

Four men had been cut off from the others. They were outside the ring of rescuers and former prisoners. One chose to flee into the woods. He didn't make it far, for Morgana thrust out her hand with a cry of "Acwele!" The man slammed into a tree. He did not get up.

The second man was heading for Merlin. Morgana turned her attention to him, but she needn't have bothered. Basu spun, remarkably fast for something so large, and pounced. The second man went down, his sword flying.

The third and fourth men were charging at Morgana, their faces contorted with rage and hate and fear. She summoned a shield. The attackers hit it and quite literally bounced off. A flick of Morgana's wrist, and they too went flying.

Her allies had acted just as quickly. Most of Madawg's men had been flung about with magic, and the others had been so surprised when the rescuers burst out of the forest that they hadn't been able to put up much of a fight. Between the non-magical rescuers, the spellbinders, and the newly freed knights, all the traitors save one been disarmed and/or wounded in less than a minute. The only traitor still standing was Madawg, who was dueling Arthur. As Morgana watched, the true king disarmed the false, raised his sword to the other man's unarmored throat.

"Going to kill me, brother?" Madawg spat.

"We aren't brothers," Arthur replied. "We wouldn't be even if we did share blood. Leon, you're in charge of seeing that the prisoners are restrained. Morgause and Morgana, you can both conjure ropes, right?"

"I can."

"Yes."

"Good. If they run out of rope, make more. Merlin, what became of the men who took you hostage?"

"Unconscious, sire, and tied up in a cottage to our west. I put them under a sleep spell, so they won't wake for hours."

"Good. You're to come with me for our first interrogation."

Merlin bowed slightly. He trotted over to Arthur, picking up Excalibur along the way. The king nodded his thanks as they exchanged blades.

Arthur reached out and seized his crown from Madawg's unworthy head. Morgana beamed.

Merlin was alive, her friends and family were safe and well, and they'd struck a major blow for magic. The future was bright.

---

"Why do you want me to help interrogate him?" Merlin asked his king.

"Quite frankly, I mostly just want you to stand there quietly and look more intimidating than you actually are. I'll handle the actual questioning."

"All right, Arthur. Do you think me casually using magic to, say, set up wards would make me look more intimidating?"

"Probably," Arthur was forced to admit. Either that or the blatant display of what he was fighting against would harden Madawg's heart further, but he was already bringing his Court Mage to the interrogation of a man who despised magic. That ship had sailed.

Merlin murmured a few words, gesturing at the sides of the tent in which they found themselves. Madawg watched with undisguised loathing, but he jumped when a trio of stools whizzed through the flap. One flew behind Merlin, one came to Arthur, and the third nudged Madawg's shin. Merlin went back to his arcane muttering with the ghost of a smile on his lips, then sat down. The light caught in his golden eyes, making them appear to glow.

Arthur would never admit it to his former manservant, but Merlin's gaze could be incredibly unsettling if you weren't used to it. Madawg wasn't. He was unsettled.

"Sit," Arthur ordered.

Merlin sat. Madawg waited just long enough to make his defiance known, then grudgingly seated himself upon the stool. The hate in his eyes hadn't lessened a whit.

"You've lost," Arthur told the man who would be king. "You've lost today and you will lose tomorrow. You and your men will be brought to Camelot for trial and sentencing. Once we've taken your castle, your wife will join you."

Fear flitted across Madawg's face. "And my son?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"My Camelot does not murder children," Arthur vowed. "Eliwlod and your unborn child, assuming the pregnancy is successful, will be safe."

"…Of course."

Arthur fought down his irritation, told himself that Madawg's distrust wasn't personal. It was not uncommon for kings to put would-be usurpers' entire families to the sword. If Arthur had been as evil as Madawg thought, then that would be a logical fear.

"Now, start talking."

No response, just clenched teeth. No matter. Arthur had expected this. "Merlin, remind me how long it takes to brew a truth potion?"

The warlock's lips twitched. He recognized this game. "That depends, sire, on whether or not you want to give him side effects."

Madawg began to look nervous.

"I caught him red-handed in an attempt to overthrow me. Madawg's guilt is not in question. The potion with side effects is faster, is it not?"

"Significantly so."

"Then brew that one after we get back to Camelot."

Merlin bowed, the very picture of obedience. Arthur fought not to roll his eyes. "Of course, sire."

"What would I get in return for my information?" Madawg demanded.

Arthur arched a brow. "Get? You're giving it up one way or another. Why should I give you anything?"

"Because you want these answers quickly, and if I give them of my own free will, I can save you several hours of waiting." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "My cooperation would make it significantly easier to put down this entire rebellion."

The king considered. "Your son can keep his lands," he declared. He'd have done that anyway, but Madawg wouldn't have guessed that. "They'll be placed in trust until he's of age, and he will be given to a member of my court to raise."

Madawg looked in horror at Merlin, who stared impassively back.

"A knight," Arthur clarified. As entertaining as it would be to let Madawg think that his son might be raised by the Court Mage, the belief would be incredibly counterproductive. "Perhaps my fiancee's brother, a skilled and honorable man. You and Delyth can raise your unborn child, as well as any subsequent children, in exile, and I will grant you annual visits with Eliwlod." Maybe he could ask Merlin or Morgana to teleport the boy and his foster-family to these visits. "You'll also be allowed to take a small sum of money from your estate to establish a household in exile."

It was a good deal, and Madawg knew it. Still, he remained quiet a few moments longer. Perhaps it was a matter of pride, or perhaps he was weighing the likelihood of further concessions if he pushed. The moments dragged on.

Merlin spoke a few words. Madawg jumped, stared at the quill and parchment that had appeared in the warlock's hands. Merlin stood. His stool floated before him, a perfect little table. "For notes, sire," he said blandly. Arthur knew him well enough to recognize the subtle signs; he was struggling not to laugh.

Madawg talked.

His sentences were short, clipped, punctuated with long pauses and quick glances at Merlin. He didn't know the location of every camp, though he could assure the king and mage that each camp was quite small to avoid attracting attention. Most of their recruits were staying in their day-to-day lives, unable or unwilling to leave until they were explicitly summoned.

That was good, Arthur decided. It meant they were less likely to organize on their own, more likely to slink quietly back into the fold and avoid causing trouble. They might cause trouble for individual spellbinders, which he could hardly approve of, but it could have been so much worse.

Then Madawg kept talking, and Arthur's nascent cheer died.

His men had been summoned. Before he'd brought his captives to this camp, he'd sent word to strike. The rebels were to go after anyone known to possess magic, then regroup and strike again. They would attack silently, in the dead of night, as fast and deadly as lightning bolts, killing not just spellbinders but also the families who had welcomed them back.

Worse still, this movement wasn't limited to Camelot. Madawg didn't know many details, but he did know that magic-haters in almost every other kingdom were plotting against their monarchs. The only exception was Deorham, whose king was supplying the rebels with weaponry and the occasional magic-nullifying chain.

Apparently, Alined had concocted a grand scheme to lure spellbinders out of hiding, trick them into congregating in his kingdom, and then kill them once their guard was down. The rebels would drive magic out of their own lands by either killing the local monarchs or terrorizing them into betraying the treaty. The spellbinders would flee to Deorham, which was supposedly safe, where Alined would welcome them with open arms… until he'd finished moving his own men into position. Then, supposedly, the slimy king would strike.

Arthur had his doubts about whether Alined actually meant to carry out this plan the way he claimed, and he thought that Madawg might, too. He decided to push. "You really think that Alined would keep his end of the bargain? He's notoriously untrustworthy. I wouldn't be surprised if he's trying to get all the spellbinders for himself."

"Even if he did betray us and try to keep the sorcerers safe, once we had the other kingdoms secured, he wouldn't be able to stand against us. One way or another, our movement would take Deorham, too."

Logical enough.

Merlin spoke up then. He'd been remarkably quiet, half-hidden in a corner as he took notes. "How does the gean canach fit into this grand scheme?"

Arthur had almost forgotten about the stolen slug thing. "Answer him," he ordered when Madawg hesitated.

"…The slug creature?"

"Yes."

"We were going to use it against Court Mages and other powerful sorcerers. Make examples of them."

Arthur didn't know how he knew, but he was completely certain that Madawg was… if not lying, exactly, then not telling the entire truth. He leaned forward, holding the rebel's gaze. "What else?"

"And less powerful sorcerers, I suppose, though I thought that went without saying."

"And what else?"

"That's it," Madawg lied.

"No, I don't think it is."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Would you like me to find you another scribe, sire?" Merlin asked. "I can start the truth potion right now."

"I might just take you up on that offer, Merlin."

Madawg broke. "We—have you ever heard of the Crystal Cave?"

Arthur hadn't, but Merlin nodded. "It's supposedly the birthplace and ultimate source of magic," he explained to his king. His eyes were very wide. "That's what they want to do. They want to destroy magic itself."

"…Would that even work?"

"Almost certainly not, but the wretched creature could cause damage before it died from overeating. Get slime all over the walls when it exploded."

"It will work," Madawg spat. "Perhaps not at first, but we will find a way."

Merlin shook his head. "There's about five or six different reasons that it wouldn't work, but they involve some higher-level theoretical stuff that would take a long time to explain." The brief-lived tension was draining from his shoulders. He smiled, relief bringing him to the edge of laughter. "You can't destroy magic any more than you can slay the stars or the wind or the sea. The world just doesn't work that way."

Arthur believed him. Merlin Emrys was born of dragon's blood and Sidhe royalty, of prophecy and hope; he had flung the caul from his golden-eyed head at the moment of his birth. He would know.

One less problem to worry about, then.

Good. Between Alined's involvement, the still-missing artifacts, the impending attacks, and the international scope of this whole mess, they already had enough problems to solve.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin and Arthur's Inevitable Lecture is Delayed by Necessity"

Next chapter: May 19... I hope. Gaius shows up and our intrepid heroes try to prevent as much disaster as they can.

Those of you who actually read my AN ramblings might know that I've been struggling with the end of this fic. I've replanned the ending several times (and probably have to again), I've had to do a fair amount of rewriting (and still do), I've had writer's block. Additionally, I've been extra busy for the last few months because I took on a contract job to produce some materials for a museum, which is hopefully the foot in the door that I need to switch careers. All this combined means that I need to redo chapter 20, scrap the little I have of chapter 21, and create everything else except the epilogue. I should be able to finish chapter 20 by my deadline, but if not, I'll get it up as soon as it's finished. I've got a staycation coming up in May, so I can probably rebuild a bit of buffer then. Thank you for your patience, and wish me luck!

Chapter 20: Triage

Summary:

Madawg's immediate plans have been thwarted, but there's still a lot to do.

Chapter XX: Triage

Gaius was all too accustomed to waiting. That was a physician's lot in life, after all. Wait for the wounded to come in, wait for sickness or plague, wait for the prospective mother to enter labor.

Even after all these years, he absolutely hated it.

There were so many things that could go wrong while a physician waited. A sword-stroke in exactly the wrong place, a spike of fever, a prolapsed cord. A single moment that meant the difference between life and death, gone before any physician could act.

Every time, Gaius tried not to think about it. Every time, he failed.

There were a few tricks he'd learned to keep the minutes going. He hustled and bustled about preparing bandages, tonics, poultices, pastes. He made certain that there were sufficient open places for a half-dozen patients to lie down. He opened the room that had once been Merlin's but which now was an overflow storage cupboard. Finally he went searching for a few of the more medically inclined servants, knowing that he'd likely need reinforcements.

Perhaps an hour had passed when an unnatural wind blew through Gaius's quarters. His impromptu helpers flinched away, but the physician leaned forward, hoping to see his onetime ward.

Morgana appeared, still flushed from battle, her eyes bright with triumph. "Everyone's all right," she announced.

"Thank the gods," Gaius breathed. "What happened?"

"The utter idiots thought it would be a good idea to eat Madawg and Delyth's food."

Gaius's eyebrow nearly flew off his head. "What? But they specifically said they wouldn't do that!"

"I know," Morgana growled. She paused to breathe in, breathe out. "Delyth—she's Madawg's wife, obviously—ate the poisoned foods herself. Arthur's party was careful to only touch the things she'd eaten, I'll give them that, but it was enough to knock them out cold."

"They still shouldn't have eaten," the physician muttered.

"They shouldn't have," Morgana growled. "It would have to be damn good jam to be worth all the stress they've put us through. I was afraid that—" She breathed in, breathed out, once more. "I've decided to wait until things are a bit calmer before lecturing them like they deserve. Let them stew in their anxiety for a few hours. Gods know they deserve it."

"They do," Gaius agreed, "but why aren't things calm now?"

The lady's lips thinned. "For starters, we've got a lot of wounded prisoners to process. Gwen's only got so many hands."

The physician grabbed his emergency pack. "Any volunteers?" he asked the huddle of servants who had clustered in a corner and remained silent through his conversation with Morgana.

Wide eyes and dead silence.

Gaius raised his eyebrow.

Shuffling feet, averted gazes, chewed lips. A pair of maids muttered a quick conversation, then stepped forward like prisoners awaiting execution.

Morgana smiled at them, as gentle and nonthreatening as a witch in armor could be. "That's very brave of you. Thank you, Tydfil, Tertia."

Tydfil mumbled something that Gaius couldn't make out. She and Tertia approached.

"The whirlwind is a bit disorienting if you're not used to it," Morgana told them. "If you need to sit down when we arrive on site, that's fine."

"Yes, my lady," Tydfil said. Tertia just nodded. They winced when the spell began and staggered when it ended.

Gwen beamed at them from where she was bandaging an unfamiliar man's wound. "Thank you for coming. Tertia, can you help me with this fellow? Tydfil knows Gaius better, I think."

With everyone helping, the surviving prisoners were quickly seen to. Gaius was just finishing up when Arthur and Merlin stepped out of a tent, an angry man who must be Madawg trapped between them. The physician smiled his relief at the boys (young men, really, but he was feeling sentimental) and turned back to his patient, only to see that the captured rebel had gone chalk-white. For a brief moment, Gaius wondered if he'd missed some internal bleeding that had begun to hemorrhage, but then a low rumble behind him corrected his assumption.

"Oh, gods," muttered the prisoner. "Gods preserve me, gods preserve me…."

Wyrmbasu the red wyvern shot the wounded man a disdainful glance before nudging Gaius's arm. He looked at Merlin expectantly, then nosed Gaius again and repeated his soft sound.

The physician stared at the wyvern. The wyvern stared back, not blinking, not moving a single muscle.

"Merlin," Gaius called, "are you wounded?"

"I'm fine," the warlock replied.

Basu hissed. Gaius frowned, his eyebrow rising once more. "Nothing at all?"

"…A few blisters, but nothing that needs care. Stop looking at me like that, Basu. You know I'm—Gaius, really you can stay with that fellow. I'm fine."

"I'll be the judge of that, Merlin."

He huffed but seemed to realize that resistance would be futile. "Fine. If you must." He trotted forward, rolled up his sleeves.

Thick lines of blister-studded, reddened skin ringed the warlock's wrists. Some of the blisters had popped, and clear fluid coated the entire area. It was as though the rebels had taken shackles straight from the forge with which to bind him.

"Merlin!" Gaius shouted, appalled. All eyes turned to them. "What happened?"

The warlock hesitated, calculating his next words. Gaius glared. If these wounds were somehow Merlin's own fault, then no clever turn of phrase would get him out of a(nother) scolding. But just as the physician drew breath to demand answers again, Merlin cut him off.

"The magic-suppressing shackles they put me in sort of melted a bit when I broke out." His magic-golden eyes gleamed, his teeth flashing white.

The rebels gawped at him in gray-faced horror. Gaius was fairly certain that at least one of them whimpered in the ensuing stunned silence.

"Apparently this lot received a few pairs from Alined," the warlock continued. If Gaius hadn't known him, he might have believed that Merlin was totally oblivious to the effect his words were having on the would-be rebels (and the different but equally-shocked reactions of their own side). But Gaius knew his former ward, recognized the deliberate pitching of his voice to ensure that it carried. "You'd think that someone would have pointed out the rank hypocrisy of using enchanted items to destroy magic, but I guess magic is only bad when they're not the ones using it. Did you know that they were also plotting to use magic to bring the gean canach back from the dead?"

A prisoner made an automatic noise of protest, only to fall silent when that eerie golden gaze turned to him.

"…Is that why they stole the Rowan Staff?" Gaius asked once it became clear that nobody else was going to say anything.

Merlin must have felt that he'd terrorized the protesting prisoner (and the other prisoners too) enough, for he turned back to Gaius with a faint half-smile. "I think so, yes. My theory is that Madawg had his research team in a separate area so that none of his grunts would realize the aforementioned rank hypocrisy with regards to magically resurrecting the magical creature with a magical staff in order to destroy magic." His mien darkened before resuming its previous pleasant blandness. "I ought to get back there and take care of the research team sooner rather than later, so…." He held out his arms, the wounds he'd gotten from escaping magic-nullifying shackles plain as daylight.

Gaius examined the twin wounds carefully. They appeared to be normal minor burns, with no malevolent residue from the shackles. But Merlin's belly wound had appeared normal too, save for its refusal to heal. With the Dark Tower gone, it was unlikely that anything similar would happen to Merlin's wrists, but better safe than sorry. After he'd washed the injuries and slathered them with cream, Gaius drew careful lines around the reddened borders. If the discoloration spread, he'd be able to tell right away.

Once the bandages were wrapped, Merlin commented, "I should really get back to the research team, take them into custody."

"Is your magic up to that?" Gaius inquired without thinking. He fought back a wince as soon as the words left his mouth. Merlin had boasted of his power to keep the prisoners paralyzed with fear; he wouldn't appreciate that strength being questioned where they could hear it.

"I can handle it," Merlin assured him. "Really, Gaius, my magic feels perfectly fine. If you want, though, I'll spend the night in Listeneise, just to be safe."

"I would greatly appreciate that." Gaius smiled. "That's a relief to hear. Let me know if anything changes. I've never heard of anyone overwhelming such manacles from the inside, so you might experience… hiccups, so to speak."

"I'll watch out for them," Merlin promised.

Basu rumbled his agreement. If Gaius was completely honest with himself, he found the wyvern's reassurance more convincing than the human's. "Thank you, Wyrmbasu," the physician said solemnly.

Merlin looked ready to comment, but Arthur called out, "Weren't you supposed to be getting Madawg's other men?"

"Yes," the warlock grumbled. He spun on his heel, vanishing into the whirlwind.

"He'd better come back soon," the king grumbled. "We've still got a long day ahead of us."

---

Taking the castle was easier than Arthur dared to hope. He and his company approached the castle, Morgana and Morgause popped in to kidnap Delyth, Merlin flew around a bit on his wyvern, and the garrison surrendered with almost no fuss. Then they had to cram their prisoners into the castle dungeon, leave enough manpower to forestall any escape attempts, and search the fortress from the wine cellar to the tallest tower.

Their first priority was cutting off Madawg's messengers before they could cause more harm. He'd sent out twenty-four men, and Delyth had contacted two other ringleaders directly through their Triplet Crystals. Those two had presumably sent out a comparable amount of their own messengers.

Worse still, Madawg wasn't entirely certain where each messenger was going. His rebellion depended in large part on secrecy. The spies in the castle had only known a single higher-ranking spy, who'd known them and Madawg but not any spies in the countryside or Madawg's coconspirators in other lands. In the same way, Madawg's messengers knew of one or two other leaders in their movement and the location of the nearest camp, but they weren't aware of the research team or the identities of any spies.

Apparently they were worried about truth spells forcing one person to betray them all. Their communication might be a bit inefficient, but they'd judged it a fair price for the increased safety.

Arthur wanted to blame Merlin for the inconvenience, but the rebels' decision had been made long before the warlock's shenanigans with imaginary truth potions. Maybe Merlin had said something to someone last year and not mentioned it to Arthur, and that had started the enemies' paranoia. That sounded like something that Merlin would do.

But whatever the reason for the decentralized communication, it was going to slow Arthur and his people down. Thankfully, Merlin had access to dozens of spellbinders who could help track the messengers, so Arthur put his Court Mage in charge of that project and turned his own attention to strategizing. Merlin swore that he could handle the teleportation and capture by himself, which was a bit disturbing if Arthur thought about it too long, but he opted not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was highly unlikely, he reasoned, that Merlin's spellbinders could catch all the messengers before they passed on Madawg's orders. Therefore, they'd need a way to keep watch for any mischief, catch it before it became too severe, and stop it in its tracks. If Arthur could trust Madawg's servants—cowed and quiet from the thwarting of their liege, but not necessarily loyal to Camelot's real king—then he would have sent them out with his own message of warning, but these strangers were just as likely to alert Madawg's original messengers.

…Come to think of it, he ought to do something about the servant situation. He had men guarding the dungeons, of course, but his forces were stretched thin. Since it was impractical and immoral to simply shove everyone who worked for Madawg into the dungeons, Arthur needed to get reinforcements here as quickly as possible.

"How many men can you and Morgause transport here?" he asked his sister.

"Not many," Morgana admitted.

"How many is not many?"

She mulled it over for a few moments. "Four each, I think? You should ask Merlin to find other spellbinders with enough magic to transport others. Balinor can, and so can Anhora and a few other people."

"That was my next step." He winced. "But a part of me worries that if I take too many guards from the citadel, the malcontents there will… take advantage. Still, it's a risk we have to take unless we want Madawg's servants to murder us in our sleep."

Morgana nodded. "I'll talk to Merlin for you, then take Morgause to find more soldiers for you."

As she left, Leon and his squire approached. The latter was carrying a thick pile of papers. "Look what Marrok sniffed out," the knight proclaimed.

"There was a secret compartment," the werewolf mumbled, blushing. "Sir Leon was the one to figure that out."

"Then well done to both of you," Arthur replied. "Let's see what Madawg thought worthy of hiding."

Reinforcements were on the way, they'd taken steps to prevent immediate disaster, and the figurehead of the rebellion against him was behind bars. The entire revolt depended on slipperiness and secrecy; now that Camelot had a firm grip, it could hopefully uproot the weed entirely. There were still problems, of course—they'd need ironclad proof to move against a sovereign king, even one as disliked as Alined, and the Catha would have to be on high alert for a few days, and Guinevere and Morgana were doubtless rehearsing their chastisements even now, but Arthur allowed himself the luxury of optimism.

Gods willing, this was the beginning of the end.

---

Merlin slept outside that night, sprawled across a bed of moss as the stars wheeled slowly overhead. He dreamed of the bones of the land, the dirt and greenery that covered them like flesh and skin, the trickle of water through rivers and streams and springs. Magic flowed alongside the water, looping from his prone body into the earth and back again.

When he woke, he wasn't surprised to discover that his wrist wounds scarcely hurt at all. His mind was sharp and clear, and he took a few moments to mull over exactly how much magic he'd used yesterday. By the time Gaius and Morgana had forced him to retire, he'd captured seventeen men in addition to everything else.

"I'm going to blame you for that," Merlin muttered, patting the land beneath him. He knew damn well that his feats weren't just because of his bond with Listeneise, but he didn't have time to worry about his own horrifying magical reserves.

A soft churring noise led him to crack open his eyes. Wyrmbasu loomed over him, breathing his stinky morning wyvern breath right into Merlin's face. "What?" the warlock asked.

Basu looked pointedly at Merlin's hands.

"All right, all right." He pushed up his sleeves, was completely unsurprised to discover that the injuries looked like they'd been healing for a week. "See? It's nothing like my belly wound. I'll be right as rain within a few days."

The wyvern wasn't entirely convinced, but he rumbled an encouraging noise that Merlin interpreted as 'I won't push it… for now.'

"Much obliged," Merlin drawled, rolling his eyes. "Now, let's get back—no, let's see if there are any more spellbinders who might want to help, then we'll all travel back together." Even some non-spellbinders would want to help, he thought, or spellbinders whose magic didn't lend itself to combat. If, say, Cagan the fisherman and Cordelia the selkie found someone to watch their kids—

The thought caught hold of him like a hidden bear trap. Merlin slowed, frowning. What was he…?

Cordelia. Selkie. Seals. Seals, and….

It took a few moments for the disparate thoughts to clump together, but when they did, he could hit himself. There had been spies at the castle who had presumably reported on Merlin's movements, including his trip to a certain village in Gedref. There was a little girl there who loved seals enough that her father had mentioned it when he and Merlin were planning a light show to demonstrate magic's beauty. Madawg's rebels were unlikely to know about the child, but they'd almost certainly know about the village and its sympathetic lord. True, Merlin had only gone there but recently, regardless of how long ago it felt, but he'd planned to go there for some time before that.

And now that he thought about it, he'd stopped messengers from reaching the three other villages he'd considered. Little Inish, not to mention the other settlements under Lord Edmund's rule, was an obvious target.

Unease nibbled at Merlin's gut. While trying to scry the rebel camps, he'd spent a lot of time staring at maps of Camelot. Madawg's lands were right next to Gedref, and half of his messengers had been captured there. It was possible that a single man with a swift horse could reach Edmund's lands before dawn, could quickly rally other malcontents to his cause, could strike as early as today. Right now, even. Not likely, but neither was Delyth poisoning herself just to take them down.

Reason said one thing, but the terrible cold feeling in his belly disagreed.

Merlin considered for a long moment, nodded slightly. He would check, warn Lord Edmund. If he was wrong about Inish being targeted, he'd lose nothing but a bit of time and energy. If he was right, though, then his warning could save dozens of lives.

(These were not the same men who'd massacred the Isle of the Blessed, but they were moved by the same spirit. He was under no illusion that they would be merciful.)

The wind whipped at the hem of Merlin's cloak. A moment later, he was gone.

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Wyrmbasu Continues to be the Best Character"

So. Yeah. I missed an update and vanished off the face of the earth. I'm sorry. I will do my utmost to ensure that this doesn't happen again, and I have no intention of abandoning the fic. The end is in sight. I might not finish this marathon running, but I will finish it. Thank you for your patience with me.

Next chapter: June 30. Merlin visits Lord Edmund and probably some other things that I will figure out as soon as possible.

My dratted writer's block is doing a fair bit better, so I'm cautiously optimistic about having a chapter and a half written before my next update. I want to build up a small buffer, then edit it and start posting weekly. Wish me luck.

Chapter 21: False Alarms

Summary:

Merlin warns Lord Edmund about the attack.

Chapter XXI: False Alarms

A scream shattered the morning calm, followed by a series of yelps and curses and thuds. Béothaich's crystal flared, but when Merlin spun to face the source of the ruckus, he saw nothing but a trio of wild-eyed servants pressed up against the wall, heaps of laundry spilling from the baskets at their feet.

Béothaich's crystal dimmed. Merlin straightened from his crouch, trying (and probably failing) to look harmless. "Sorry about that? Do you, um, want my help picking that up?"

The servant on the left squeaked. The middle servant shook her head vigorously. The third remained perfectly still, not even blinking.

"Right," Merlin muttered. "Well, I'm just going to—"

A guard burst through the door, sword at the ready. "What's going—oh, gods."

"I'm here to see Lord Edmund," Merlin explained. "I startled these ladies when I teleported into the courtyard, but I swear none of you are in danger. From me. None of you are in danger from me."

They didn't look as reassured as he hoped.

Merlin considered briefly, decided that his best bet was to just go on ahead. "I have a dire message for Lord Edmund," he repeated.

When he stepped closer to the castle entrance, the guard blocked him, physically standing beneath the doorframe with his blade bared. "How do we know that you're not here to harm him?"

Merlin bit his tongue so he didn't say anything stupid like, "For starters, the four of you are still alive" or "The fort is still intact." He settled for explaining, "I transported myself here rather than someplace without witnesses. Now move aside. I have a message from the king." A blatant lie, but if Arthur knew about the threat to Inish, he'd definitely have sent Merlin with a warning. It was from the king in spirit if not in reality.

"You can't pass," the guard repeated. "Policy."

"Since when?" demanded one of the laundresses.

Merlin looked a bit closer at the living obstacle. The guard looked back, not (just) with fear but with a simmering anger. His knuckles were white. "Do your worst, sorcerer."

"Okay." Merlin shrugged. A wind whipped up around his feet, transporting him inside the building. Before the guard had a chance to respond, Merlin closed the door, forcing him outside. He didn't lock the door, but he did hold it in place with his mind as he continued through the castle.

"Do you know which way Lord Edmure is?" Merlin asked a young man with a distinct resemblance to the lord in question.

"…Why do you want to know?" the youth replied.

"Important message from the king," Merlin said, because lying was much faster than explaining everything to every single person he came across.

"I'll ask Father to meet you in the Great Hall," the lordling decided. "Do you know where that is?"

"I do, thank you."

The Great Hall was occupied by a pair of girls with the same cowlick as Edmund and his son and an older woman in servant's clothing, presumably their nurse. The three froze when Merlin entered.

"Good morning," Merlin said. The three already in the room echoed his greeting reflexively. "I'm going to be meeting Lord Edmund here for a minute or two."

"Is it about the light show?" demanded the shorter, presumably younger girl.

"I'm afraid not." The children looked so disappointed that Merlin added, "But since I'm here, do either of you have any story requests?"

"The one where the man goes looking for selkies at night and he finds them and one of them is a beautiful woman, so he steals her sealskin and makes her his wife but then she escapes years later and goes back to her seal friends and seal family but her human husband gets old and one night he has a dream where his seal wife tells him not to harm these two seals—" Here she paused to catch her breath. "—but then he does it anyways and they're his wife's real husband and son and so his wife turns into an angry spirit and haunts him forever."

"…Mind if I change the ending into something less soul-crushing?"

The girl considered before nodding her acquiescence.

"And you?" Merlin asked the other girl.

"I want to see Cuchulainn's warp spasm," she replied immediately.

"I can do that."

Lord Edmund and his son strode into the room. The girls ran up to him, chattering excitedly about the stories that Merlin was going to show them. "That's marvelous, sweethearts," he said, "but you'll have to wait until breakfast to tell me more about it. Lord Merlin is a very busy man, and he says he has a message from the king. Run along, now, I'll see you soon."

His daughters and their nurse left. The door had scarcely closed behind them before Edmund asked, "What happened?"

"The very short version is that we have reason to believe that the rebels against King Arthur's rule are going to attack your lands very soon."

Edmund's son gasped. "Tell me everything," Edmund ordered.

Merlin took a moment to gather his thoughts before beginning. (He'd heard enough lectures about his tendency to explain things in the most confusing and alarming way possible and was trying to break the habit.) "Two days ago, King Arthur finally found a spy who was able to give him the name of the leader of the rebellion. We confronted the rebel yesterday, eventually taking his castle and capturing several of his men. However, he'd managed to send out several messengers, and while we caught many of them, a few were able to escape. Since you're known to be friendlier to magic, we think that one of the messengers is coming here to tell any discontents in your lands that it's time to strike."

There. That was a normal explanation that wouldn't cause confusion, right? It probably did cause alarm, but that wasn't Merlin's fault. Potential uprisings were innately alarming.

Father and son exchanged horrified glances. "We'll have to rally the—"

"My lord!" a man cried, bursting into the chamber. "An enemy has broken into your castle."

The guard pointed directly at Merlin, who was still holding the front door shut with his mind. This fellow, the same one who'd confronted him when he arrived, must have used another entrance.

Edmund waved away the complaint. "He's not an enemy, he's brought us an important message. Go find your captain and as many guards as you can. Bring them here immediately."

The guard seethed, but he ground out his understanding before stomping off.

"Do you deal with that every day?" Edmund's son asked, incredulous.

"More or less," Merlin admitted. "It's getting better. But that's not important. What's important is—"

A woman charged into the room, tailing mud behind her as she skittered to a halt. She tried to speak but was too out of breath.

Nobody in the room needed to ask why she was there, not with the terror writ plain across her face. Still, there was one thing that needed clarification, so Merlin asked the question.

"Where?"

---

Brandalis didn't know what to think of the sorc—the warlock, he corrected himself. He mostly watched how his father interacted with Lord Merlin, only blurting out an impertinent and rude question towards the end of their conversation. It was almost a relief when one of the villagers came with word of an attack by the bridge across the river.

Father had told Brand and his siblings that the new Court Mage was a mercurial man, capable of switching from cheer to seriousness in the blink of an eye. The warlock hadn't been cheery when he arrived, but he had been less… focused, somehow, than he was now.

"Brand, take Merlin to the bridge." Father had taken a leg wound a few years before his marriage, and the bone had never fully healed. He could walk just fine, but running quickly became too painful. Brand, though, was as fast as a horse, so he led the Court Mage through the halls and then the town while his father readied the guard. He was tempted to sprint, but the bend was far enough away that he quashed the urge. He'd need to pace himself.

The sight of the lord's heir racing through the streets with an obvious sorc—spellbinder on his heals alarmed the villagers, who were already frightened by the attack on the bridge. They shouted worried questions: Are you all right? What's happening? Is he chasing you?

Brand didn't have the time or breath to answer them, and he was a little worried that someone would attack in a misguided attempt at rescue. He did shout, "The spellbinder's a friend!" but this claim did little to alleviate everyone's worries.

"I came to Lord Edmund with a message from King Arthur." It was Merlin's voice, but not spoken out loud. It bypassed Brand's ears to land in the center of his skull, his mind, unbothered by concepts like volume or panting. Brand stumbled a little from startlement, but he recovered quickly enough. Merlin continued, "The king had reason to believe that you would be set upon by magic-hating rebels, and it seems that the attack is underway. I'm here to protect you. If you want to fight, rally at the lord's manor."

Gasps and cries as the message came to an end. Brand and Merlin rounded another corner, almost slipping from the mud, and then the bridge was in sight. It wasn't anything fancy, just an old stone arch in the Roman style that connected the smaller part of the village (not to mention the surrounding farms) to the larger. It had cracked a few years ago, so Brand's grandfather had filled it in with mortar and begun saving up for a replacement.

Four armored men stood in the middle of the bridge, swords at the ready. A pair of archers lurked behind them, firing at anyone who came too close. Across the bridge, people hiding their faces behind masks rampaged through the village. It had rained too recently for them to start fires, but they could still smash, cut, loot.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the six rebels guarding the bridge went flying like dolls tossed about by a giant. They soared, flailing, off the edge of the bridge and into the water, landing with a great splash.

Their armor was heavy, the current was strong. Brand didn't envy their chances.

Wind lashed at his heels. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the Court Mage vanish.

Brand's father had always told him (quietly, behind closed doors) that magic was not the great evil that Uther claimed. It was good and bad, weak and strong, blunt and subtle; it could save lives or take them away or both at the same time. Brand knew, intellectually at least, that this power was not fearsome in and of itself—except six men were drowning right now, tossed aside by magic like leaves in the wind, and the sky was churning with clouds, and there across the river, Merlin Emrys was working his way through the rebels like a one-man army.

Even knowing that this warlock had been provoked and was protecting Brand's people, the sight of all the easy destruction made him shiver. As Merlin jogged forward, he stopped arrows in the air, made his enemies collapse with nothing more than a glance. He made it look so easy, too, like he took on small armies every single day.

The warlock turned a corner, his blue cloak trailing behind him. Brandalis jerked out of his stupor, sprinted the rest of the way to the bridge. One of the men whom Merlin had flung into the river was dragging himself ashore, his helm lost beneath the waves. He collapsed panting on the shore, watching Brand but making no move to stop him.

Brand froze again. He should probably go after Lord Merlin, but he wasn't certain what he could do to help the obscenely powerful warlock. Besides, he recognized this man. "Sextus?"

Sure enough, the local farmer's familiar face turned toward him, twisted into a very unfamiliar sneer. Brand didn't know the man well—they were just passing acquaintances, exchanging pleasantries when the farmer sold his wares to Father—but he'd always seemed decent enough, not like the sort of person who'd join an insurrection.

"Why did you do this?" Brand demanded, irrationally betrayed. He hadn't known Sextus; they had barely exchanged a hundred words over the course of his entire life. But Sextus was (he assumed) Gedrefi born and bred, and he'd farmed on the outskirts of Inish for years. "Did—did something happen to you before the Purge?" Spellbinders were as cruel and kind, spiteful and generous, as everyone else.

"Their kind have no place in Camelot," the farmer spat. "The world would be better off if they and their sympathizers were all dead."

"My entire family is made up of sympathizers," Brand pointed out. Behind him, he heard the sound of horses. Moments later, the first wave of rescuers charged past him and across the bridge. Foot soldiers would follow soon; they didn't have enough horses for the entire village.

"Then your entire family is made up of traitors," Sextus sneered.

"We're not the ones who are rebelling against the king," Brand snapped.

"A false king with a false crown who leads the dregs of Camelot and will drag the rest of us into disaster." The fire in his eyes could have burned a hundred bridges, a thousand village homes. It burned away everything good within Sextus, leaving only hate and rage and spite.

Brand shuddered, but not from the farmer's words. "I think we have very different ideas about who the dregs of Camelot actually are."

Human footsteps echoed behind them. "Brandalis!" his father's voice cried. Brand turned instinctively. He caught sight of Lord Edmund's face just in time to see it twist with horror. "Look out!"

Brand spun on his heel. Sextus had regained some strength, was lunging towards him with a knife.

Time seemed to slow, or perhaps his mind sped up like a diving falcon. Gods knew his body felt like it had been encased in treacle. He pondered what the hell Sextus thought his death would achieve. He thought of his family, wished that he'd not quarreled with Ellen last night. He hoped that getting stabbed wouldn't hurt too much, even though he knew it would.

The farmer froze, still as a sculpture, held in place by a force much stronger than himself. He collapsed into an unconscious heap. Brand looked across the river, was not surprised to see a pair of eerie golden eyes staring back. Magic, then, there to save Brand and stop Sextus all at once.

Later, when the last rebels had been captured or killed and Brand's father had finally stopped fussing over him (and after Brand had apologized to Ellen for quarreling, much to her suspicious confusion), the lordling slipped off for a few minutes by himself even though he should be helping more with the aftermath. He'd never come so close to death—and not just any death, but hate-fueled, vengeful murder at the hands of one of his own people. That was what bothered him the most, he realized. As far as he knew, Sextus was—had been?—perfectly ordinary, even pleasant in his own way, and he'd still held enough loathing in his heart for… all this. This, and everything he'd been stopped from doing.

"All right there?"

Brand jumped, arms flailing, nearly knocking a tapestry from the wall. "Lord Merlin!" he squeaked.

The warlock grimaced. "Just Merlin, please. Are you all right? Most people aren't accustomed to strangers attempting to murder them, so…."

"I'm fine," Brand asserted. "You know that, you're the one who saved me." He realized then that he'd forgotten his manners. Mother would be appalled. "Thank you for saving my life."

A bright, brilliant grin lit Merlin's face for a moment before he grew somber again. "You're welcome. Anytime."

Brand tried to remember if he'd ever learned the etiquette for interacting with the person who'd saved your life. Was there etiquette? He couldn't recall ever learning about it, so he didn't think so, but maybe this was one of those lessons he hadn't paid enough attention to. Maybe things were different among sorc—spellbinders, and wasn't the Court Mage born in Essetir?

The silence was becoming a little awkward, at least on Brand's end. Merlin was watching him with those strange golden eyes of his, weighing, measuring. Then something in his face gentled, and he leaned with exaggerated casualness against the wall. "I need to thank you, too, for showing me the way."

"You're welcome?"

"No, truly. You obviously care about your people."

Brand couldn't suppress his wince.

"You knew some of the rebels," Merlin deduced.

Brand averted his gaze. "Probably," he muttered, deflecting.

"The man who attacked you?"

He stared at the tapestry without truly seeing it. "No."

Merlin waited, silent and patient.

"…Not really. We'd say hello to each other sometimes while he sold produce to my father, pass each other on the streets. I barely knew his name."

"When I was Arthur's manservant, I'd sometimes wander the castle halls at night for a whole slew of magic-related reasons. The guards thought I had insomnia. We'd hold little chats sometimes, exchange nods, the usual pleasantries. The whole time, I knew that some of them—maybe even most of them—wouldn't hesitate to kill me if my secret was revealed."

"What do those guards think now?" Because Brand was suddenly, desperately curious.

"Depends on the guard. Some are fascinated, some wary but accepting, some chagrined that they didn't notice. Those are the good scenarios. Other guards quit after Arthur became king because they hated his views on magic. Gods alone know what they're doing now. And others…." His lips twisted. "Others are visibly unhappy, or they're part of this rebellion, too. That's the hard part, you know, when people you know despise you for doing the right thing."

Brand closed his eyes. "How do you deal with those guards?"

"Honestly, there's not much I can do, so I mostly ignore them. I live my life as an example of how they're wrong." Brand looked up, startled. Merlin shrugged. "I can't magic away their hate and fear. What I can do is try to tear it up bit by bit. Think of this hatred as a great weed in a royal garden. Uther created conditions that allowed it to grow and flourish and even kill half the metaphorical flowers. Now Arthur and the rest of us are trying to root it up, but it's covered in thorns. Its roots are deep, and they tangle around the flower roots. And, of course, even if we kill this weed, a seed could blow in on the wind the moment we glance away."

The lordling mulled it over. "Are you talking about the, the organized resistance, or are you talking about…" He pressed a hand over his heart. "…about the sort in here?" He blinked, and Sextus's face appeared behind his eyelids.

"Both," Merlin sighed.

"It would be easier if there weren't any flowers," Brand murmured.

"I know! Without them, we could just shovel for a few minutes and chop up all the roots." Merlin made a vague chopping gesture. "But people are complicated, and some of them want those weeds to grow."

He was beginning to lose track of the conversation, so he just nodded. Merlin smiled ruefully, not at all fooled. "Sorry for going on. It's something I think about a lot. But you are all right?"

Brand pondered. "I think I will be," he finally said.

"Good."

"What will happen to Sextus and the others? There are so many of them, but we can't just let them get away with it all."

"Arthur's got a few ideas," the Court Mage assured him. "We'll figure it out."

"I'll help," Brand promised.

Merlin smiled like a sunbeam. "Thank you. That's the sort of thing that gives me hope."

"It's barely anything," Brand protested.

The warlock shook his head. "No. It's everything."

Notes:

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Merlin Reminds us that he's a One-Man Army but Also Philosophizes"

Next chapter: July 21. God only knows what will happen in it. I spent a week helping my poor overwhelmed mother with this big local festival thing after the event planner had some kind of breakdown, and that put me behind in my writing. However, I should be able to produce the next chapter by my deadline.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of The Albion Cycle