Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thank you to my artist, MyrddinEmrys, and to my beta, Drarryisgreen.

For a long time, the Great Dragon Kilgharrah did not sleep at all, he only raged. Uther Pendragon, out of vicious cold madness, had destroyed every one of the dragons save Kilgharrah, had killed nearly all the folk of magic and scattered the survivors on the four winds, driven off his dearest friend Balinor, and had chained him up like a beast in deep caverns, where he could barely sense the world outside.

All at once, a wave of power burst over him. A child drew his first breath, somewhere miles away from Camelot. The boy would be a warlock one day, but he would also be much more. He would be a Dragonlord, with the power to wake dragon's eggs, and, somehow the dragon knew even then that the fate of all the folk of magic would one day depend on this newborn boy. With the child's ringing cry in his ears, Kilgharrah slept at last.

Dragons can go without sleep for months if they must, but when sleep comes, it brings them prophetic dreams, dreams of what might come to pass as well as what was fated beyond anyone's power to change.

As Kilgharrah slept beneath the castle, the veil of time parted before him.

Uther's reign of terror lasted decades. By the time his son was grown, the true magic-users almost never crossed Camelot's borders. Still, the executioner seldom stood idle for long, as there were always accusations.

Not long after Prince Arthur had come of age and been formally named Heir, the king's ward, Lady Morgana, found that the power of magic was growing under her skin, moving out of her nightmares and into the waking world.  Merlin thought to help her, but he was unable to speak her her in private, until finally in terror, Morgana fled Camelot and went looking for answers, and Prince Arthur and a force of a dozen Knights rode out seeking her.

Those Knights, the few who returned, would never speak of the journey, or of what had gone wrong that dreadful day, except to the King.

From the first hour the party left, Uther had watched from his window above the courtyard, waiting for their return, and when they did come back, the shock nearly dropped the King where he stood. No pale-cheeked lady rode amongst the Knights, instead Arthur returned to Camelot bearing Morgana's body on his saddle bow. Her hair spilled out around her and swung beside his knee with each step the horse took, and as they passed through the town of Camelot, no one dared to speak a word.

As they entered the courtyard, Uther rushed down the stairs. Arthur stepped down from his saddle, picked her up gently and laid her down in the courtyard at his father's feet.

"Please, Father, I'm sorry. I tried!"

The King turned away without a word to his son.

Every day, Arthur presented himself to the court, impeccably dressed, and stood in silence throughout the session. While Arthur stood in council right in front of him, the King assigned other Knights the task of hunting any Druids who remained in or near Camelot's borders.  The King seemed obsessed with Druids, and refused to even hear other matters in court.  Some said that the Druids had killed Morgana, but those who remembered the old ways thought it unlikely.

Twenty days after their return, Uther once again dismissed the court without speaking to his son, nor to any of the failed rescue party. Arthur headed directly for the stables as soon as he could escape the Hall. He needed silence, and riding through the forest seemed to be the only way to find it. Even Merlin's prattle seemed too much to bear just then, and he sent his servant off to mend armor. Two guards followed Arthur, but they were kind enough not to speak.

In the trees, a small boy sat waiting, a boy with straight dark hair and startling pale green eyes. He held a bow in one hand, arrow nocked. As the party passed under his tree, the boy drew back. The bow was very light, meant for hunting small game, but the child lacked the strength to draw a larger weapon. Finally, he released the arrow, eyes glowing gold.

Guided by his power, the arrow flew fast and straight, far harder than a little rabbit bow should have been able to throw it. The narrow war head penetrated the armor between the Prince’s shoulder blades and passed between his ribs, striking Prince Arthur through the heart.

Mordred sobbed silently as the prince tipped from his saddle. "That was for Morgana. She'd have been fine if you hadn't come looking for her…"

The guards stared in horror at the arrow between their prince's shoulders. They rushed to his side, but he was already dead, and so for the second time in a month, red cloaked riders bore a body home to Camelot and laid it down in the courtyard before King Uther's bleak eyes.

Merlin waited until Uther had fled the courtyard before he dared to approach. "There's nothing you can do here, Merlin," one of the guards told him gently.

"I can draw out that arrow," Merlin replied. "And he needs clothes without holes in them. It's my duty," Merlin broke off, swallowing hard.

"We'll help you bring him inside," the guard offered.

Arthur's body was laid on its pyre that very evening. Merlin folded the Prince's hands over his sword hilt, combed his hair carefully, then stepped back and watched as King Uther bent and brought a torch to the pyre, moving as stiffly as a wooden doll.  Uther seemed to have aged decades in a matter of hours.

"It was Bayard." Uther's tone brooked no disagreement as he addressed the grieving populace. "He was riding close to the border, and some of Bayard's folk have been raiding our villages for cattle in recent months. This, though, this is an act of war, and will not be tolerated." He turned to address the seneschal, who stood near the edge of the crowd. "Muster the armies, we shall have vengeance."

Merlin missed the end of the speech, as he slipped back from the crowd and climbed up the stairs to his bed. The smoke from Arthur's pyre clung to his shirt as he lay there, staring at the ceiling, silent and dry-eyed as the sun set and the room grew dark around him.

Some time later, a few minutes perhaps, or maybe a few weeks, Gaius sat down beside his bed.

"I thought he was special, I thought WE were special. He was supposed to be a great king!" Merlin's voice cracked, and he finally started sobbing. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Gaius said nothing at all as Merlin cried himself out. And when he leaned back to grab a potion to pour down the boy's throat, the old man's eyes were far from dry.

The sun was already peeping through the shutters when Merlin woke the next morning. He stared at his window for a while, wondering if it was really worth moving. The sunbeam on the wall had not moved terribly far when his lie-in was interrupted, however. Gaius was pounding on the staircase, calling his name, and the last time Merlin had tried to ignore a wake-up call from his mentor, it had ended with cold water poured in his bed. The young man dragged himself up and pulled on a shirt.

"Ah, Merlin. Have some porridge. Eat quickly, I need your help making another batch of arnica salve, and perhaps more lice powder."

Merlin spooned a bit of porridge into his bowl. "Don't you think we have enough arnica already? I spent half of last week brewing it!"

"We cannot possibly have too much arnica salve, or too much of anything," Gaius responded sharply. "The entire army is preparing to march. Now, finish your breakfast and get to chopping, once that's done you need to go herb-gathering.  I need virtually anything you can find except holly, I've got a whole barrel of that already, and anyway it’s the wrong season. But before you leave, I need you to help me set up a second distilling run on that cask of bad wine, we'll need plenty of wine spirits, too.

"Why wine spirits?" Merlin didn’t look up from his porridge.

"Infections grow on battle wounds like mushrooms after a rain, and I don't have anywhere near enough honey. A good rinsing with strong spirits will also work, though it doesn't stick to the wound as nicely. I generally make it from the worst wine the steward has, and sometimes I add salt, or a bit of powdered willow bark, as it discourages the soldiers from stealing it to drink it. And eat that porridge, Merlin, don’t play with it."

"Oh." He swallowed a spoonful of the porridge. It was thick, but Gaius had seasoned it rather more carefully than usual. The rest of the bowl vanished quickly.

Once Merlin was situated at the chopping board, Gaius resumed his verbal assault.

"You told me last week that you finished reading the Galen."

Merlin nodded, sulky. "I can't believe you're making me learn Greek. Latin wasn't bad enough? And--the, ah other language?" Obliquely he referred to the language of the old religion, needed for his study of magic.

"You'll never learn anything worth knowing if you can't speak at least half a dozen languages. Next I believe we'll try the Saxon tongue."

"Since when can Saxons even read?"

"Oh, some of them scratch out their babble in the Roman letters. Now, as Greek is a far more civilized script, I'm sure you can explain to me how Galen describes the function of the kidneys."

"Well, it mostly seemed to be about why all the other writers explained it wrong," Merlin began, "but then he says they attract urine by an attractive principle, and then pass it into the bladder through some kind of duct. And then he talks about doing something awful to an animal to prove it, I didn't like that part much." Merlin paused. "Gaius?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think it was the Mercians who killed him?"

Gaius drew in a breath and turned slightly toward the boy. "Honestly, Merlin, I doubt it. He was less than two hours from the city, nowhere near the border. And yes, there have been cattle raids in both directions the past few months, but that's a far cry from a royal assassination!"

"So they didn't do it.  But we're going to war with them anyway."

"I need you to check the ingredient proportions for the drawing salve. I think it's in that book," Gaius gestured. "Next, carry my surgical kit down to the blacksmith. I don't care how busy he is, I absolutely must have all the knives sharpened before we leave, and ask him to start making a few pieces for you, if he has the right grade of steel on hand."

"Knives for me?" Merlin’s head jerked around.

"You're my apprentice, aren't you? Time you had your own knife set."

It was long after dark when Gaius finally ran out of chores, but oddly enough, Merlin had no idea what to do with himself once he was free. So, he went to find Gwen.

He finally found her sitting alone in what had once been Morgana's bedchamber. Something looked wrong about Gwen, and for a moment Merlin couldn't tell what it was. Then he realized, her hands were just lying flat in her lap. No embroidery, no mending. He'd never before seen Gwen sitting idle and empty-handed.

Silence lingered between them.

"So, we ride the day after tomorrow," she began.

"We? Gwen, I have to help Gaius, but you're staying here, aren't you?"

"Stay here? For what?" She laughed bitterly. "I'll ride out with the armorers. They can always use another trained hand, and I've picked up quite a bit from my father."

"But we're going to war, you don't have to come."

"I've no reason to stay here, either," she replied.

At that, Merlin could only nod.

Days later, two armies faced one another across the ridgeline as evening fell, one beneath Camelot’s golden dragon on scarlet, another beneath Mercia’s silver tower on blue. Under a flag of truce, an envoy approached, and King Uther rode forward to meet him. Merlin could not hear what they said to one another, but both rode away rapidly just a few moments later, and neither army moved back a single step.

The next morning, Merlin sat just outside the large healing pavilion, building up the fire beneath a kettle of water. The sun had not yet crept beyond the horizon, but the camp was filled with noise and bustle, the clanking of men pulling on armor, the squeaking of leather, the clopping of hooves on stone, and the glint of torchlight on steel. Beside the healing tent, Tom the blacksmith laid out his tools, Gwen at his shoulder. They'd be needed later to extract hurt men from their ruined armor.

"No, Merlin, the bigger kettle." Gaius told him. "I told you we'll need lots of clean water."

Merlin sighed, hooked the pot off the fire and poured the barely-warmed water into the larger kettle. He placed it over the fire, then went out to fetch more water.  The great cast-iron kettle was large enough to hold a grown man, and once it was full, he'd be unable to lift it and would have to draw out water with the dipper.

"How much water could you possibly need?" Merlin asked, bringing in the third bucketful.

Gaius didn't look up from his potion bottles. "More than we can boil here, but that kettle will have to do. Now, run to the mess tent and fetch us something to eat, something nice and solid. It might be a long time before we have another chance."

By the time Merlin had finished fetching water, dawn painted the sky pink behind the ridge line, and the Knights had begun to move towards the front of the camp. A single horn blast summoned the other fighters.

They assembled in straight rows, mounted Knights with sharpened lances. Behind them marched the foot soldiers.  Common fighters had never been Camelot's strength, as Uther mistrusted weapons in the hands of commoners, but once the Knights broke the enemy lines, their sheer numbers would be needed, half-trained or no.

Gaius stepped out to the fire and watched the battle lines form. "Bayard and Cenred outnumber us somewhat, but they have few horsemen. They've lined up their men like Romans, look.” Gaius gestured to the square formation in the distance. “But I doubt they have the training to pull it off properly."

"Is standing in a line really that hard?"

"Oh, yes. You'll see, before today is over." Gaius stared out over the field grimly, then turned back toward his healing tent. "Once the water boils…"

Merlin shrugged guiltily. "It already has." Sure enough, the great kettle he'd just filled was already steaming vigorously.

Gaius sighed, but couldn't find it in his heart to scold the boy. It was the first spark of mischief Merlin had offered since before Morgana died.

"Go split some more firewood, then. Behind the tent." Merlin had no business on the battlefield today, and Gaius would make sure he stayed well clear of it.

By the time Merlin finished filling the kettle, there was more than enough work for his hands inside the tent.

Merlin had never seen so much blood all in one place. The man in front of Gaius had taken a spear straight through his leg, just below the bottom of his hauberk. Beyond him, a dozen more writhed and screamed.

"Hold him still, Merlin, I need to pull the spear through."

Merlin climbed onto the table and sat on the unfortunate knight's chest, on top of his folded arms. Tom held the patient's legs down. The Knight tensed beneath Merlin's body, then fainted.

Blood flowed from the wound, but just a trickle, the tourniquet held. Merlin climbed off the patient, then ran to fetch more boiled water and suture thread. The physician examined the wound carefully, stitched the layers of muscle back together. Merlin waited for him to close the skin. Instead, to Merlin's dismay, Gaius handed the needle and thread back to him and moved on to the next patient. Merlin stared up at him pleadingly, but Gaius said only, "It's a simple enough wound. You've got to learn this sooner or later, and lucky for you, this one's unconscious. Show me the stitches before you cover it."

For months, Gaius had made Merlin practice sutures on fresh pig's skin from the kitchens, but this would be his first time stitching anything that was actually alive. Merlin flinched as the needle went in, but the patient didn't twitch, so he drew it through, then set another stitch. When he was finished, the first one looked a bit crooked, but the others were all right.

Gaius inspected the work over Merlin's shoulder. "Well, go on, salve and bandage it, before the fellow wakes up. I need another pair of hands for this one, his shoulder’s dislocated."

Three beds down, Gaius barely glanced at the patient before moving on. He gestured vaguely at Merlin. "A strong dose of valerian, then wash your hands again and come help me with the next one."

"But aren't you going to--"

The physician pulled him aside and said softly, "He's taken a belly wound, and the bowel is torn clear through, you can smell it. He'll die whatever I do. There are others I can still save, if I move fast enough."

Merlin swallowed, cutting off any further protest.

The two worked their way down the endless line of wounded men. Those with lesser injuries walked out, back to the battle, but more men kept coming, staggering in on their own, carried by the squires or camp followers, dragged by their comrades. Tom's strength was needed again, to hold a man down while Gaius sawed off the little that remained of his leg. Merlin's stomach heaved, watching that, but he held on.

Near sundown, the sounds of battle outside began to die down. The men took up a chant. Merlin couldn't hear the words from this distance, but it sounded like a victory song.

"Is it over?" He asked.

"The battle, yes. But not our work. Now that the fighting's done, they'll start bringing in the rest of the wounded."

"Should I go out there and help them?"

"No! No, I need you here, not looking for the living through the piled dead. Others will find them. Now, Merlin, I need you to help me sort the wounded when they come in. Wrap anything that's bleeding badly, tourniquet if needed, no other treatment until the sorting is done. Those with lesser wounds should be sent back to their own tents to wait for treatment tomorrow, those who need immediate care go inside the tent, and those I can't help should be sent back to their friends."

Gaius's words were proved right. Before Merlin had time to think, the tent was packed with new cases and more wounded were lined up outside, probably twice as many men as they'd treated all day. It became a strange kind of rhythm. A man was carried up, Merlin bent to look at him. Check the pulse, stop the bleeding, send him in or send him out. As the daylight failed, Merlin strained even to see the wounded, and he knew that Gaius's older eyes would find it even harder. He glanced up, and the torches that lit the tent blazed just a little brighter and whiter than they should have. Luckily, no one else seemed to notice.

Finally the rhythm was broken by the arrival of a different sort of patient. "I'm sorry," Merlin told the stretcher bearer, a young knight still wearing half of his blood-soaked armor. "Your friend is already dead."

"But he can't be! I found him, he talked to me."

"He's gone now. At least he died with you instead of out there alone."

"What am I supposed to do now?" The stretcher bearer was on the brink of total hysteria, the warlock realized, and he might have been even younger than Merlin was.

Merlin softened his voice just a little bit. "Go back out there and find me another one. And when you can't find any more wounded, come here and help me, I need more hands."

An age later (perhaps half an hour, by the moon) the wounded stopped coming in. Merlin stepped back inside and began to work his way down the long line of those he'd identified as seriously injured. Someone stepped up to his shoulder. It was the young stretcher bearer, finally out of his armor. Merlin checked the knight's hands, those at least were clean, though his undertunic was impressively filthy.

"Good, you're here. Start pulling off this man's armor, I need to be able to get at his body in order to treat him."

And then Merlin lost himself again in the endless line of the wounded, cutting out arrows, stitching, poulticing and wrapping. The next clear memory he had was of Gaius grabbing his shoulder and ordering someone to find him a place to sleep. As he dropped off in a stranger's tent, the grey dawn light crept through the door.

When Merlin woke again, it was close to midday. He was still wearing the same shirt he’d worn the day before, filthy with the blood of at least a dozen different men. The sight of it made his stomach churn, and, after what he'd seen the day before, he would have sworn he'd never eat again. Then Merlin realized someone had left bread and meat out for him, along with a fresh apple, and he quickly crawled over and wolfed it down, licking the juice off his fingers.

As soon as he was finished eating, however, he stood up and walked outside. He was a bit disoriented, since he didn't entirely remember how he'd gotten there, but quickly found his way back to Gaius's healing tent.

Gaius was still there, standing over one of the cots. Merlin wondered guiltily whether he had slept at all that night, or day, rather.

"Ah, good, you're back," Gaius told him. "We finished with the worst cases just after dawn, now we're working on the rest of them, including some we didn't see at all yesterday. In battle, men sometimes don't even notice minor wounds until things calm down. Now, come here and take a look at this arm. Some of the cords inside are cut all the way through, and I want to show you how to stitch them back together. It's a delicate process, and if it's done wrong, well,"

The man on the bed swallowed. "My arm won't work any more then, will it?"

"Not unless it’s sewn up properly, and as it's your sword arm, I promise you my finest stitches."

As the afternoon wore on, Merlin finally forced Gaius to sleep, at least for a little while. Two hours later, the horns of battle sounded again, and Gaius came rushing back to the tent.

On the third day, the physician stepped back from the man he was tending and put a hand to his head. Then, he fell over, crumbling without a sound. Merlin ran to his side, but Gaius was already gone, eyes wide open and bloodshot.

Gwen finally found Merlin inside the empty pavilion of a fallen knight. He held his head in his hands, sobbing openly.

"How can I even think to take his place? He'd barely begun teaching me."

Gwen sat down beside him. "You can't replace him. None of us can. Just answer me one thing: Will more men die if you walk away, or if you pick up his kit?"

Merlin lifted his head.

"You won't be able to save them all, but you can save some of them. I'll help you."

Bayard’s forces fled in disorder the same day Gaius died, and the armies of Camelot returned home. The journey that had taken two days on horseback took four by wagon, and Merlin had to stay with the last wagons, the ones carrying the worst wounded. Merlin barely noticed when they arrived, though he appreciated being able to work in a proper hall instead of in a tent with the wind always trying to wreck his kit.

Through the last of the fighting, and through the long weeks afterward, Merlin labored to save men’s lives and watched them die.

Some of them died because they were wounded beyond hope, some just because there were too many injured and he could not reach all of them in time. Some of them, Merlin knew, died under his clumsy hands who would have survived had Gaius been there to care for them. Sometimes they’d seem to be healing well, then fall into a fever despite all he could do. One young man survived a leg amputation without problems, only to suddenly fall over dead a month later.

Still, most of the wounded men who reached the citadel alive eventually recovered. As the injured men left his care, Merlin busied himself with the books. Galen and Hippocrates were read over and over again, along with the works of five different herb masters and Gaius’s own copious case notes. Sometimes the masters contradicted one another, or Merlin’s own experience, sometimes they even contradicted themselves. Still, reading filled the days, in between dealing with the routine illnesses and injuries of fall and winter. Not long after harvest, Merlin began writing his own case notes, in Gaius’s clear and detailed style.

Finally, Gwen came to him one day. “Merlin. You haven’t been to court.  You've hardly left this room in weeks.”

“I’ve been busy, studying.”

She stared at him solemnly. “I really think you should go tomorrow. You might see something interesting.”

So, the next morning Merlin combed his hair, puzzling at the length of it. He’d washed and kept his clothes clean, his work demanded it, but he hadn’t looked into a glass in weeks. He dressed in his least stained tunic and climbed down the stairs out of his little room and into the workshop. Just then, Gwen approached, scowling at his appearance.

“That won’t do at all. You’re Court Physician, not some scruffy apprentice.”

Before he could even protest, Gwen opened her wicker basket and pulled out a blue tunic. It was plain wool, but of a much finer weave than anything he’d ever owned, and it was almost new. “Put it on,” she demanded. Merlin ducked back up the stairs and obeyed. There was no stopping Gwen on a mission, even if he couldn’t figure out what she was after.

He stumbled back down the stairs, dressed in the new tunic. Gwen grabbed his collar and adjusted it, then turned her attention to his hair. The basket proved to contain both comb and scissors, along with a jar of some sort of oil. She pushed him down into a chair and then attacked his head with her kit of weapons. “Stop ducking!” Gwen scolded. A few moments later, she pulled a mirror out of her bottomless basket, and Merlin stared at his reflection.

The hair was still longer than he normally wore it, but it was now cut evenly in the back and smoothed away from his face in the front. Between the hair and the tunic, Merlin could have passed for a noble’s younger son, out of armor.

The tools were once again packed away in the basket as Gwen shoved him out the door toward court. Merlin still had no idea why she’d seen fit to make a courtier out of him.

An hour later, he understood perfectly. Court had begun normally enough, with the King calling forth petitioners, but from there it fell to pieces. Uther spoke to Arthur, Morgana, even Ygraine, right in front of the court. He’d go from answering a knight’s question to issuing orders in a battle that had happened years earlier.

At the end of court, Sir Leon pulled Merlin aside and led him back to his private chamber. Once the door was safely bolted, Leon spoke. “You heard?”

“Of course I heard. How long has this been going on?”

“He’s often appeared weary these past few months, but it’s only since the end of the harvest festival that his mind has begun to… wander.” Leon swallowed. “So, can his illness be cured?”

Merlin sighed. “Illnesses of, ah, this kind are tricky, and there are few easy cures. I’d have to begin by examining him, if he will even allow it.”

“Perhaps you can tell him that there’s a fever about, and you’re concerned he might have caught it.”

Merlin nodded.

“Where’s Gaius,” was the first thing Uther asked, when Merlin entered his chamber.

“He died on the border last summer,” Merlin replied woodenly. Uther’s useless war had taken away all Merlin had left and shattered so many young men.

“What are you talking about, boy? He was at court this morning.”

“Sorry, sire, he’s in town, dealing with the fever. He just sent me to see if he was needed here.”

“Ah. Carry on.”

Finally, Merlin left the king’s chamber and returned to Sir Leon’s. “There’s no sign of fever, nor bleeding in the brain, nor tremors. I even searched his chambers for any mark of a spell or curse. I can find no explanation save grief and exhaustion. There are potions that can help, but they will only calm him, not restore his clarity of mind.” Merlin’s voice was flat. Uther’s condition meant disaster for Camelot, but for him the full measure of disaster had already come.

Leon sighed and nodded. “If Gaius were here...”

“If Gaius were here, the court would take his word that the king is unfit, but I’m only a boy,” Merlin finished bitterly.

“Even then, who would lead? No, I will speak to a few I trust, and perhaps…” Leon turned away, then looked back at Merlin. “Speak of this to no one else. Go back to the physician’s books, you should be safe there no matter what comes.”

As the snows trapped the Court inside, the whole of Camelot turned to a cauldron on the edge of bubbling over. The knights conspired to keep Uther’s condition hidden from the people, but rumors leaked out nonetheless. Many of Merlin’s patients tried to pump him for information, the others looked as though they might if they dared. Arguments on the practice yard frequently turned bloody. But Leon and other Knights kept a lid on the kettle, and the civil war everyone feared never quite erupted.

Once the snow melted, Camelot’s hotheads found larger worries. Bayard had found allies: King Cenred. The combined armies rode over the border like a swarm of insects, devouring everything in front of them.

Once again, Merlin followed the armies to war, and Gwen and her father came with him. This time, the tide of battle turned against them quickly. With the army constantly on the defensive, often driven to retreat, severely wounded men did not reach his tent as often.

Perhaps someone on the other side treated them with mercy, but Merlin doubted it.

On the third day of battle, Merlin struggled to remove a barbed arrow from a man’s thigh without ripping through the neighboring artery and ruining any chance of saving his leg. Finally he stepped back, and there was a hand on his shoulder, a wild-eyed filthy man that, after a moment's struggle, Merlin identified as Sir Leon.

"You're needed in the command tent." Merlin opened his mouth to argue. "It's the King."

Merlin grabbed a small kit and ran.

The king lay in his own bed. Someone had already pulled off his armor and made an attempt to bandage the wound, a sword slash on his right side. Merlin bent down and examined it, but the smell of decay told him all he needed to know. Just like the poor soldier Gaius had shown him after Merlin’s first battle, what seemed like ages ago, the king's bowel was torn badly. Uther was beyond his help, and already fevered.

Merlin gave him a dose of sedative, left the bottle behind for whatever poor soul would wind up tending the king for the few hours or days he'd last. Then the young battle-surgeon packed up his kit and walked out. Leon reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going? The king needs you."

"The king is dying, and there's nothing I can do." Merlin shook himself free and went back to Gaius's healing tent, where some of the men might still survive.

The king held out all night and most of the next day, but towards sundown, Merlin heard the the army's horns take up a dirge. The line of Uther Pendragon ended that day, as a bitter old man who had buried his wife and both of his children gasped out his last breaths alone and wracked with pain in a tattered silk tent. Still chained up miles away, Kilgharrah rejoiced at the depth of his enemy's fall.

But Uther's war did not die with him.

Without the King, command of the army fell to Sir Leon, the most senior Knight present. He ordered an immediate withdrawal back to the gates of Camelot. The people watched, numb from repeated shocks, as the army returned without its king. Behind them, a woman began wailing, a dreadful empty sound. Leon turned in his saddle and spoke to the crowd.

"Weep and feel no shame for it. We have lost good men this year, and your tears do them honor. But do not despair, the strength of Camelot is found in her people. With or without the House of Pendragon, we will persevere."

From dawn to nearly midnight, day after day, Sir Leon walked the walls, streets and halls of Camelot. He stopped to speak to everyone who sought his ear.

Ten days after the army returned, scouts reported that Bayard and Cenred had left the borderlands behind and were marching on Camelot with nearly twenty thousand men. Leon went out to find his most important aides.

"Merlin, set up an infirmary in the Great Hall. I'll send some people to help you, go ahead and ask for anything you need."

Merlin swallowed, then nodded.

"Gwen, how stand our supplies?"

Gwen blinked in surprise. "Reasonably well. The recent fighting interfered less with the harvest than I would have expected, so we have full winter stores, about six months worth of full meals and a year's worth of grain. We've taken in quite a few refugees, but many of them brought their harvests, so the additional strain should not be too great. And there is some good news, some men went out hunting this morning and just came back in with all the game they could carry. The animals must be fleeing ahead of the army. So if you wish, we could hold a feast tomorrow, to strengthen people before the enemy arrives.”

"Thank you for your report, Gwen, that was very precise. Tell the kitchen staff that I do wish a feast of fresh meat, and have joints of meat distributed through the lower town as well." Leon answered. "And Gwen," he added, as she dropped a curtsey and stepped toward the door.

"Yes, Captain?" She turned back.

"The council meets at mid-morning tomorrow. I expect you to be there, representing the household staff."

At daybreak, the invaders arrived, a vast dark-clad horde. The surrounding villages burned in the night, and the only comfort was that most of the inhabitants remained safe behind Camelot’s walls. Day after day, siege engines and ladders tried the walls, and battering rams assailed the gates. Arrows rained down over the walls. Women and children never saw the sky at all, pinned behind stone walls for safety, and one by one the defenders were picked off. Twice, invaders broke through one of the gates and attacked inside the castle before they were driven back.

Inside the front hall, Merlin bent over another wounded man. It really was much easier tending the wounded inside Camelot, working in a proper room with proper lights, and a steady supply of clean water was equally welcome. A dozen servants, some of them twice his age or more, had been ordered to help him.

He'd managed a successful healing spell once or twice, but they seemed to drain his magic deeply. He could save more of them with his hands alone, and perhaps just few little tricks to help with the sheer work of it all.

For the hundredth time that day, someone was pounding at the door. Merlin didn't turn, and so he never saw the enemy soldiers who came bursting through behind him. Gwen shrieked as they cut off Merlin’s head without pausing.

Furious, she picked up a wounded man’s spear and hefted it at them. “What are you doing here,” she demanded. “We’re only tending the wounded here, he wasn’t hurting anyone!”

The lead soldier paused, and then wheeled around to face Camelot’s guards, having found the open door to the siege tunnels and caught up with the invaders at last. Gwen dashed her tears aside and kept working.

There wasn’t anyone else left to do it.

"We have, counting myself, thirty-one knights still fit to bear arms, about half of them wounded in some way. There are, as of this morning's muster, three hundred and sixty-one able-bodied men at arms remaining, about a fifth of our strength before the present war. We have ample supplies of food and water, but firewood and fuel of all sorts is scarce. The gate was repaired after the recent incursion, but the mends are showing strain, and it may break soon." Sir Belvidere's report ran down, and the diminished council stared at each other, tight-lipped.

The first one to speak was Guinevere. "So, you are saying we cannot hold out. Why, then, should we continue this?"

"I couldn't expect you to understand, girl. It's a matter of honor." An older knight answered without looking at her.

"Honor."  Bitter sarcasm dripped from Gwen's voice. "Do you have any idea how many people I've seen die these past months? How many knights, how many children?"

Sir Belvidere opened his mouth, but Leon waved him to silence. "What are you suggesting?"

"Leave tonight. All the children in Camelot, everyone who can't fight, plus a small force of armed men to protect them. The second line of siege tunnels open out beyond the enemy lines. If we leave now, we can flee Camelot while Cenred's men are still occupied here."

Belvidere laughed, but Sir Leon did not. "I think the chatelaine has a point." Though Gwen had not formally been named chatelaine, and the one in charge of Camelot’s domestic matters should properly have been a noblewoman, no one protested her sudden elevation in rank. "We'll do it. Sir Ewan, please select a force of four knights and all but fifty of the guardsmen to escort the noncombatants out to the mountains. Gwen, you'll lead the party. To shield their escape, we will make sure that Camelot falls tonight."

Three hours later, Gwen argued with her father vainly.

"We'll need your skills when we get free. A great smith like you can help us build a new home, far away from here."

"What good is a blacksmith without his tools? I can't possibly carry my whole shop with me. No, Gwen. My place is at the gate."

Gwen turned away, blinking back tears.

Tom reached out a hand and grabbed his daughter's shoulder. "I have something for you."

He pulled out a sword, plain steel, but perfectly formed and balanced. "Remember this? It's the finest sword I've ever made," Tom told her. "I've been saving it for something special. I thought perhaps," he broke off. "It's yours now. I think you'll need a sword soon."

Sir Leon stood at the gates of Camelot. Behind him was all that remained of the flower of her chivalry, twenty-seven sworn knights and fifty men at arms. Behind them stood nearly two hundred others, townsfolk or servants. Most of them were men, but some were women without children. Some clutched their swords like brooms, others hefted wood-axes or spears. They were armored in the chainmail and helmets of fallen men at arms, often with holes still unrepaired. Tom the Blacksmith carried his great hammer, and Cook wielded her fire-poker.

Leon himself had taken a handsaw to the weakened places in the gate. This time, when Cenred's men brought their battering rams, the gates would fall, and faster than the enemy expected.

Deep inside the castle, a few candles still burned. When Sir Leon had ordered Geoffrey of Monmouth to leave with the refugee column that afternoon, the old archivist pulled himself up and scowled. "My archives are hardly the library at Alexandria, but I will not abandon them before the invading barbarians."

Archivist Geoffrey turned away from the captain, threw open the door to the hidden stacks and began to fill them, piling as many of the most valuable books as he could fit inside the space. Unless it all burned, they'd be safe enough there. Last of all, he added his most recent notes on Camelot's war with Mercia and the death of King Uther.

Then, the old archivist sat down at his desk and began to write the tale of Camelot's siege and fall. Through his library's great windows, he could see everything, but all he could hear was the action of the battering ram, beating against the gate with such force it shook the walls. Boom. Boom. BOOM.

In the doorway, Camelot's last defenders held formation, Golden Dragon hoisted high one last time. The gates shattered, and Cenred's army rushed in like a black river, steel glinting in the moonlight. The defenders snapped into place and plugged the gate tunnel, neat rank on rank, the Knights’ shieldwall in the front with the best archers just behind. The archers snapped out neat volleys, forcing the enemy to advance slowly and keep their shields overhead. When they finally reached the gate, the gate tunnel slowed the enemy further, and no more than four or five could attack at a time. Inside, the Knights fought shoulder to shoulder, blades snapping in unison. They went down, but the front line stayed strong as the reserves filled in behind the fallen Knights. In the end, they claimed the lives of half a dozen attackers for each man of Camelot that fell.

It was over an hour before the last of the defenders was pushed aside, leaving the way open into the Citadel.

Geoffrey was still writing when Cenred's men burst in and jabbed a spear into the old man's back, running him through. The archivist had just enough strength left to push the pages out of the way as his blood poured out across the writing desk.

Miles away, a long column moved through the trees under moonlight. The horses were laden with supplies, injured people, and the children too small to keep up. The healthy adults all walked, carrying packs or babies. Some of them wept silently, some looked on with hope, others simply kept their eyes down, trying not to stumble in the darkness. At the column's head were a pair of red-cloaked knights, and a dark-haired woman bearing a naked sword.

Beneath the castle, the Dragon listened as the city fell. He heard every broken door, the crackle of every burning building, every scream, and relished them all. He was still a prisoner, but soon enough Balinor would hear that the Pendragon had finally fallen. Balinor would be able to set him free.

Four months later, Balinor stalked silently below a ridge line. Game had been scarce this year. The armies picked the land bare as they moved, and then Camelot's refugees snatched anything left behind. Normally Balinor traded for grain, but no one had grain to trade him. His carefully rationed food stores had run out entirely three days earlier, and, though the early winter day was mild, he shivered uncontrollably.

It had finally snowed the night before, and it was always easier to hunt after first snow, which meant Balinor would be able catch something today, he had to. If he failed, he might not have the strength to try again.

He finally came upon the track of a hare, big and healthy, to judge from the size of its stride. He moved more quickly, and soon he sighted the hare. Carefully he drew his bow, but some instinct made him spin around. Behind the man crept a wolf pack, driven from their normal ranges by the famine. The wolves were as desperate as he was, desperate enough to attack a grown man who was still on his feet.

They came on him all at once. Magic did for the first two, and he felt satisfaction as they sprawled across the snow. Wolves could be eaten, too, and, even starving, they were bigger than any rabbit. But the strain of casting made spots appear before his eyes. He staggered a moment, then felt a tearing pain at the back of his leg. He crashed to the ground, and the wolves closed in around him.

The last dragonlord died alone and heirless on a snowy hillside, and with him ended any chance of reviving the race of dragons.

Then Kilgharrah woke, screaming in rage all over again.

Uther's reign of terror lasted decades. By the time his son was grown, the true magic-users almost never crossed Camelot's borders, but the executioner seldom stood idle for long, as there were always accusations. This time, though, Kilgharrah would see that things turned out differently.

Merlin was utterly exhausted. Three trips to the stocks in a week, fighting troublesome Sidhe, running all the way to the Lake of Avalon and hauling Arthur back unconscious had all pushed him beyond the limits of his endurance. When the dragon began talking at him that night, Merlin buried his head under the blankets and stuck his fingers in his ears.

Of course, the dragon was calling with his mind, not his voice, which made it harder to shut him out. Finally, Merlin got up and crept down the many stairs to the dragon's cave.

"You did well enough," the Dragon told him, "But be warned. A time of great trouble is near at hand. If Morgana's gifts are hidden too deeply, Arthur will be lost."

"So you're saying I shouldn't listen to Gaius? I should talk to Morgana, tell her the truth?"

The dragon flew off without another word, and did not come back no matter how long Merlin called.

Three days passed before Merlin found even a moment to speak to Morgana alone. The prince's servant was always busy, and the virtue of the king's ward was closely guarded. But at last, when Gaius sent him up to her chamber with a new sleeping potion, she was sitting alone with a book and Gwen was out.

Once he finally found himself alone with Morgana, he realized he had no idea what to say. He placed the vial on her table and stood there a moment. "Er."

Lady Morgana waved a hand in his general direction. "Thank you, Merlin,"

"No, thank you." he responded automatically.

"For what?"

Perhaps this would be a good opening. "For telling me about Sophia. I really think she might have drowned Arthur, if you hadn't warned me."

She put the book down and marched towards him. "Tell. Me. What. Happened." Her voice was stern, but her eyes showed a hint of relief.

"Arthur told you he tried to elope with her, right? Well, that's not exactly how it happened."

"No, he told me the truth. He’s never been able to lie to me."

"He doesn't know everything. He didn't just lose his head over her, she enchanted him."

"Sorcerers?"

"Worse. Sidhe magic. They weren't really human, Sophia or her father."

"So they enchanted Arthur out to the lake, and tried to drown him." Her voice rose in excitement. "So my nightmares are true. I'm not going mad, I'm just...seeing the future." Her voice dropped again with fresh horror.

"Yes. You can see the future. But you can never let the King find out."

"No, of course not." Morgana shuddered briefly. "Wait, you rescued him? From Sidhe? How?"

He'd never actually said the words out loud before, and if she chose to betray him, a single hint to Uther would see his head on the block. Merlin swallowed, looked toward the closed door. "I have magic."

Her lips tightened, but she neither screamed nor fled. "Why?"

"I was just born this way. That's what some people here don't understand. Magic isn't something that you choose, like putting on a coat. Some people are born with the gift. I know the law, I never use it where anyone can see, but if it can save people, wouldn't it be wrong NOT to use it?"

Morgana sat back down and looked at him for a long moment. "Please leave me now, I need to think. And I won't be needing that." She eyed the potion bottle distastefully.

He picked up the rejected medicine and headed for the door.

"And Merlin?"

He turned.

"I will guard your secret with my life."

It wasn't the last time that Merlin slipped into her chambers late at night after Gwen had gone home. If she wanted to speak to him in private, she'd simply mention that she needed her potion. Sometimes they talked out on the training field while the knights practiced, standing in full view of everyone, just a little too far away to be clearly heard. And whenever she had a nightmare, she told him exactly what she'd seen.

At first, most of her nightmares were too vague to be interpreted, or dealt with events that were clearly far in the future, familiar faces aged years. Then, Merlin came to her chamber one day in broad daylight, uninvited--and not alone. With Merlin was a little boy with startling green eyes, frightened and wounded.

“The guards are looking for him, I didn’t know where else to go.”

“In there,” Morgana answered, gesturing deeper inside her chambers.

The child refused to speak aloud, but both Merlin and Morgana found he could speak inside their minds. He called Merlin “Emrys” and claimed to know him, though they’d just met. And he was clearly gifted with magic.

As soon as he was able, Merlin ran down the stairs to the Dragon’s prison.

“You are here about the Druid boy,” the dragon stated flatly.

“How do you know that?”

“Like you, I hear him in my mind.”

“Who is he? Why does he call me Emrys?”

“Because it is your name. Much has been written about you that you have not read. Now, you must be very careful of this boy. He is the night to your day, and much depends on him.”

Without another word, the dragon flew off, leaving Merlin bewildered as he worked with Morgana and Gwen to help the child escape. Later, to Merlin’s astonishment, Arthur offered to help, and managed to get the child Mordred clear of Camelot, leaving the guards in an uproar.  All four of them sat on pins and needles for weeks after, unable to believe the escape had truly succeeded.

Finally, the search for the druid child died down, but soon afterward Merlin's mother arrived, bearing a tale of raiders in Merlin's home village and begging King Uther's help. Uther could do nothing, but to Merlin’s surprise, both Arthur and Morgana agreed to help him.

Will, of course, proved suspicious of their motives.

“Arthur’s different,” Merlin insisted, “In time you’ll see that too. And Lady Morgana--”

"Lady Morgana, eh?"

"Yes, King Uther's ward."

"Sounds like she's a bit above you."

"Shut up, Will, it's not like that. She's a friend."

"A noblewoman is your friend? Does she know the truth about you?"

"Yes, she does."

Will blinked.

“But you’re still hiding.”

“Of course I am! If the King found out, I’d be dead, and so would anyone else who knew the truth and didn’t turn me in. And that includes you, Will, so keep your mouth shut around Arthur!”

Will spread his hands. “Wouldn’t say a word to the likes of him. So tell me more about this Lady Morgana…”

“Will!”

When the defenders laid a ring of oil around the village, Morgana agreed to light it. And when it burst into flame all on its own, without the help of her useless kindling, she simply smiled. She didn’t need to look behind her to know what had just happened.

Later, after Will died with a lie on his lips, claiming he had cast the whirlwind that saved the village, it was Morgana who sought out Merlin, at Hunith’s request. She found him sitting alone beneath a tree.

“I saw what he did, Merlin. Jumping in front of a crossbow, and then taking the blame for your sorcery. He was a good man, and I’m sorry. Maybe, because of what he did, someday we won’t have to hide.”

“I just…” And then, to his shock, Merlin was crying openly as she wrapped her arms around him. She said nothing, even as the tears soaked into her sleeves, just held him tighter. And when they returned to Camelot, she never mentioned it again.

Life in Camelot became more frightening than ever. Arthur shot a unicorn while hunting and set off a curse that nearly destroyed the kingdom. Gwen’s father was caught talking to a sorcerer and died trying to escape the dungeons. Then, a few weeks later, Morgana grabbed Merlin’s sleeve as he passed through the corridor near her chamber.

“I had a dream again, and it can’t wait,” she hissed. Merlin followed her inside.

“It’s Arthur,” she began. “He was bitten by some sort of beast, horribly wounded. Merlin, you have to stop it.” She described the beast, and the scene. Merlin could only hope that her vision was a long way off. Unfortunately, word of the Questing Beast came to Camelot mere hours later, and he could not speak to Morgana in private again for days, not until after Arthur was healed and Nimue dead.

That night, rather than waiting for Merlin to come to her, Morgana went to him. Gaius was out, checking on the still-recovering Prince, and on some other patients who had been neglected due to Arthur's near-fatal bite.

The moment the door shut behind her, she burst out with, "I saw it, all of it. And I couldn't change a thing. I still have nightmares every night, Merlin. And since Tom died, I'm always afraid of Uther finding out the truth about us. I hoped maybe I could change him, but today he had someone else arrested for suspected sorcery. I can't live like this."

"I wish I knew how to help you, but I've no idea how to train a seer. Gaius doesn't know, either, I asked him."

"Then I need to find someone who can, maybe Mordred's people."

"The king would never permit that."

"Then he must not find out."

"He won't let you just leave Camelot alone, either. If you try, he'll have you hunted down."

"Unless he believes I am somewhere safe. My father had an aunt in Mercia, a childless widow who lived on a small estate. Last I heard, she was still alive. And, since our treaty with Mercia still holds, I will simply ask to visit her. Perhaps I'll tell him that I heard her health is failing."

"He'll insist on a proper escort."

"And I'll just send them home once I arrive."

Merlin smiled wistfully. "I wish I, I mean, I thought…" He stopped and took a breath. "I'll miss you. But I understand."

"You should come with me, you don't belong here either."

"Arthur needs me," Merlin answered simply.

Morgana turned to leave the physician's chamber.

"Oh, and Morgana? I think I found a spell to bring restful sleep. Would you like me to try it on you tonight?"

"Maybe tomorrow."

"I've got one more thing that might help you get away. Do you have any letters from her, or anyone in her household?"

Morgana laughed out loud when Merlin produced a perfect forgery, sealed with her aunt's family crest. The letter claimed that the old woman's health was failing, and asked if Morgana could come and stay for a time.

Morgana departed before the week was out, with an escort of two knights, ten men-at-arms, and one maidservant. All of them returned without her a week later.  Gwen's skills were many, however, and she sat at loose ends for less than a day before she was returned to the general servant pool. A few days later, she found herself scrubbing laundry next to Merlin.

"Gambesons," Merlin grumbled. "Shirts and socks and trousers are easy enough, but gambesons are next to impossible to wash, take days to dry, and oh, the stink!" He rubbed at rust stains wearily.

"When you set it out to dry, try hanging a bit of lavender with it, or mint. That might help with the stink. Or possibly throw a bit of sweet wood on the fire you hang it next to."

"Hmmm, that's a good idea. Not sure what Arthur will think about smelling like lavender in his armor, though."

"Well, beats smelling like rusty sweat, doesn't it?"

The two laughed, but Gwen's smile faded quickly.

"I'm worried about Morgana. She's never even mentioned this aunt before, she told me she'd be back soon, but the whole thing just doesn't feel right."

"Gwen, listen. Morgana wasn't happy here, the nightmares, you know that. I think she'll do better with some time away, and the chance to get to know her aunt better. There aren't many older women here at court for her to look up to."

"I just don't understand why she didn't want me to stay with her." Gwen wrung out a pair of trousers.

"Perhaps she didn't want you to have to be away from Camelot so long."

Gwen snorted indelicately. "I'm not sure what she thinks is keeping me here."

"Oh, there might be something." Merlin's tone turned sly.

"Merlin! I told you not to talk about that!" Gwen turned her face away.

"Come on, Gwen. It's no secret from me. And he's been looking at you lately, too."

Morgana was forgotten for the moment, as Gwen ducked Merlin's teasing.

Less than a month after Morgana's departure, Merlin found himself sorely missing her gifts and her influence, as the soul of Cornelius Sigan escaped its tomb into the body of a thief, nearly destroying Camelot before Merlin could make anyone believe that something was wrong. Finally, with Sigan's soul recaptured, Merlin returned to his room to enjoy a solid night's sleep.

The sky was still dark when Merlin woke to find a raven standing on his chest. After previous few days, his first reaction was blind panic, but this bird did not instil in him the sense of doom that Sigan's ravens had carried. The bird simply stood there, head cocked curiously, then extended a foot toward Merlin. There was something tied to its leg, a letter. Merlin unrolled the message and held it up to the moonlight.

     M,

I now spend much time in the forest near my relative's home, and learn from the people who live there. Thank you for aiding me in my travels.

Discreet and subtle as ever, but Morgana had still found a way to let him know that she was well.

The next time, it wasn't a bird's note, but a simple wooden box, delivered by a trader who claimed it was a gift from Merlin's aunt. Merlin had no aunts at all, but he took the box and gave the man a coin for delivering it. Inside the box was carved the seal of the house of Gorlois, along with a line in the old language. Merlin read the line out loud, and a thick letter appeared.

     Dear M,

As we both suspected, I have the real magic-gift, not just the seer's gift. This box, and another one like it, are the most complicated thing I've tried so far. To write to me, just put the letter in the box and speak the same words you used to summon this letter. Of course, always burn my letters after you read them.

Here outside Camelot, magic is used a bit more openly. I haven't shown it to anyone in my aunt's household, but she is quite old, and pays little attention when I leave for days at a time. I meet with several Druids, as well as a woman who claims she was trained as a priestess of the Triple Goddess, though she can't possibly be much older than I am. Perhaps one of them will take service in the household, so we can spend more time together.

Between the priestess and the Druids, I've learned to control my dreams. They still come, but not every night, and I can guide them towards things I want or need to see. It's so wonderful to be able to sleep properly.

I didn't realize how bad it had grown back in Camelot. I was afraid all the time, afraid of Uther, afraid of myself. I was so used to being afraid that I hardly noticed it any more. When you've had enough of hiding your nature, come join me..

Merlin read the letter three times before he burned it. He sat back, smiled, then picked up a pen.

     My Lady,

Thank you for writing me. I'm glad to hear you are well. Arthur is as frustrating as ever, but he's done some truly remarkable things recently. I think he even cares for Gwen, though it drives me mad the way neither of them can ever seem to admit it.

Tell me, is the magic of the druids much different from the kind I know? What is it like among them? How exactly did you learn to control the seer's gift?

    Dear M,

So many questions! I think Gwen would be good for Arthur, she doesn't tolerate his sort of nonsense. Yes, Druid magic is different, but what the priestesses know is about the same. I think Gaius must have trained under the priestesses, long ago.

As for the seer's gift, it's easier than I thought. A trick of concentrating as I fall asleep, almost like I want to cast a spell, but without the words. I can't really explain it, but it works.

Don't let Arthur drive you mad!

     My Lady,

We have a guest at Court, Lady Catrina of Tregor. She's very beautiful, and kind and gracious to everyone. I think she and the King were friends, long ago, and now they seem to be courting. Arthur is horrified by the sight of his father flirting, but everyone else seems pleased.

Never mind what I said about Catrina being a lovely woman. She's a troll, an actual stinking, fanged troll, in disguise, about to marry the King, if you like! and no one will believe me. Why do I even bother?

     Dear M,

Be careful. My friend tells me that trolls have powerful magic, and can be very violent.

     My Lady,

Thank you for your concern. It's been very strange here. The king actually did marry the troll, but Gaius and I stole her disguise-potion, and the whole court saw the queen transform!

A strange blot marred the center of the letter, as though the writer had dropped his pen in a sudden and uncontrollable fit of laughter.

Then, it got even weirder. Apparently she had Uther so enchanted, he didn't even notice! You wouldn't believe what we had to do to break that spell: We made Arthur look dead. But hey, the troll queen's dead, Arthur's alive, AND Arthur actually admitted that I was right. A good day all around.

     Dear M,

I'm just glad you're safe. Perhaps this time Arthur will learn a lesson about listening to you?

     My Lady,

I am sorry you haven't heard from me in a few days. It's been ugly here in Camelot, and I lost someone very special. I thought I could save her, like I saved you, but she died. I really don't have the strength to explain, and no one except Gaius knows what really happened.

I'm so tired now, I just have to keep going.

Merlin stopped there, and sent out the note inside the sender box before he could change his mind and tear it up instead.

    Dear M,

I wish I were there with you. If you need me, just say the word, and I'll come back.

It was two days before Merlin was able to send a reply that didn’t involve begging her to do just that.

     My Lady,

Thank you for your kindness. It means more than I can possibly say that you'd even offer, but no, you should stay where you're safe.

     Dear M,

Remember, if you need help, I will always answer.

     My Lady,

You won’t believe what happened here this week. Some neighboring royalty came for a tournament, and one of them brought a sorcerer of his own. He made Arthur fall in love with Lady Vivienne, King Olaf’s beautiful, arrogant daughter. Then, the sorcerer made Vivienne fall in love with him! I think he was hoping Arthur and Olaf would kill one another, which they nearly did.

But that’s not the best part. I tried to break the spell, I did everything in the book, but the only thing that worked was Gwen’s kiss. True love, eh? I knew he was looking at her, when he thought no one was watching!

     Dear M,

But what about Lady Vivienne? She was enchanted as well. I knew her as a child and it sounds like she hasn’t improved, so I’m sure she could use a lesson in humility, but love spells are always trouble. Someone has to break that, or it'll end in violence one way or another. I'm going to see if we can help her.

After that, the flow of letters from Morgana came to a halt. After ten days and three unanswered letters, Merlin began to worry in earnest. Had the lovestruck Vivienne killed her in a catfight? It sounded disturbingly plausible. Merlin even considered leaving Camelot to check on her, but on the twelfth day of silence, Lady Morgana herself appeared, unannounced and with only two men as escort.

Her face was tanned from long days outdoors, her hair was bound up in a simple braid with a few strands escaping, and she wore a simple gown of deep blue linen. At the sight of her, the King and Prince both rushed down to the courtyard, Merlin trailing behind Arthur. "My dear Morgana, how have you been?" the King asked, as Arthur handed her down from the saddle.

"Quite well, sire," she responded. "I have learned much from my aunt, and the people of her holding." What Merlin recognized as her political smile was firmly in place as she followed Uther into the castle.

Three days passed before Merlin had the chance to speak to her in private, and in the end Morgana resorted to visiting with him while he was working in the armory.

She had once again donned her elaborate court gowns, and Gwen had probably worked on her hair for half the morning, but some of the changes in her remained. The perpetual air of suppressed terror that she'd carried in the old days had vanished. In its place was a charming mix of boldness and uncertainty.

"You look well," Merlin began awkwardly.

"And you look as if you've been working and worrying too much," Morgana answered. "Doesn't Arthur ever let you sleep?"

"Oh, now and then. And then Gaius wants me to go grind some herbs, or clean the leech tank, or something." Merlin's expression turned more serious. "I hadn't expected to see you back in Camelot so soon."

"Well, a friend and I went to Olaf's realm to see Lady Vivienne." Morgana glanced at the door and lowered her voice. "The enchantment was just as stubborn as you reported, if we hadn't managed to find that young knight who was in love with her, I don't know what we could have done."

"A friend?" Merlin inquired.

"A very kind woman who's taught me...some truly remarkable things."

Just then, a squire arrived with an armload of armor. Morgana changed the subject abruptly.

"So you say we have six new knights this year? I will have to prepare favors for them."

"Every one of them would be honored to carry your favor, M'Lady." Merlin replied, grinning broadly. He'd speak to Morgana more later.

The next day, Merlin and Arthur were sent away to investigate reports of smoke in the ruins of Idirsholas, and returned to find Camelot silent, filled with sleeping people who could not be awakened. With Morgana's help, they investigated, and tried to find a way to defend Camelot against the one responsible for the sleeping spell.

As Arthur struggled to hide his father in a servant's bed, Morgana pulled Merlin aside. "It can't be my magic protecting me. I can see this spell is taking you, too."

Merlin swayed, sweating profusely. "Have you recently met any magic-users who might particularly hate Camelot?"

Morgana's eyes widened. "My friend Morgause, we met last night. She was the one who suggested I return to Camelot in the first place."

"I think I know what's happening, now. The spell is somehow attached to you. That's why you're not affected."

"So how do we break it?"

"I think--the dragon says--it'll break if you die, but there has to be another way."

"Merlin! Hurry!" Arthur stared out the window.

"I've got an idea!" Merlin called back. "Morgana and I will go back to Gaius's workshop, look again for his cure. Can you keep watch for us?"

The two ran down the corridors, ignoring Arthur's voice as he called after them. Merlin flung open his magic book and flipped through the pages. "Here! A general counterspell. I already tried it on Gaius, but I think I need to try it directly on you." He pointed a hand at her and read the words. Nothing happened. He repeated it, more forcefully. His eyes flashed, and the tower trembled slightly. Then, Merlin tumbled to the floor unconscious.

Morgana, pale with terror, stepped closer to the table and stared at the book. She read the spell herself, once, and then a second time. At the second reading, the tower trembled again. At the third, a loud crack rang out through the castle, and Gaius sat up, blinking. Outside the door, she could hear men shouting at each other, confused and frightened. Merlin, however, did not stir.

She stared at Merlin a moment more, then shook her head. First, hide the book. Morgana ran up the stairs and hid it away. As she came back out, Gaius stopped her. "What happened here? Have more people fallen sick? Why is Merlin on the floor?"

"I think this was some sort of magical attack," She began carefully. "I feel much better now, let's see what's happening outside."

Just then, the alarm bells began to ring. Morgana ignored Gaius and rushed back to the main corridor where she'd left Arthur.

She met Arthur running in the other direction. "Attack at the gate!" he gasped out. She turned and followed him down the stairs. At the gate to the citadel itself, they found a fierce battle, if a small one. Half a dozen armored knights and a blonde-haired woman fought with the guards. As they approached, one of the invaders was stabbed straight through the belly. He kept going without even a flinch.

Morgana's eyes widened, and she ran toward the fight. Arthur, hampered by his armor and the last dregs of the spell, could not keep up with her. Once again, he was left yelling down a corridor as she sprinted away from him.

"What are you doing?" She shouted. "The guards have done nothing wrong."

The woman looked up at her, eyes flashing with rage. "Wasting my time, apparently." She turned and rode off, but not before an arrow slammed into the back of her armor, rocking her in the saddle. Behind the woman, the knights crumbled to dust, and Arthur stared in shock as Morgana turned around and walked back to the citadel.

Morgana slipped into Merlin's room that night, past Gaius. Merlin was sleeping, but when she touched his shoulder, his eyes opened.

"Seems my friend the priestess didn't tell me everything," Morgana began. "Morgause was behind it, all of it, from the fires burning in the Fortress of Idrisholas to the sleeping spell. She fled after we broke the spell, she was wounded badly, but we have to assume she's still alive." Tactfully Morgana did not say, "After you fainted and I broke the spell."

She went on. "I think I will go back to the druids, now, as soon as I can manage it. I'll tell Uther I'm visiting King Olaf this time. Vivienne will cover for me, she knows what I did for her. I need to talk to someone about Morgause, I knew she hated Camelot, but I hadn't expected a direct attack now, certainly not one using me."

"Do you have to leave? We make a good team," Merlin offered.

Morgana sighed. "This isn't my home anymore. Don't worry, I'll still write you."

"Don't forget to write Uther, too."

"Oh, of course. Happy enough that my dear guardian won't worry, not so happy that he'd think I have a lover. Honestly, sometimes he still acts like I'm thirteen, you would think he'd at least have found me some proper suitors by now." There was a hint of the old bitterness, but she sounded more weary than angry.

"Good luck," Merlin said, drifting back to sleep.

Just a few hours later, Merlin's peaceful rest was interrupted again, as the Dragon reminded him of his promise. Stealing one of the Swords of Medea was entirely too easy, but what happened afterward would live in Merlin's nightmares for the rest of his life.

For some time afterward, he hesitated to write to Morgana. Certainly he was ashamed of freeing the dragon, ashamed that he couldn't protect his father, but, more than that, Merlin just didn't know how to begin to explain what had happened. Instead, he simply sent her a list of Camelot's dead, along with reassurances that Gwen, Arthur and most of her other friends were still alive and well.

   Dear M,

I won't ask you what the dragon's attack was like. I understand if it's too dreadful to speak of right now. I'll just pray for now, to give thanks for those who survived and to help the wounded. Let me know if there is anything we (either the druids or King Olaf's folk) can do to help. Fortunately, I've heard nothing from Morgause since she fled Camelot.

Vivienne hasn't grown terribly much more sense, but Sir Kellen, the knight who broke her love spell, is slowly making inroads with her father Olaf. I think Olaf's beginning to understand that he won't live forever, and if he doesn't choose a bride for his daughter, she might wind up marrying someone absolutely unsuitable. 

    My Lady,

Tell me more about this Sir Kellen. I can't believe Olaf let a man anywhere near his daughter without killing him! Besides, if Kellen's going to marry her, Arthur will have to meet him someday anyway, hopefully as an ally. 

     Dear M,

Sir Kellen is just a bit older than Vivienne, tall, and brown haired. Quiet, a good contrast to her fire, but when he speaks, he usually talks sense. King Olaf has sent him off on three missions to date, and Kellen personally killed the rabid bear terrorizing an outer village, led the group that brought a nest of bandits to justice, and arbitrated a tricky inheritance case, with all sides satisfied. I think Olaf's running out of tests.

Personally, I've only met him briefly, but I think Vivienne could do a lot worse--Arthur, for example! Now, tell me more about things in Camelot. How are the repairs progressing?

     My Lady,

Arthur completed his vigil last night. I'm not entirely sure how dislocating his kneecaps on a stone floor all night will help prepare him for kingship, but he's really taking all this very seriously, and apparently he's going to go on a quest for the Fisher King's trident. In the Perilous Lands, of all places, and he thinks he'll pull it off without me along!

     Dear M,

Let me know when Arthur gets back. He's a clever boy, who knows, he might even be able to find the trident. Unless, of course, Olaf sends Kellen after it first!

Three days later, Merlin helped Arthur into the saddle in the courtyard. On the prince's wrist was a new piece of jewelry, one that glistened and sparkled with magic. "Where did you get that?" Merlin asked carefully.

"Oh, Lady Annabel gave it to me. Said it would grant me luck, and she'd like me to think of her in the lands of the Fisher King."

Merlin blinked. Merlin hadn't had much contact with Annabel, but he didn't entirely trust her. Lady Annabel had arrived in Camelot only two months earlier, claiming to be a knight's daughter from a realm beyond Mercia. Her clothes and her small entourage were fine enough to support the claim, but on several occasions, he'd seen her wandering the citadel alone late at night or early in the morning.

Furthermore, Merlin was surprised to see Arthur showing so much interest in a woman other than Gwen. The stupid bracelet was probably some sort of love spell, which Merlin would naturally have to break, alone, again. At least Arthur would be safe from her outside Camelot, as Annabel hardly seemed the type to ride off into the wilderness after him.

Once Arthur was gone, Merlin ran back to the physician's tower and began searching through books and records for anything similar to the jewel that Arthur had received. When Gaius finally found it, Merlin shuddered. How had an ordinary noble daughter come across something like that? And why had she given it to the Prince?

"Keep an eye on her, Gaius. I'm going after Arthur."

"Alone?"

"I'll find some help."

It took days for Merlin to locate Gwaine, track down Arthur, and remove the deadly gift. By the time Merlin and Arthur returned to Camelot, Lady Annabel had left, claiming that she needed to return to her family's estates. Oddly enough, the question of where those estates lay had once more gone unanswered. Though Merlin searched the archives and spoke to almost everyone in the castle, no one seemed to know where Annabel had come from or where she had gone.

Less than a month after Merlin and Arthur returned from the Perilous Lands, a messenger came from Cenred, in which Cenred took credit for the death of a full patrol of Camelot's knights, claiming that they had crossed his borders illegally.

To everyone's surprise, Sir Leon returned on his own two feet a few days later. He was alone, wide-eyed, and dressed in bloodstained clothing, but he was hale. Uther immediately brought him before the court. The knight explained that he'd been dreadfully wounded until the druids found him and made him drink from a special cup.

"It was extraordinary, my lord." Leon explained. "From the moment it touched my lips, I could feel the life return to me." To Merlin's shock, Gaius identified it as the Cup of Life, resurfaced again after it vanished on the Isle of the Blessed. Gaius then explained that the cup could be used for great evil, if ever it fell into the wrong hands.

Mere hours later, Arthur announced that he'd be traveling the next morning, to a destination he would not reveal.

The night before they left, Merlin scowled at a scrap of paper, rolling a dry pen back and forth in his fingers. He hated to keep secrets from Morgana, but if Arthur wouldn't tell him where they were going, it would probably be best to say nothing of the journey to anyone. In the end he kept his message simple:

     My Lady,

Arthur and I are traveling tomorrow, do not expect to hear from me for some days.

Merlin was not surprised when the mysterious journey turned to disaster right at the beginning, when they were captured by slave traders. Fortunately, they were able to escape and bring Gwaine with them.

They found the cup right where Sir Leon had said it would be, but from there on out everything fell to pieces. Merlin couldn't imagine how so many of Cenred's men could have been out combing the forests for them, and could only conclude that Arthur had been recognized earlier, and they'd been followed for a long time. Despite all he could do with magic, the enemy claimed the cup and drove them into hiding for days.

As the three men huddled in the forest, Morgause rode into Camelot at the head of an army, an army that could not be killed by any weapon the defenders possessed. All those who stood in her way were cut down, and most simply fled. She marched through the citadel unchecked until she held a blade to the throat of Uther Pendragon.

"Will you surrender your false claim to the throne of Camelot?" Morgause demanded.

"Never," he ground out.

"Cast him into the dungeon," she ordered. Her men simply reached up onto the throne and dragged him off of it. The court stood by, terrified, as enemy soldiers carried the King of Camelot off to his own dungeons.

Morgause let Uther wait for over a day before she went to see him again. He had not been offered food or water.

"So, will you abdicate publicly, or shall I have you killed, as you did so many of my people?"

"Surrender my throne to you? You're mad, witch."

"No, Uther, not to me. The throne belongs to another. You know who she is." Morgause smiled at the deposed king through the cell bars, showing too many teeth.

"She would never serve you!" Uther ground out the words.

"No, she won’t serve me. I will serve her, the rightful sorceress-queen of Camelot. You have until dawn to give up your claim to the throne."

"Morgana is no sorceress! She would never touch magic. She is innocent."

"She's spent most of the past year outside of Camelot, Uther. You have no idea what she's done, or what she's capable of." Morgause reached into her bag and pulled out a letter.

     Dear M,

As we both suspected, I have the real magic-gift, not just the seer's gift. This box, and another one like it, are the most complicated thing I've tried so far. To write to me, just put the letter in the box and speak the same words you used to summon this letter. Of course, always burn my letters after you read them.

Here outside Camelot, magic is used a bit more openly. I haven't shown it to anyone in my aunt's household, but she is quite old, and pays little attention when I leave for days at a time. I meet with several Druids, as well as a woman who claims she was trained as a priestess of the Triple Goddess, though she can't possibly be much older than I am. Perhaps one of them will take service in the household, so we can spend more time together.

Between the priestess and the Druids, I've learned to control my dreams. They still come, but not every night, and I can guide them towards things I want or need to see. It's so wonderful to be able to sleep properly.

I didn't realize how bad it had grown back in Camelot. I was afraid all the time, afraid of Uther, afraid of myself. I was so used to being afraid that I hardly noticed it any more. When you've had enough of hiding your nature, come join me.

Uther's face darkened as he read down the letter, one damning line after another written in that beloved, unmistakable hand. At the end, he sat back and said nothing at all. Morgause left him alone with his thoughts.

At dawn, Morgause returned to the dungeon. "Have you changed your mind, Uther?"

Uther stared straight ahead.

"Then I have no choice but to find you guilty of countless murders, and of rebellion against the rightful Queen of Camelot."

Two of Morgause's soldiers stepped forward to fetch the king from his cell. When they reached in and grabbed him, he shrugged off their hands and walked between them, straight-backed and hard-cheeked.

He stalked out of the dungeon and up to the block, still silent, and lay his head on the block without waiting for the order. The crowd watched silently, and Uther Pendragon did not flinch as the axe came down on his neck.

That same morning, Arthur and Merlin woke in a dark cave, surrounded by the few people they'd managed to rescue from Camelot before being forced to flee. Still trapped within a few hours of Camelot, with food and water scarce, they saw no way to resist Morgause.

Finally, Merlin remembered what the Fisher King had told him, that water from the Lake of Avalon would aid him in Camelot’s darkest hour. He dug out the little bottle of water from the Lake of Avalon, and Freya's spirit told him what to do. With Kilgharrah's help, he recovered Excalibur and brought it back that very same day.

When the enemy followed Gwen out of Camelot, Arthur and his fellow exiles were forced to flee again. Merlin tried to guard Arthur as Arthur guarded the retreat, but a wave of enemy soldiers separated them. One cornered Merlin against a tree, and Merlin whipped out the sword from its hiding place. He soon discovered just how much power Excalibur had over the undead, as the man burst like a paper puppet at its lightest touch.

As soon as they escaped pursuit, however, Gwen stopped them.

"Arthur."

Everyone looked at her. Leon's lips tightened.

"When Morgause took Camelot, she..."

"What is it, Gwen?"

"She had your father executed the next day."

Arthur's face hardened. "Then she shall pay for it." He said nothing more for a long time, simply walked as if the ground offended him.

Hours later, when they were relatively safe in a ruined castle, Arthur slipped away from the others to let his mask drop for a moment. They left him alone for a time, but finally Merlin approached him.

"I should never have left." Arthur said, not turning to look at Merlin.

"If you'd stayed, she'd only have killed you, too," Merlin pointed out. "This way we have a chance, for Camelot at least."

"I should never have left," he repeated.

"Arthur. I know how hard this must be for you, to lose your father and be asked to finish his work all at once. But you can do it. You'll be a greater king than he ever was. And you will defeat Morgause and Cenred's army, because it's your destiny"

"How can you possibly know that?"

Merlin shrugged.

Arthur stood, and walked over to the round table, covered in a dropcloth.

He ushered the others over, and one by one they found seats at the ancient stone table. Merlin found the seat to Arthur’s left drawing him in of its own accord.

Once all were seated, Arthur addressed them. “My father’s murderer sits on the throne of Camelot, ruling according to her whims. Who will help me to find justice?”

All eight of Arthur’s friends stood and swore to follow him back to the occupied citadel, but Arthur was not yet satisfied. He knighted all of the fighting men who did not yet hold that honor, common-born, some of them foreign, but all of them clearly worthy of the title.

The next morning, six men crept toward the outer wall of Camelot, beneath the very eyes of Morgause’s guards. Two split off, ostensibly headed for the warning bell, but in fact Merlin and Lancelot had another goal in mind, one far more ambitious. Meanwhile, Arthur and the remaining knights went in search of Cenred and Morgause.

With Excalibur to clear away the enemy like a broom through sand, Lancelot and Merlin found Morgause first, guarding the Cup of Life in the Great Hall. She laughed as the servant in his dirty homespuns stumbled through the door towards her, a single knight guarding his left side. With a simple gesture, she tried to send them flying. Merlin twisted his hand the other way, and Morgause herself staggered back.

“You!” she hissed. “You are the one who sent my sister those letters. ‘Dear M,’” she recited sarcastically. “You’re the one she chose over me.” Morgause’s eyes narrowed in rage, and she began a more powerful spell.

Merlin's eyes flashed as he sent Morgause sprawling across the tiles. Then he reached out with his mind, ripped through the spell she had woven to keep the Cup upright, and poured out the blood. Merlin turned, eyes still glowing gold, and his jaw dropped in shock. Arthur himself stood in the doorway, staring at him wordlessly.

All around them, the immortal soldiers simply vanished as the blood spilled out across the stone floor. Left without opponents, Arthur shook himself and rushed forward. Merlin turned toward her as well, Excalibur clenched in a fist.

Morgause, however, vanished into a whirlwind before either man could reach her.

Merlin bent to see to Lancelot's injuries, but his eyes never left Arthur's.

"I'm sorry I never told you, sire. I swear I've only ever used to protect you."

"For your years of loyal service, I will spare your life. You have until dawn to leave Camelot." Arthur's face was frozen, fresh horror at his friend's betrayal stacked on top of the raw grief at his father's death.

"But Arthur,"

"Enough! I don't want to see you again. Ever." Arthur spun on his heel and stalked out.

For the second time that month, Merlin was exiled from Camelot. This time, at least he had a chance to pack. Gaius found him a short time later, sorting through his belongings. Merlin owned a quite a bit more than he'd had when he first came to Camelot, but he'd need to leave most of it behind, as he wouldn't be able to take a horse.

Gaius stepped into the little room. "I heard what happened."

Merlin didn't answer.

"You saved us. You did what needed doing. Arthur will understand that, in time."

Merlin continued packing.

"Here, I prepared a small kit for you. You might find it helpful." Gaius laid a wooden box on the table. "Four days to the West, there is a town called Amelin. I have sent many of Camelot's magical exiles there. They rarely risk sending word back, but I know there are at least two still dwelling there who will take you in. I've written a short letter for them, they'll understand."

Finally, Merlin looked up. "I knew how Arthur felt about magic, but I always hoped..."

"He's grieving his father, Merlin. He's not prepared to turn his whole world on its head. But think, Uther would have killed you then and there. Arthur is at least allowing you to leave in peace."

Merlin snorted. "Exiled by dawn. After I saved Camelot, again."

Gaius put an arm out and hugged him hard. "We will meet again. I know it."

That night, Merlin made camp beneath a fallen oak tree, wrapped in a woolen blanket. He'd already planted Excalibur into a stone in the woods outside Camelot and was unarmed except fo his belt knife. Traveling alone, he dared not light a fire, and, though no frost dusted the fallen leaves, the wind howled through the branches and the autumn night was bitingly cold.

Finally, dawn came. Years of chores had strengthened Merlin, and he covered many miles before he slipped into a barn to sleep. It was far better than the ground, but before daybreak the next morning, the farmer set the dogs on Merlin and ran him off.

Thanks to cold nights and overeager farm dogs, Merlin reached the town in three days, instead of the four that Gaius had predicted. As he walked into town, weary and dusty, the folk there stopped to stare at him, much like the people of his home village would stare at a stranger. He moved down the road with his head down, and he could feel the eyes on him, but no one spoke. Finally, a woman stepped out in front of him. "Welcome to Amelin. Would you be looking for a place to sleep?"

Merlin cleared his throat. "I'm looking for someone named Naomi. I have a letter."

The woman smiled. "You've found her. Won't you come in?" The woman was about his mother's age, long dark braid lined with silver. Her nut-brown dress was worn but clean.

"Who sent you here?" She asked, as soon as the door shut behind them.

"Gaius."

"He is well, still in Camelot?" She asked. "What happened?"

Merlin could only nod, throat closing up at the mention of Camelot. He handed over the letter.

She opened it and read slowly, then tossed it into the hearth. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need, Merlin. Uther's death won't be mourned by many here. You'll need to be discreet, of course, but there are quite a few who have gifts of one sort or another. There's wash-water on the table, porridge with a bit of sausage for supper, and I'll set you up a pallet next to the fire."

As they ate, Naomi went on speaking. "Now, Gaius tells me you're farm-bred and have many skills, including some training in the physician's arts. You'll have to work hard, here, but no worse than I imagine you're used to. The grain harvest is done, but the roots are still coming in. I'll find you a work crew tomorrow."

She showed him to a small room above the kitchen. The straw pallet was not even so thick as his bed in Camelot, but there were three wool blankets folded on it.

Truly warm for the first time in days, Merlin slept as soon as he lay down. The next morning, he tried to send a letter to Morgana through the boxes, telling her about his exile from Camelot and his temporary home. Instead of disappearing, however, the letter burned to ash, singeing his fingers. Two weeks later, he received another note from a bird:

The box was unsafe, Morgause was spying through it. Do not contact me again.

It was the last word that Merlin would hear from Morgana for a long time.

Miles away, Gwaine knelt before the court.

"Sire, the Northern border remains quiet."

"Good. Thank you, Sir Gwaine, it's a long patrol and you and your men have made excellent time."

"No one's seen Merlin, either." The words dropped like a stone and dead silence fell over the council chamber.

Arthur's face froze. "You may go, Gwaine."

"I just don't understand," Gwaine said later, sharing a quiet meal in Lancelot's chamber. "No one's seen Merlin since the night we retook Camelot, over a month ago. If he'd been killed in the battle, he'd have been buried with the other dead. But he simply vanished, and no one seems to be looking for him. Arthur won't talk about it, and Gaius won't talk about it, and no one else has any idea what happened."

Lancelot said nothing.

"You! You know something, too, don't you?" Gwaine stared at him. "Merlin's your friend, too. What happened?"

"I know Merlin isn't dead, but I don't know where he is right now. I've been ordered not to speak of it."

"Lancelot!"

"I need to see to my armor. There's a rumor of a beast destroying livestock in the West, and I'm leaving in the morning."

"But you just got back from patrol!"

"Gwaine! Let it go."

"Look. Let the beast be for one more day. You're exhausted, I can see it. Come to the tavern with me tonight, enjoy a drink, meet a girl--"

"Gwaine!"

In the morning, Lancelot was gone once again.

In Amelin, the busy pace of harvest season soon ebbed to the slower pace of winter. Merlin stayed busy, hauling wood and water, tending the village's sick and injured, and aiding Naomi in her spinning, but the work was still lighter than he'd grown used to in Camelot, which left him far too much time to think.

He kept an ear open for news of his old friends, and once walked all the way to the border looking for news, but there was little to hear. Rumors abounded of Uther's death and Arthur's ascension to the throne, but to small farming towns outside the kingdom, no more news came.

Miles away in Camelot, Lancelot trained grimly. The first true winter storm had caught him inside the citadel, and until the weather broke, leaving was madness. The knights trained outdoors in almost all weathers, but in dire storms, the King turned over one of the lower halls to their drills.

Upstairs, there was Guinevere, who’d chosen someone else, who ducked down another hallway when she saw him coming. There was Lord Agravaine, who spoke against him in council simply because he was common born, whose oily smile made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There was Gwaine, who had no idea what had gone wrong when Camelot was retaken, and out of loyalty, refused to let it go. Worst of all, there was Arthur, the golden king Lancelot had sworn to serve, the one he gladly would have died for, the king who had banished his bravest and most loyal friend.

Downstairs, however, in the salle, everything made sense to Lancelot. The simple collision of steel and wood, the pattern of swing and block, the welcome burn in his muscles, the perfect symmetry of every move, reassuring him that he was strong enough to protect those around him from harm or injustice--no matter how badly he’d failed at that before.

Still, even Lancelot could only train so long, and once his limbs were exhausted, he headed up the stairs to Gaius's workshop, as he always did when not out on quest or patrol. The physician needed someone’s help, and much of the work only required a pair of hands willing to follow directions. Once Percival asked him why he didn't live up there, in the empty bedroom. Lancelot simply answered, "That belongs to someone else."

When the weather finally broke, King Arthur rode out on an early patrol, accompanied by a party of knights. As they stopped to search for water, Arthur spotted what appeared to be a clothesline, covered in rags. He gestured to the others, and they drew their blades and approached. “What is this place?” Leon asked aloud.

“I don’t know, but it seems to be some sort of shrine,” Lancelot answered. “Perhaps it would be better left alone.” Merlin would know, he thought but dared not say aloud.

A cloud passed before the sun, and the wind shook the flags on their lines. The men swallowed uneasily, and jumped as a raven burst up from the underbrush, cawing.

“There’s nothing here for us. Move out!” Arthur ordered briskly. The others followed him away from the strange and unearthly place with perhaps more speed than was dignified for belted knights. As they reached the horses, Lancelot counted up his companions and came up one short. Before anyone could start a search, however, Elyan came rushing up behind them, lips tight as he clutched his waterskin.

Arthur remained silent all the way back, but the others also seemed subdued. Lancelot himself headed for Gaius’s tower as soon as he’d removed his armor, stopping only to fetch a loaf of bread and a pot of stew from the kitchens. The old man often forgot to cook these days, living alone up there.

The moment Lancelot described the shrine, however, all of Gaius’s attention focused on the knight’s story.

“That’s a shrine of the old religion, very dangerous to approach. I’m surprised to hear of one so close to Camelot.”

“Dangerous? Why?”

“Because they were built to bring rest to tormented souls, souls that were so badly wronged they could find no peace in the other world. But the magic is delicate, and the ribbons and flags act as a warning.” Gaius leaned forward, and his voice dropped. “Did anyone touch anything?”

Lancelot shook his head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because if the shrine was disturbed, the spirits could be released. Never go back there, and try to keep the others away from it as well.”

“I doubt any of them want to go back. The whole place felt… wrong.”

Gaius pursed his lips and looked at Lancelot, hard. “You’ve a rare sensitivity, for someone with military training. I think perhaps, before the Purge, I might have tried” Gaius broke off. “Well, that doesn’t matter now. Those days will never come again.”

“Don’t say never, Gaius. Arthur is not his father, give him time.” Lancelot wished he could believe his own words.

The two finished their meal in silence, neither willing to speak of Merlin.

The next day’s training was a mess. Arthur was tired, mussed and distracted, and seemed determined to take it out on his men. Elyan pushed back with an uncharacteristic show of temper, and the whole thing ended with a brawl back in the arming chamber and Elyan unconscious on the floor.

From there, Elyan seemed to deteriorate by the hour. And when Lancelot found a circle of salt at the foot of his bed, he feared that Elyan was troubled by a spirit.

Lancelot led Gaius into the forest that night, back to the shrine, where Gaius was able to determine what had happened there: A Druid camp, attacked by Camelot’s soldiers. If Elyan had been possessed by the spirit of one of the victims, then he was a grave danger both to himself and to Camelot.

The two returned and tried to find him, but they were too late, as he had already attacked the king and fled. Lord Agravaine, as Lancelot might have expected, ignored everything Gaius said about spirits and pushed for Elyan’s immediate execution.

Arthur disagreed. He had seen the madness in Elyan’s eyes and heard a child’s voice issue from his mouth, demanding justice through the death of the king. In desperation, the king gathered Gaius and Lancelot in private to ask what could be done.

“Only the atonement of the perpetrator can bring the spirit peace,” Gaius declared. “But that’s impossible now, because the perpetrator is dead.”

Arthur shook his head, eyes dark. “My father wasn’t the one who led the raid on the druid camp.” He paused. “It was me.”

“Then you know what you need to do.” Lancelot told him.

“I need to go back there.” Arthur’s voice was flat.

“You won’t have to go alone,” the knight offered.

In silence, the two crept through the woods that night until they returned to the shrine. Arthur’s steps were heavy, but he never slowed. Finally, they reached the well, and Elyan emerged from the fog. Anger and vengeance filled his eyes, and water ran off him in torrents, though the night was dry. He faced the king in silence, and Lancelot simply waited.

Finally, Arthur spoke. He began steadily, describing the raid, how a young commander had lost control of his men and helplessly watched an atrocity, and his voice rose with emotion as he went on. “There was so much happening, I froze! I didn’t know what to do.” He swallowed. “I can still hear the screams. I cannot right this wrong. Nothing I can do can ever change the horrors that happened that day. But I can promise that now that I am king, I will do everything in my power to prevent anything like this ever happening again. From this day forth, the Druid people will be treated with the respect they deserve, I give you my word.”

Elyan blinked at him, then put his sword aside. He stepped forward and embraced the King, pulled Arthur to his feet. A white cloud, the little boy’s spirit, left him and faded, and Elyan himself crumbled and would have fallen had Arthur not caught him.

Lancelot stepped forward and helped support Elyan’s weight. The two carried him off beyond the shrine and waited for him to rouse. Lancelot said nothing, but his eyes shone with joy and relief. When he looked at the King, however, he seemed uncertain in some way.

Elyan was terribly weary when they returned, and deeply ashamed of what had happened, and Arthur busied himself working to change the laws against Druids in Camelot. The others avoided them both, so the citadel remained very quiet and subdued. Oddly enough, Lancelot stayed on in Camelot day after day, though the weather was more than fine enough to travel. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Ten days after Lancelot, Arthur and Elyan returned from the once-haunted shrine, Arthur finally invited his knights to dine with him once again. Lancelot, as ever, drank lightly and spoke little. He smiled a bit as Gwaine slammed his mug down on the table, but kept to himself through the rest of the meal.

Finally, Gwaine followed the rest out to bed, leaving Arthur and Lancelot alone beside the fireplace. They stared into it dreamily, saying nothing. Arthur drifted toward sleep. Finally Lancelot broke the silence.

"Did you ever wonder how I alone could kill the griffin, after all the Knights of Camelot had failed?"

Arthur lifted his head. "What does that have to do with anything? It's because your arm is the strongest I've ever crossed."

"It's because I wasn't alone. Merlin followed me in secret, and he cast a spell on my weapon. I don't believe he meant me to notice, but I did. Only because of his enchantment could I slay the griffin."

Arthur's jaw tightened, and he stood up and walked out. Lancelot simply watched him go.

Three nights later, Arthur knocked at the door of Gaius workshop. The physician opened the door and looked at him. "Can I help you, sire?"

Gaius sounded courteous, but distant. He was always distant, these days, and his face showed signs of strain that hadn't been there a few months earlier.

The king decided to approach the subject head-on. He stepped through the open door, then shut it behind him. "You knew about Merlin, didn't you?"

"Sire?"

"Don't. I'm not here to arrest you, I just want the truth. Why did he choose to study magic? In Camelot, of all places, right under my father's nose? Why did you help him?"

"Please, sire, sit down. You see, Merlin didn't choose to study magic, he was born with the gift. It's rare, most sorcerers study for years to gain power, but there are a few children born with gifts so strong that they will use magic whether they are taught or not, whether they want to or not. Merlin is one such."

Arthur was leaning forward in the wooden chair, lips pressed tightly together. He nodded slightly.

"Merlin's mother sent him to me because he had trouble controlling his gifts. I taught him how to use it for good, how not to let his magic come out by accident, and how to keep it secret from those who would have killed him for it.

"And he has used it to help Camelot more times than you can imagine." Gaius turned back to his work bench, and the King slipped out silently, face furrowed in thought.

Before King Arthur reached his bed that night, alarm bells broke out in the Citadel. He ran towards the Great Hall, where the military leaders would be gathering. He had to find out what was happening.

As he passed a window, he saw Agravaine marching past, torch in hand. Arthur opened his mouth to shout at his uncle, then realized the older man was marching beside Morgause at the head of a band of invaders. The sharp betrayal stung at him, but he pushed the shock aside, trying to figure out how to defend Camelot when invaders were already running through the streets and corridors. Arthur kept silent and ran on.

Before he reached the hall, a band of strange soldiers interrupted. The king drew his sword and fought back, but there seemed to be at least a dozen of them, and Arthur was alone and unarmored. One of them landed a blow on his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

Fortunately, the King had changed into simple clothes for his late-night visit to Gaius, and the enemy soldiers did not recognize him. They rushed on through the corridor. Six knights came running in the opposite direction and smashed through them. Gwaine picked up the king and carried him along with them, toward the Great Hall where they might make a stand.

Arthur regained consciousness lying on the ground outdoors. His head ached abominably, and he couldn't remember what had happened to him. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened to him, and he couldn't hear any sounds of battle, so he lay still for a moment, trying to remember where he was and how he'd gotten there. Oddly enough, Arthur couldn't even remember leaving Camelot. The last thing he did remember was...

He sat up straight, then clutched at his head as the pain nearly lifted the top of his skull. The last thing he remembered was enemy soldiers and Morgause running freely through the citadel, with Agravaine helping them.

"Easy, there." Gwaine's voice spoke up. "You took a pretty nasty knock on the head."

"How did I get here? Where is here?"

"We're near Lot's kingdom. Lancelot, Percival and I carried you here."

"Camelot?"

Gwaine shook his head. "We were divided and overwhelmed. We got you out, and I think quite a few other escaped as well."

Arthur squeezed his hands together. "This is my fault. I never should have trusted Agravaine, Lancelot tried to warn me about him."

"We'll regroup," Gwaine insisted. "First thing is to make sure your head is all right."

"My head is fine," Arthur answered. His pinched face told another story. "Where's Gwen?" he asked abruptly.

"She and Elyan were visiting friends in the Lower Town when they broke into the Citadel. Lancelot looked for her, but her friend's house was empty. She fled, and we don't think she was caught."

"We have to go back." Arthur stood up, then swayed and fell to his knees.

"Hmmm. Four of us, with you wounded. Morgause is trembling in terror, I'm sure." Gwaine reached out and grabbed the king's shoulder, helping him lie back down.

"Then what do you suggest?" Arthur asked, closing his eyes against a fit of dizziness.

"We need allies," came another voice, Lancelot's.

"What allies?"

"They aren't far from here," Lancelot assured him. "One of them should be here in the morning."

"Ah. Mysterious, nameless allies, who can take on Morgause, Agravaine, and an army. That's vastly reassuring."

"Get some rest, sire."

Arthur did his best to continue the argument, but opening his eyes made his head spin, and the words wrapped around themselves in his mouth. He slept.

"Rise and shine!" The familiar voice dug him out of slumber, and, out of habit, he reached for a pillow to toss. Then the hard ground beneath his back registered, and he blinked in confusion.

"Merlin."

"Yes, sire." Merlin's smile faded as he knelt down a few feet away.

"What are you doing here?"

"I heard you needed help, Sire." There was no ducking, no diffidence, no apology, only a statement of fact. Was this the real Merlin, when he wasn't hiding?

"Where are the knights?" Arthur asked, craning his neck.

"They went to get more firewood. I fixed up some breakfast, and something to ease your headache," Merlin offered.

Arthur sat up slowly and took the offered bowl, then carefully set it down on the ground. He didn't look at his former servant.

"I talked to Gaius. And Lancelot. I understand that you didn't choose to have magic, and that you tried to use it for good."

"I have," Merlin began.

Arthur held up a hand, still looking away from him. "The part I just can't forget is that you lied to me, all those years." Silence hung between them for a long moment.

Finally Merlin spoke up. "Did you know Morgana was, also?"

"Was what, a liar?"

"Was born with magic, like me. She was so frightened when it started. She couldn't control it or stop it. Her nightmares were visions of the future, Arthur, and she saw you near death over and over again. She couldn't sleep properly, ever. And she lived in fear of what would happen if Uther even suspected the truth about her."

Arthur turned slightly toward him. "Where is she, Merlin? She hasn't written since well before my father died. I tried to find her, but King Olaf doesn't know where she is, and that aunt of hers doesn't even know what year it is. Do you at least know if she's all right?"

"The last letter I got from her was right after I... left Camelot, and she didn't say much. I know she lived with the Druids for a time, but I don't know where she is now."

"Do you think the Druids could find her?"

"Maybe. If you convinced them it would be safe for her to come home." For us to come home. Anxiety ringed Merlin's voice, and his fingers dug into his palm.

"I'll do my best." Finally Arthur looked straight at his former servant. Merlin looked back without blinking.

Finally Arthur looked down. "I suppose I'd better eat something." He picked up the spoon and took a sip. It tasted just as good as Merlin's trail cooking always did, and the potion that followed worked just as well as Gaius's always had.

When the knights returned, Arthur stood up. "We need to make a plan," he began.

"Take it," Merlin urged.

Arthur stepped forward carefully, staring at the bright, new-looking sword jammed into a boulder deep in the forest. He looked beyond the sword at his people, dozens of them, crowded around and staring at him.  Arthur had no idea how Merlin had come up with this story, nor how drawing the sword would help them defeat Morgause, but he had come along anyway.

"It's yours to wield."

The king reached out a hand and cautiously laid it on the blade.

"Draw it forth."

His hand tightened on the hilt, and the sword came free as if the stone was a goose-feather cushion.

He turned to the knights and began giving orders.

"Elyan, Leon, Percival, you're with me. Merlin," Arthur paused and steeled himself. "You must seek out Morgause and deal with her. You're the only one who can." Merlin nodded, and the king went on.

"Gwaine, Lancelot, back up Merlin. He tends not to pay attention, so don't let any mice take him from behind while he's doing his..." Arthur trailed off again. "I also need a small party to head for the dungeons. They may attempt to kill the prisoners if they suspect our victory is at hand."

With Lancelot in front of him and Gwaine behind, Merlin crept through the darkened hallways. Morgause was still awake, he was sure of it. She might be in her own chamber, or she might be in the throne room. The knights' weapons were out, but Merlin was barehanded and dressed, as ever, in his simple homespuns. As Lancelot scanned the corridor ahead, Merlin cocked his head as if listening. "That way," he whispered, pointing to the left. The knights followed his directions.

A moment later, Merlin stopped. "She's in the throne room. Back way." He led his two friends through the servant's passage to the main hall. When they reached it, it was bolted from the inside. Merlin didn't waste time with the lock, he simply blasted the door to pieces.

Morgause stood on the opposite side of the throne room. Instead of the armor she’d worn when she was younger, this time she was dressed in the robes of a High Priestess of the Triple Goddess. Merlin knew, however, that the steel blade in her hand was forbidden to the faithful, and a true priestess would have gone armed only with bronze. Morgause turned toward the attack and answered it with a small whirlwind, rushing towards the door. With a flip of the hand, Merlin turned it back on the caster. By the time she dispelled the whirlwind, it had whipped her hair into a rat's nest.

"Emrys." Morgause stared at him.

"Finally figured it out, did you?" Merlin stared back without hesitation.

The woman gestured, and guards rushed towards them, Morgause stalking up behind them. Lancelot and Gwaine stepped in front of Merlin, blades raised. Merlin scattered the enemy across the room with a single word. Gwaine froze for a moment at the sight, then rushed forward.

The men attempted to line up again in front of Morgause, but Lancelot and Gwaine rounded on them from each side. Merlin stood his ground, yards away, and focused on Morgause. As the clash of steel filled the hall, the two sorcerers fought in total silence. Other than their shining eyes, there was no outward sign of the fierce struggle between them. Finally, Morgause crumbled, and Merlin tightened his fist.

When Arthur broke through to the throne room, he found it quiet. Dead guards were all but piled on top of one another, but Merlin and Gwaine were still standing. They approached the throne where Morgause sat collapsed, but she was stone dead, bleeding from a wound in the back of her skull.

Arthur grabbed Merlin's shoulder. "You've brought peace," he said. "We couldn't have defeated her without you."

Merlin looked back at Arthur for a moment, then jerked away desperately and began digging at the pile of corpses. The others quickly realize what he was doing and joined him. Beneath three dead guards, they found Lancelot, covered in blood from a dozen wounds. Merlin reached for him, but Lancelot just looked at them, smiled, and went still.

Arthur knelt beside him and picked up the blood-soaked body with his own hands. "He was the most noble knight I'll ever know.”

Three months later, the dead buried and the flagstones cleaned of their blood, the Round Table was finally finished. Queen Guinevere sat at King Arthur's left hand, but Merlin sat at his right, Camelot's First Sorcerer.

Gaius stepped back from the bed and washed the blood from his hands. "I'm so sorry, Gwen. You're losing the child." Again.

She turned her head aside and began to cry silently. A middle-aged serving woman stepped in with a basket of clean rags and gently motioned king and physician to leave.

"Almost three months this time," Arthur said, as he slumped into a chair in the antechamber. "I'd really started to hope..." The king raised haunted eyes. "Do you think that Merlin could do anything?"

"Not for this child. And, sire, I think you should not try again for some months. It's the second time this year and the fifth time since your marriage. She's tired, weak and grieving."

Arthur slept down in the knight’s quarters that night, almost afraid to return to his own chambers.

On the practice field the next day, Gwaine challenged him as soon as he stepped out. Ten minutes later, he realized he was pounding on Gwaine's shield and his armored shoulders as if the knight was a tree he was trying to chop down. Gwaine simply blocked him, holding the shield up without even trying to swing his own blade. A few more furious strokes and then Arthur tossed his practice blade aside, panting. "You... are too good...a swordsman," he gasped out.

"And you were too angry to train. Better now?"

Arthur stalked off, most of his rage spent. He didn't return to the citadel, though. His bedchamber was filled with Gwen, small and shrunken in the big bed, and with the crowd of women who seemed to look at him with blame as they bustled around her.

Three hours later, he was still sitting near the practice field, watching the knights and men-at-arms train. Someone crept up behind him, a miserable attempt at stealth. In fact, Arthur only knew one person who could try to be stealthy and fail so utterly.

"Five times, Merlin. Five times. And the voice I have to listen to says, 'What if it never gets better? What if we never have an heir?' But the only thing I really care about is her. Every time the despair in her eyes gets deeper. You know, she never even told me she was pregnant again? I suspected, but she didn't say anything, and she took no joy in it. Gaius says she'll recover, again, this time at least, but she's given up. How do I fix that?"

"Tell her what you just told me. Stop just pretending the heir doesn't matter, and let her know that she's still more important. Show her so, bring her flowers the way you always do, or rather the way you always order someone else to. Tell her we need her back in council as soon as she's well enough, and lean on her wisdom, in public and in private. Prove to her that there's more to being Queen than being a mother."

Arthur turned to look, but Merlin was gone, leaving behind a lunch tray. In the days when he was a servant, Merlin had never left off complaining about his duties, but now that he was a courtier, it seemed as if he missed looking after Arthur.

Or perhaps it was just force of habit.

Nearly half a year after her latest miscarriage, King Arthur and Queen Guinevere hosted a formal dinner. The roads had just begun to clear after a long and nasty winter, bringing several foreign envoys to Camelot.

"Our steward Aerom has just opened the first cask of new spring wine, and it is quite good this year. Last summer was unusually hot and dry in the Eastern part of Camelot, which was a bit hard on the wheat, but good for the grapes and the rye. Here, enjoy a glass." She motioned to a servant, who handed out filled goblets.

"Hard on the wheat, was it?" asked the first emissary. "In our land, too."

"Fortunately, our sorcerers have the power to see the weather, so we could plan for it. We planted every acre we could find with rye and simply saved a good bit of our seed wheat for this year." The queen actually giggled a bit. "We got so much fruit last fall, the whole town shut down and went out to the fields to pick it before the birds could. Everyone came back fruit-stained, from the town children to the knights."

The foreign envoys sniggered. Then they sipped the wine.

Arthur just smiled, watching his queen play the foreigners. Your crops may have struggled, in the drought, but ours remained strong. Your storehouses may be empty, but we will gladly trade with you, and the price for common foodstuffs will not be too high. And please do buy a few casks of our most excellent wine.

Merlin simply sat and watched. Even after three years of sitting at the table rather than watching with a pitcher in his hand, these games were strange to him. Still, he could tell what Gwen was up to.

The first emissary tilted his head and said, "Would you like to consider a trade arrangement?" Even Merlin knew that Gwen had won, when he asked first.

Three days later, the emissaries presented themselves before the formal court again. The full trade agreement was signed, with dozens of Camelot's folk standing witness, and the first wagons would roll the very next day. The foreigners bowed and departed, once again leaving the court open to its normal business.

A trained silversmith, newly come to Camelot, approached the court wanting to set up shop in the lower town. Such skilled tradesmen were key to Gwen and Arthur’s plans to build up the city, and the King asked his steward to help the man find a place.

Next, a poor widow came to appeal her eviction, and it was delayed for another month. As she stepped back from the thrones, shaking with relief, one of the townsfolk grabbed her arm. "I might have a job for your oldest boy," he whispered.

Finally, a stranger approached the court, dressed in the soft coarse robes of a druid. His hair was silver, his face lined but warm and kindly. He bowed to the king and queen, then turned to stare directly at Merlin, who stood beside the thrones.

"An invitation, your Majesty. We wish to ask Emrys to join us at our Beltane rites this spring."

The king and warlock looked at each other.

"If you wish to go, Merlin, I should be able to spare you for a few days."

"Indeed, it should only take a few days." The Druid responded.

"I would love to see the Druid rites. Thank you."

"If you would, Isendir, does the Lady Morgana still live among you?" Arthur put in.

He smiled. "She does, and her studies are going well. Emrys, you may have the chance to see her when you visit."

The king smiled in return. "Please tell her she is missed."

Merlin set out with the Druids the very next day, and by nightfall they had rejoined Isendir's band. For years, the Druids had been a force that Merlin glimpsed briefly, or learned about through vague stories. Finally, however, he'd have a chance to learn more firsthand.

The band was camped in a meadow, a circle of tents set around a central fire pit. A kettle sat simmering on the hearth. Nearby, a herd of goats grazed under the watchful eyes of some of the camp's older children.

"When last I met your family, they lived in a cave," Merlin commented.

"We were hiding, then. Now we live as we always have."

Merlin slept that night in a deerskin tent beneath a broad oak tree. He could see the glow of the nearly full moon through the tent’s thin leather and hear the cries of the night birds.

The morning was quiet. The goats were milked, and some of the druids went off in pairs to gather early herbs or late nuts. The women with small children and the elders remained and sat spinning and weaving goat hair. In short, it looked like any peasant village Merlin had ever seen, save for the lack of fixed crops or buildings.

In the afternoon, however, they were joined by two other bands, and dozens of people gathered together in the small clearing, with Merlin at their center. They greeted each other, hugging and laughing merrily, picking up each other's children and swinging them around, exactly like any other family meeting distant kin. An informal celebration broke out.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, however, the adults fell silent and the children’s noise was hushed. The druids led him up a steep trail toward the edge of a cliff. There, a blazing campfire had been built.

"Walk through the fire, Emrys."

Merlin turned to stare at him.

"I know you can do it without harm. Walk through the flames."

A single word turned the fires cold around him, and the druids watched in silence as Merlin marched straight through, glowing coals crunching beneath his feet. His boots were not singed.

"Now, come with me." Isendir led him right to the verge of a cliff. Merlin peered over the edge. It was several times higher than the walls of Camelot and just as sheer, and Merlin had never been terribly fond of heights, except from dragonback. At the bottom, he could see the rocky shore of a broad blue lake. Abruptly, the quiet man behind him shoved Merlin straight off the edge into thin air.

With no breath for an incantation, Merlin drew on the instinctive magic of his childhood to push against the air, trying to slow his fall. It was like trying to catch the air in a net, there was nothing to push against. His moving magic was like a net, Merlin realized. He reshaped it into something more solid, and finally his descent began to slow down.

It was too late, though, because the lake was only a few yards below him. He broke through the surface with a great splash. His feet and knees ached with the impact, as if the water itself was hard. The surface barely slowed him, and he plummeted through the water like a stone, right down to the bottom of the lake. In the afternoon of a sunny spring day, the air was reasonably warm. The lake, though, was achingly cold. He pushed off against the rocky lakebed and fought his way back to the surface, but the cold water fought him, and his limbs quickly grew numb and sluggish.

Black spots swam in front of his eyes. His chest burned with the need for air, and his ears were filled with a painful pressure. He looked up and up, and all he could see was green lake water. Merlin was going to die here, betrayed by the Druids, of all people, for a reason he'd never have the chance to find out. A moment before he lost consciousness, a spell came to mind, and he grasped at it with both hands, without any clear notion of what it would do.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of pain. His chest no longer hurt from the lack of air, and the limbs that had grown painfully numb from the cold also no longer troubled him. The second thing he noticed was the absence of limbs.

I'm a fish! Merlin realized, wondering.

The setting sun broke through the trees long enough to strike the surface of the water. It glistened like a jewel. Down the light filtered like petals on the wind, striking silver trout, tiny sunfish, and delicate green pond weed. Curious, Merlin swam over and nibbled at the weed. It was delicious, at least to his fish form.

Finally, after the daylight failed completely and the full moon sat high overhead, Merlin returned to his usual shape and climbed out of the water, alive, breathing, and unmarked.

The Druids stood on the lake shore, men alone, apparently waiting for him. Once they saw Merlin's head, they rushed over, and some actually waded into the lake to draw him out. They pulled off his sodden clothing and rubbed him dry, then they painted his body with elaborate symbols. He tried to figure out what they meant, but most of them were on his back, so all he got was something about life and the land. Once the paint dried, they wrapped him in robes like their own and strapped a stag's horns onto his head. He walked slowly, trying to keep his head level under the weight of the antlers.

They led him through the forest to a clearing, lit up like daylight by the full moon. Then, they turned back the way they had come and vanished into the trees.

From the other direction, voices approached, a large group of women singing. They were robed and hooded, heads down, but their voices came through clearly. The song was hauntingly beautiful, and, Merlin was quite sure, ancient. He could never remember the true words after, but he knew enough of the old language by then to understand the general idea.

Tauron, lord of the hunt, walked through the forest alone
No leaf sprouted, all the land was barren.
And we were hungry and cold.

Until he came upon the Goddess.
She danced alone, with a Maiden's face,
In a clearing in the bright moonlight.

And from their union, green things sprouted
Birds sang, lambs were born.
The sun shone brightly and trees bore fruit.

So do we unite Man and Woman
God and Goddess, Beltane eve.
By this sacred meeting, let spring be born.

Just as the men had done, they approached the clearing, leaving one of their number behind. She stepped towards him, robes shining white in the moonlight. Her face was covered by a veil, but Merlin could see she was slender and almost as tall as he was. She reached out a hand to him, and her fingers were long and delicate. There was a tattoo on her wrist, a triptych in a single ring. He hadn't seen any of the other druids wearing one like it. Suddenly, she pulled his robe open, revealing his painted chest. He gasped in shock, then remembered the song the women had sang. "Are we...married?" Merlin sputtered.

She stifled a laugh behind her veil. "No," she answered in a whisper. "Tonight we are God and Goddess." Then she pushed back her own robe and led him down to the green grass. His heart was pounding, and the whole night felt like a dream. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to follow her there.

Merlin never saw the woman's face that night, and when he woke, he was alone in the clearing, and the antlers were gone. He put the robe back on and returned to the camp, but as he walked, the whole forest seemed to come alive around him. Branches that had been winter-bare or barely budded were now covered in the pale green mist of new spring, and bird songs filled the branches. He even saw a robin, first of the year.

Isendir saw the wonder in his eyes and smiled. “The dance of God and Goddess has brought the spring, as it ever was and ever will be. We’ve had four lambs born today already, all of them strong and healthy.”

Merlin shook his head. “I’ve never seen spring come on so suddenly. And the magic in the air, like the whole forest is alive, something’s changed.”

“Perhaps it’s just that we’ve never had Emrys to help us, before.”

Merlin nodded thoughtfully. Emrys had been a title to him, no more. Perhaps it was time he learned what it meant.

Not long after Merlin returned to Camelot, reports came in of trouble on the border, where a particularly large and troublesome band of outlaws had taken up robbing villages.

The king rode out against them, followed by a dozen knights. Merlin, as always, rode just half a step behind his king, dark jacket standing out among the knights' billowing red cloaks.

"So, Merlin, sticking with that wild horse, are you?" Gwaine asked.

Merlin rubbed his mount's neck, shifting his weight automatically as the horse stepped over a rock. "We get along."

"Pilin sure doesn't get along with anyone else."

"Come to think of it, Merlin, when exactly did you become a decent rider?" Arthur put in.

"I ride fine!" Merlin answered defensively.

"How about that hunting trip, when you tumbled out of the saddle right at the gates, and all but landed on top of a guard?" The knights chuckled.

"That was eight years ago, and I'd never been on a horse before in my life!"

Arthur sobered. "You never told me you didn’t know how to ride."

Merlin snorted. "You never asked."

Abruptly, Leon held up a hand. The group all reined in and turned to look, as a man, a young peasant, emerged from the forest a short distance in front of them.

The stranger took in the armored riders and bowed. Arthur rode closer and addressed him. "We are seeking bandits in this area. Have you seen them, or heard where they might be?"

The man shifted, pushing a rock aside with his toe. “No, m’lords, no bandits here. No trouble.” He shook his head rapidly.

“Good day, then,” Arthur said loudly, and gathered his reins with his right hand, facing the stranger. With his left, he gestured to the men behind him. They sat up a little straighter in the saddle and followed him a bit more closely as they moved down the road. Just ahead, the road curved, vanishing behind a hill. The knights rode around the curve carefully, but no ambush appeared. Still, Percival stared very hard at a copse of trees a short distance off. “Thought I saw something running away,” he said softly.

“The bandits, afraid of our numbers, perhaps.” Elyan offered.

“Or seeking reinforcements.” Leon replied grimly.

Half an hour later, they came to a village, or what remained of one.

Once, it had been a thriving community of perhaps a hundred people, with a row of houses on each side of the road and a broad expanse of fields surrounding the houses. Now, everything on the south side of the road was burned up, houses reduced to blackened stone shells, and the whole village was dead silent. Even the chickens seemed to have deserted it.

Gwaine dismounted and touched one of the burned houses. “Still warm,” he announced. “This happened yesterday. And if it hadn’t rained so hard last night, the whole place would have burned, and maybe the fields and forest as well.”

“Then they’re fools as well as bandits, a forest fire could have killed all of them.” Merlin said.

“It could have been an accident,” Leon answered. “The confusion of the attack, a dropped torch, it happens sometimes.”

“Dismount and search,” Arthur announced, face hard. “Stay alert, they could come back. Seek survivors, bodies, or any clues as to who committed this crime.”

The group searched up and down the road and around behind the houses, but no one was found, alive or dead. The unburned houses showed signs of damage, and the first one they looked inside had a broken chair, but the damage was not extensive.

“I think the people were all run off, or maybe taken,” Elyan announced.

“I agree.” Gwaine answered.

“Any way to tell which? Or where they went?” the King asked. “Tracks are always so muddled in a town, and the rain no doubt washed away half of them anyway.”

Elyan dropped to a squat and began searching the ground for unusual tracks. Gwaine bent to examine the broken latch on a chicken coop, and Leon and Percival moved toward the west end of the village.

Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin saw movement at the upper window of a house, beneath the eaves, and looked at it more closely. Although the door was broken, inside the house appeared far less damaged than most of the village. The house was bigger and finer than the one he’d grown up in, but not much so. The lower floor was open, with a brick chimney built into the center of the house. A wooden table and chairs sat near the door, with the hearth facing the kitchen in back of the house.

Merlin stepped inside. The furniture was intact, and the dishes still sat on the table, laid out clean and empty, awaiting supper. A ladder in the corner led to a loft above the main floor of the house, which was no doubt where the family had slept.

Abruptly, something crashed down on him and everything went dark.

Outside, Elyan stood up. “There were warhorses here, but I can’t tell which way they went.”

“Warhorses?” Asked Gwaine.

“Definitely.” He pointed. “Farm horses would never have shoes like these, and half of the farm horses aren’t shod at all. And the feet aren’t terribly big, but the tracks are very deep. A plough horse would have different feet, and nobody would be riding one through the center of the village. This horse was very fast and strong, and it carried a man in armor.”

Arthur nodded and smiled behind their backs. Knighting a blacksmith had turned out well for many reasons, and this was just one of them.

“So the bandits were on horseback,” Gwaine said.

“Yes, and they were better equipped than most bandits,” Leon put in. He was carrying a crossbow. “One of them must have dropped this. It’s excellent work, and nearly new.”

Abruptly Gwaine turned. “Where’s Merlin?” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Merlin!”

The others looked up from the ground. Arthur drew his sword. “Search the village in pairs, quietly,” he ordered. “Likely as not, he just tripped over a stick and knocked himself out.” The King’s voice was calm, but it did not sound as if he believed his own reassurances.

The knights searched the burned side of the road quickly, then looked through the intact houses. One by one, they were dismissed as empty. “He’s gone, Sire,” Leon said flatly. “He’s nowhere in the village at all. And we still can’t find any tracks leading away.”

“Keep looking,” Arthur ordered.

“Sire, the sun is setting, and there’s no trace of him. We can’t track in the darkness, the bandits could return at any time, and we need to set up camp someplace more defensible than this.”

Arthur pressed his lips together. “All right. We’ll camp on that hilltop three miles back, from there at least we’ll see the enemy coming.”

They returned to the burned-out village at dawn the next day, but, though they searched for hours, the only clue they found was a small pool of blood on the floor of one of the houses, just inside the doorway.

Percival stared at it. “This wasn’t from the bandit attack, it’s too fresh,” he declared.

“It could be Merlin’s.” Gwaine agreed. “It’s not enough blood for a fatal wound, but there’s no trail leading away from it. I think someone attacked him, bandaged the wound, and carried him off unconscious.”

“Which means it was a deliberate kidnapping.” Elyan said.

“All right. Nothing’s changed,” said Arthur. “The person who kidnapped Merlin may or may not have been the bandits who attacked the village, either way, they will be found and brought to justice.”

He straightened. “First, we’ll ride on to the next relay post and order more men, including sentries in the neighboring villages. Then, we need to speak to the locals in a way that won’t frighten them. Perhaps two of us should go in alone, without armor. Mount up!”

With many a backward glance, the Knights of Camelot rode out of the half-burned village.

Merlin woke in darkness and pain.

Beneath him was something hard, probably bare earth. His head ached so badly the pain stretched out through his limbs. He tried to roll onto his side, hoping to see something, but the moment he moved, white fire appeared in front of his eyes. He lay absolutely still and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the bright flashing lights to stop.

Head wound, Merlin realized. Probably very bad. Nausea rose in his chest, and he moaned softly, which only made his head hurt more. He heard something move nearby, and he jerked away in response. At that, the flashing lights started up again, and he lost the battle with his stomach.

As he retched, someone turned his head gently to the side. A voice murmured very softly, and it sounded kind. “Sleep, now,” Merlin thought it said.

When Merlin woke again, his head still hurt, pain unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Carefully, trying to stay perfectly still, he opened his eyes. Grey dimness had replaced the black darkness, and he lay on a packed earth floor, looking up at a wooden ceiling. Faint light trickled between the planks, probably daylight. From where he lay, he could see three walls, also packed earth, reinforced with wooden beams, and the room smelled of any number of unpleasant things. He was in a cellar, or more likely, an underground cell.

Someone moved, off to his left. “Stay still,” a voice warned him.

Merlin had no intention of disobeying. “Where are we?” he asked. His tongue seemed too thick for his mouth, but he was fairly sure the words got out.

The owner of the voice moved closer and sat down beside him. It was a young man. “A cell.”

“Why?” Talking hurt. Thinking hurt, too, but Merlin needed to figure out what was happening and get out of the cell.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been here three days, and every day they open up a little hatch in the ceiling and toss down some food, usually bread. Sometimes they drop a waterskin. And then yesterday, they dropped you. Ah, I’m called Gili, by the way. And you are?”

“Merlin. Pleased to meet you.” Merlin laughed briefly, then shut his eyes again to try to block out the pain.

Gili’s eyes popped, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Merlin? The Merlin? Camelot’s sorcerer?”

“Yes,” Merlin answered shortly. He wasn’t particularly surprised that this man had recognized his name, and was far more concerned with not vomiting again.

“I have a little magic, not much though, and they caught me by surprise, but how did they catch you?” the young man asked, awed.

Merlin tried to remember. It would probably help if Gili wouldn’t talk so fast. “Something about bandits?” But fighting for memory made the colors swirl in front of his eyes again, and he let it go. “My head?” That was probably important. They couldn’t get out of here until Merlin could sit up without vomiting or passing out.

“Somebody bandaged it, not very neatly, but it’s not bleeding anymore. Still, it looks bad.”

The neat black lines from one of Gaius’s books appeared in Merlin’s memory as clear as day. How to treat the wound on the outside, to prevent infection. The herbs that would slow bleeding both outside and inside the skull, to keep him from dying of it and let the brain heal itself, the others that would ease the pain and settle his stomach. He’d mixed the potion many times, but none of Gaius’s books told him how to treat a wound like that on himself, lying on the cold hard dirt in a dark cell without even the most basic supplies, without even clean water and bandages. Men had died from wounds like this, even with treatment. Merlin had seen it himself. Some who lived were never the same again, but some healed quickly enough.

Of course, Merlin’s own book suggested one option. He whispered a spell, the simplest healing spell he knew, and waited for the surge of power.

Nothing happened. Even when he’d first learned magic years ago, and had to fight to master the more powerful ones, there was always something there, whether the spell succeeded or failed. This time, nothing at all, no sense of potential. In desperation, he picked up a small stone from the floor, tried to lift it with his mind. Nothing happened, not even a twitch.

Merlin began to breathe faster. “What’s wrong?” asked Gili.

“My magic. I can’t…”

Gili put a hand on his arm. “Calm down. It’s just the head wound, your magic will be fine once you heal a bit more. Lie still, or you’ll make yourself sick again.”

Merlin’s chest shook with panic, and then the cell went black.

The third time he awoke, memory came back more quickly, and with it the horror. His magic was gone, probably blocked or erased by the head wound. Merlin was a prisoner in a hole in the ground, and he didn’t even know where. Until his skull healed, there would be no magic. Without magic, there was nothing he could do to treat his wound or try to escape, nothing but lie still on the floor and wait to see whether he healed or died.

Arthur and half a dozen knights clustered around the fire. Ten days had passed since Merlin’s disappearance. The missing villagers were found the next day in a village just two hours away, most of them unharmed. Arthur had written a letter ordering help and relief for the people as they rebuilt their homes, then moved on. Though they had searched for Merlin without rest ever since, they’d found nothing, not a whisper, not even the brigands they had originally been seeking.

The frustration was beginning to tell on all of them. Elyan stared into the flames darkly, Arthur paced around the edges of their camp, as if he could not rest, even in darkness, and Percival sharpened his blade relentlessly. Finally Gwaine put aside the armor strap he was mending and rounded on Percival. "Enough, man! It's sharp already."

Percival growled, but just then a twig cracked in the forest, loud and close.

A young man approached the fire, dressed in dark skins. His hair was black, like most peasants thereabout, but his eyes were a startling pale green. He stared at the group intensely, then approached Arthur.

“You don’t remember me, do you? You saved my life once, many years ago. I’m Mordred.”

Arthur stared back.

Mordred went on, “I’ve been looking for you. Emrys is in trouble.”

Gwaine stood up. “You know where he is? We’ve searched half the kingdom without a whisper.”

“I do. He’s been captured by the Sarrum of Amata.”

Gwaine sat back down abruptly. “The Sarrum? Why?”

“And how?” Percival put in.

“The Sarrum has a particular fascination with those who have magic.”

“A fascination?” Gwaine asked.

“He likes to capture them and lock them up. Rumors say he’s trying to gain their power for himself.”

“Can he do that?” Leon asked. Magic had been banned in Camelot since Leon was still in swaddling, and of all the knights he was still the least comfortable with it. Sir Leon was a practical man, however, and in the new era of toleration, he was determined to learn as much about magic as he could manage.

“Impossible. Talismans and long hours of study can enhance a sorcerer’s gifts, and the wicked arts of blood magic can make a minor talent into a truly dangerous one, but nothing in the world can give magic to one born without a trace of it, as that fool surely was. Still, his efforts often cause great harm to the prisoners, so we must rescue Emrys without delay.”

“How do you know so much about him?” Elyan challenged.

“Several sorcerers have disappeared in or near his lands recently, and I was sent by the Druid elders to investigate,” Mordred replied calmly. “In a tavern, I overheard one of his men bragging about having captured the ‘King of Camelot’s pet magic boy.’”

Percival hissed, and the rest shifted.

“I managed to get close enough to the Sarrum’s castle to confirm the rumor. I also,” Mordred paused and swallowed. “I found the bodies of at least two of the missing sorcerers. The bodies were just dumped in a quarry, not even buried, and from the look of them...”

There were some things that Mordred was clearly not prepared to speak of out loud. Leon broke in. “All right. So the Sarrum has him, and we need to get him out. Do you know where he might be held? Can you describe the area?”

“I’ve been there.” Gwaine offered. “I can try to sketch a map.”

Mordred regained his composure. “I’m fairly sure the magical prisoners are being held within the castle itself. There may be cells inside, designed to hold in those with magic. Like the, ah,” Again Mordred broke off, again everyone heard what he hadn’t said. Like the ones beneath Camelot.

“I wasn’t able to get inside the castle itself, not without risking getting caught. When I was sure they really had captured Emrys, I went to go find help.” Mordred finished.

“And you stumbled on us?” Gwaine asked skeptically.

“Not at all. I’ve been searching for you for days, and I’ve had all the Druids in Camelot helping.” Mordred smiled for the first time. “And others.” He raised his fist, and a great black raven burst out of the sky and landed on it.

“All right,” Arthur spoke at last. “Show us where to find Merlin. We’ll set out at first light.”

It took two days to reach the outskirts of the Sarrum’s stronghold, and Mordred remained silent nearly the entire time. He did not answer any questions about himself, and could provide little more information about Merlin. He and Gwaine shared descriptions of the town, but neither of them had been inside the castle itself.

Before they reached the town, Arthur and the knights stopped to disguise themselves, burying their red cloaks and even most of their armor, and changing into clothing more appropriate to unemployed mercenaries. They slipped into the town in ones and twos, roaming the streets casually, meeting in the tavern as if by chance.

“The security on that castle is solid. To get in, we’re going to need to turn a guard or servant, I don’t see any other way.” Gwaine began.

"Then we'll turn someone.  The Sarrum is brutal, how loyal could his people be?" Leon wondered.

"How much does he pay them?" Elyan muttered in reply, and Gwaine grunted agreement.

In the end, the someone was a woman, and Gwaine's skills came in handy after all.  He saw a young serving maid leaving the castle alone late at night.  Her hands were raw and her livery stained and torn.  Her face was pinched with the marks of years of hunger.  When Gwaine approached, she pulled away in fear.

He stepped back, staying in the light.  "I didn't mean to frighten you, Miss.  I'm a stranger in town, looking for work.  My name is Gwaine.  I just wanted to ask if you knew where I might find some.  Is the castle hiring?"

"The castle's always hiring," she replied bitterly.

"Is that so?"  Gwaine gestured to a nearby tavern.  "Let me buy you supper, and you can tell me about it."

"How about you buy me supper at the 'Star and Moon,' a bit further on?" she asked, perking up a little.

"As you wish, beautiful lady."  Gwaine gave an elaborate bow and walked off in the direction she'd pointed.

The 'Star and Moon' proved to be a small establishment, rather run-down, but clean and well-kept.  The maid smiled as she walked in and waved to the husband and wife serving food and drink.

"This young man wants to buy me supper.  Bring us a meal, if you'd be so kind."

Bread and stew followed quickly.  The bread was coarse, but baked to a perfect brown, and there was little meat in the stew, but it had been made thick with barley and flavorful with herbs.  It all gave an impression of respectable poverty, and decent hardworking folk.  The sort of place where a young woman alone would feel safe meeting a stranger.

"So what's it like, serving the Sarrum?" Gwaine asked.

She shrugged.  "Beats starving.  If you want to find out, the steward takes workers every day at the second morning bell.  Those found suitable are hired immediately."

Gwaine's mind began to whirl.  Turning a servant was uncertain and fraught with peril.  Having one of their own hired on as a servant, that was a much better plan.  He escaped the table as quickly as he could, offering only a single kiss to the young woman.

Percival, Elyan and Mordred all presented themselves for hire, but Mordred was the only one found suitable.  He was offered a job in the kitchens, scrubbing pots.

The scullions were kept terribly busy, and over a week passed before Mordred managed to get away long enough to blend in with the higher servants and search the castle, but at last he found the dungeons, and a window nearby that he could carelessly leave unlatched.

“There are two people down there,” Elyan said. “One of them’s Merlin, I think.”

“You think?” Leon asked.

“It’s dark, and they’re both asleep.” Elyan answered indignantly.

Gwaine drew out the rope and began to lower it through the hatch.

“What if it’s not him?” asked Leon. “What if they raise the alarm?”

“They’re prisoners,” Gwaine pointed out. “Even if it’s not Merlin, why would they raise the alarm?”

The rope reached the ground, but the prisoners didn’t stir. Gwaine lashed it around, finally striking one of the men in the face. He sat up and blinked at the rope, then looked up at the man holding it.

“Merlin?” the prisoner said. “Look.”

The other prisoner blinked. “Gwaine!” he said. It was Merlin.

“Friend of yours?” asked the first prisoner.

“Yes, very much!” Merlin replied.

“All right, you first. Don’t argue, I doubt you could tie the knots yourself right now.” He began tying the rope under Merlin’s arms, three times around. Then he nodded up at Gwaine, and he and the other knights began hauling Merlin out of the hole. Once he was safely out, sitting in the corridor as Gwaine untied him, Arthur gave the hatch a significant look and said, very softly, “The other one, too?”

Merlin nodded quickly. “He’s been looking out for me.”

The rope was lowered a second time, and another young man was pulled out of the pit. As Gwaine, Elyan and Percival were hauling, Leon approached Merlin with a water skin. Merlin sipped from it gingerly, as if he wasn’t quite sure how. After a moment, he let it fall and slumped forward, clutching his head.

“Merlin, stay with us.” Leon urged him. “We have to get out of here.”

“They hit him on the head when they took him,” the other prisoner reported as he scrambled up the hatch. “He’s still in a pretty bad way, I’m not sure he can walk.”

“Can you?” Gwaine asked. The prisoner was filthy and hollow cheeked, with an ugly bruise on his face and blood smeared across his clothes.

“To get out of here, I’d fly if I had to. I’m Gili.” Gwaine offered an arm, and Gili took it gratefully. Gili’s knees shook a bit as he began moving, but stayed on his feet.

Arthur looked around anxiously. “We’re out of time. Percival, carry Merlin. Merlin, shut up. Gwaine, make sure this fellow doesn’t get lost. Leon, take point, Elyan take the rear. Move out.”

One by one, they crept back down the darkened corridors and out of the castle.  Mordred met them at the tavern, having shucked his hated livery and ducked out a window himself. He took one look at Gili and offered to escort the young man to safety.

"Thank you," Gili replied softly. He moved dreadfully stiffly, and would not speak of what had happened in the hole.

"Mordred?" Arthur spoke up. "We all owe you a debt. Seek us out in Camelot, when you finish.

Mordred smiled softly. "I think I will."

Ten pieces of silver to the watchman at the western gate, and all of them were gone, into the night. If the alarm ever sounded, it was long after they were gone.  They picked up their armor once again, and Percival finally put down Merlin, who blinked up at them.

"Rescued like a girl again, eh Merlin?  What I can’t figure out,” Arthur went on cheerfully, “Is why you didn’t just heal yourself and escape on your own weeks ago. I know that’s a sorcerer’s cell, but that never stopped you back in Camelot.”

“My magic’s gone,” Merlin answered, sounding very small. “I thought it was the head wound, I thought it would get better once my skull started to heal, but I still can’t find even a spark. What am I without it? How will Camelot get by without it?”

A long silence fell over the group.

“There’s a chance.” Mordred spoke up. “The crystal cave, the source of all magic.” Mordred squinted at Merlin. “His magic isn’t gone, I can still feel it, it’s just stuck somehow. The crystal cave could help him find it again.”

“Where is this crystal cave?” Arthur asked warily.

“In the Valley of Fallen Kings,” Merlin answered.

“Then that is where we must go.”

The group all rode out together, Mordred and Gili turning north after a few hours. They were one horse short, and Merlin he frequently became dizzy and tired, so the others took turns riding double with him. Arthur’s turn came the second morning.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Merlin said, from his perch in front of the saddle. Arthur was finding it surprisingly difficult to hold the reins and hold up Merlin at the same time, so he took a moment to answer.

“Riding with you? I don’t know either. It’s like trying to balance a pell on the front of the saddle. Though you never made a terribly good training target, either.”

“No. Why you’re helping me get my magic back. I know how you feel about it.”

“Merlin, it’s part of you, whether I like it or not. Camelot needs it, and you’ll never be the same without it. And maybe,” Arthur looked around, then went on. “Maybe I was wrong about it altogether.”

The knights, and Mordred, who’d begun to fit in with their military routines rather well, set up a watch at both ends of the valley. Arthur was the one who guided Merlin’s steps as he stumbled toward the cave itself. To Arthur’s eyes, the path seemed to appear out of nothing, as if the wall of the ravine simply opened up and let them through.

What happened inside the Crystal Cave, neither of them would ever speak of. But Merlin returned walking steadily for the first time since his capture, and the light was back in his eyes. As he approached the knights, he laughed, floating a rock casually.

“Let’s go home,” said Arthur.

When Arthur finally reached his chambers, they were empty, save for Gwen's maid, sorting through the queen's clothes.

She looked up, then jumped to her feet awkwardly. "Ah! You're back, Your Majesty!"

"I am," he replied carefully. "Is Gwen about?"

For some odd reason, the girl blushed. "She's--about. She'll be back soon, sire. But Gaius asked to see you as soon as you arrived."

Really, the girl had been working in the citadel for nearly a year, she ought to have calmed down somewhat. Arthur was tired out from the journey, and he wanted a bath, a cup of wine, and his wife, not necessarily in that order. Still, Gaius never asked to see him without excellent reason.

The king climbed the stairs to Gaius's workshop. He knocked politely, but Gaius invited him in at once. "Come back here, sire" he called from behind a screen.

When Arthur walked around it, he saw Gwen sitting on a bed with her skirts pulled up. Her belly was slightly rounder than he remembered, and her eyes were wide as the physician pointed a hollow tube just below her navel. Oddly enough, he appeared to be listening to it. "Ah!" Gaius exclaimed.

"Ah?"

"Here, sire. Don't move the tube, just put your ear to it."

Arthur carefully obeyed. Inside, he could hear a throbbing sound, fast as a sparrow's wings. He listened for a moment in confusion, then dropped the tube. "Is that?"

"A baby's heartbeat, sire. Strong and steady. The child should be born by springtime."

Gwen laughed, a clear pure note like a bell. She stood up and reached for her husband, but he put his arms around her and swept her off her feet, a rich warm chuckle joining her laugh.

Arthur and Guinevere's firstborn son Amhar came at sundown on the spring equinox. He was round-limbed and sturdy, head covered in a thin layer of dark hair, and when the King brought him out to the bedroom window, it seemed as though the entire kingdom had gathered in the courtyard to see him, waiting in silence.

A week after Amhar’s birth, a party of Druids rode into Camelot. Like all travelers, their arrival drew a brief stir of interest in the lower town, but it was soon forgotten. Druids came often enough, since their King had made peace with the people of the Old Ways, and the Druids made fine warm blankets to sell.

This party was small, three men and two women, one carrying a baby. Instead of stopping to trade in the market, they rode directly towards the citadel gates. At the gates, they stopped, and the woman in the lead threw back her hood.

It was Lady Morgana.

Word of their arrival flew faster than feet could carry it. King Arthur rushed down the stairs to greet them himself, and threw his arms around Morgana.

"Five years," he whispered. "No sign, no word. The druids told us you were well, but I've missed you. We all have. And Gwen, she'll be so happy. I'm sorry she's not here to greet you, but she's," he paused to breathe, "Gwen's still in confinement after the birth of our son. Otherwise, she'd have run down faster than me, so please do go see her."

Finally the king stepped back and remembered his dignity. "Welcome to Camelot. I'm sure you're weary, I'll have you shown to your chambers right away. Once you are recovered from your journey, please join us at court this afternoon."

The chambers he offered were Morgana's old room, still empty and ready for her, and several rooms next to it. The younger woman, Kara, insisted on sharing with Morgana, and a cradle was brought in for the baby.

When court began a few hours later, the first order of business was Morgana's return.

She approached the thrones respectfully, but straight-backed and without deference. There was no challenge in her voice, only confidence as she said, “Arthur Pendragon, I am here on behalf of my Goddess. I understand that you seek to learn more of the old ways, and believe me when I say that many in Camelot still respect her.”

“I do not plan to restore the Old Religion to its former place, Morgana, there are many who no longer follow its ways.”

“I know. But I will teach all those who wish to learn.”

The King nodded. “Then you are welcome here, Priestess.”

Morgana softened, smiling for the first time since she entered the hall. “Thank you. And yes, there are many people here that I have missed.”

Just then the baby meeped, and Kara bounced him up and down. Morgana's head jerked, and her hand flew up to her front. On her wrist was a peculiar braided tattoo, the triptych traced in a single ring, that made Merlin gasp out loud when he saw it.

Merlin stared at her more closely. Morgana had bathed and changed to fresh clothes after she arrived, but she was still dressed in Druid robes rather than the court gowns she'd left behind. In fact, unless Merlin was greatly mistaken, those old dresses would no longer fit her, as she'd grown a bit rounder than the court lady he remembered.

The baby kept crying despite Kara’s best efforts to comfort him. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm very tired from the journey," Morgana announced. "Could we possibly continue this tomorrow?"

Merlin nodded and added his polite murmurs to those offered by the rest of the court, but his eyes never left the baby in Kara's arms.

"Gaius?"

Gaius looked up, and Merlin motioned him to step aside.

"How old would you say that baby was?"

"Oh, perhaps three months. He's far too big to be newly born, but he's still much too small to crawl. Why do you ask?"

Merlin nodded, listening intently, lips pressed tightly together, and stalked off after the Druid Envoys. All greeted him warmly, but Merlin insisted he needed to speak to Morgana, alone and immediately.

"Go on, Kara. I haven't seen Merlin in some time, no doubt he just wants to catch up."

He shut the door behind the others and headed straight for her. "Morgana." He said flatly.

She simply looked at him.

"He's mine, isn't he?"

"No, he isn't." She turned to stare out the window.

"I'm not an idiot, I know how to count, and I know how old he is."

She turned back and stepped closer. "You claim to speak for the people of the old ways, but you still don't really understand us, do you? He's a Beltane child, fathered by the God."

"Fine. But what if he develops magic early, the way I did? What then?"

"Are you implying that I don't know how to train my own son?"

Merlin paused, turned away from her to look at the cradle. The sides of it were so high he couldn't see the child. "Look, I don't want to argue with you about this. I grew up without a father, without even knowing his name. I met him for one day before he died. I won't do that to my own child."

"Was it really that hard?" Morgana sounded thoughtful, now, instead of angry.

"My father left before he ever saw my face. I understand now, why he had to, with the Purge, but all those years without him… In a small village, being a bastard is not something anyone lets you forget."

"The druids aren't like that, they think that a Beltane child is special."

"Special! Haven't we both had enough of being special? How about letting him be perfectly ordinary?"

"Stop it, Merlin!"

"I'm sorry, I just," Merlin tried again. "I want to help you raise him. Whether he's mine or not."

Those last words seemed to be the right ones, as Morgana stepped back again and moved toward the cradle. "Would you like to hold him?"

Merlin inhaled, eyes shining with a blend of excitement and terror. "Yes, I would."

She picked up the baby and turned to his father, then paused. "Please do keep this between us for now, and let the people here go on thinking he's Kara's." Then she laughed. "After all, if Arthur finds out the truth, he'll probably have you flogged!"

The fortieth anniversary of King Arthur’s coronation dawned clear and balmy. The celebrations began quietly, with a brief session of the Round Table, just long enough to announce the death of one knight and welcome a new one.

At King Arthur's left hand, as always sat his Queen Guinevere. At his right hand sat his dearest friend, Merlin, the greatest sorcerer who had ever lived. At the Queen's left hand sat Morgana, High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, and around the table sat three dozen knights. They hailed from every land the High King ruled and had been born into all ranks, yet one and all they lived up to King Arthur’s standards, as fighters and as men of honor.

Arthur's hair had darkened through the years more than it grayed, but Guinevere's was now silver with hardly a thread of black left, and she smiled warmly as she invited all the knights to the afternoon’s tournament before leading them from the council chamber.

"At your age, do you really still have to prove yourself in the tournament every single year?" Gwen tightened the straps on her husband’s armor, perhaps a bit more firmly than necessary. “Seedred, stop!” Their youngest grandson had apparently escaped his nurse once again, as he was toddling across the royal chamber at high speed, intent on the fireplace. Luckily, the nurse had followed, and she snatched him up before disaster could result.

"I'm not trying to prove anything to myself," Arthur assured her as soon as nurse and child had gone.

"You've three knighted sons, two of them already proven in battle against the Saxons. You don't need to prove anything to our enemies, either."

"Of course you're right, Gwen."

"Then why exactly do you feel the need to fling yourself into combat against men younger than our own children?"

Arthur shrugged.

"Because you like it. Because you miss the days when you could go off knight-erranting with no one but Merlin by your side."

"I suppose I do." Arthur smiled faintly.

"Oh, go have your fun, you old fool. Just be careful."

King Arthur won his first two rounds easily. His blade had slowed a bit, but his lifetime of training showed, and his limbs were as hard as ever. Each knight nodded in friendly respect as he left the field, feeling no shame in defeat by the High King.

In the third round the King faced Sir Mordred. Most of Arthur's contemporaries had retired from war and competition, but Mordred, half a generation younger, was still quite active. In fact, Mordred had entered Camelot only once in the past three years, as his wife Kara had little use for life within stone walls, and Mordred's multitude of talents were of great use to the border patrols.

Each man made dozen passes, neatly deflected by his opponent. Suddenly, Mordred lunged, and his blunted blade hit home against Arthur's armored chest just as Arthur stumbled forward. With a snap, the blade broke off a foot below the tip. But Arthur could not regain his balance, and the broken blade continued, catching him just below the chin with all of Mordred's weight behind it, sliding above the collar of his chain shirt. Mordred's scream of horror echoed through the tournament field, but Arthur could not scream at all.

By the time Merlin reached his side, the King was already dead, and his sorcerer wept openly on the tournament field as the Queen rushed down from the viewing stands.

But the High Priestess stepped forward, the fever of prophecy burning in her eyes. “Do not mourn, Arthur is not just the King, he is the Once and Future King. We will bear him to the Lake of Avalon, and there he will sleep until Albion’s greatest hour of need.” The Warlock and the Witch bore the High King’s body away from the field that very hour, and none of the people of Camelot ever saw them again.

Later, though, much later, the stories would spring up, of a white-bearded old man in red robes and an old woman dressed in black, traveling the countryside together. Good fortune would fall on any who aided them, it was said, and both had a particular fondness for children, especially those gifted with magic. Some even said that a white dragon followed them, and that together they would keep Albion safe until the King returned. But perhaps that was only a story.

Uther Pendragon's line ruled over Albion in peace and prosperity for generations, and Kilgharrah woke screaming a second time. This was clearly a forked prophecy, the first he'd ever dreamed. What were the branching points? Was there, perhaps, a third way, one that would mean the return of magic and the fall of the Pendragons?

This time, he drew upon all his power to guide the visions. It was like flying over a tapestry as big as the world, trying to trace a single fine-spun thread. Like hawks, dragons had eyes far sharper than humans, and just so was Kilgharrah’s power of prophecy greater and sharper than any mortal seer. Still, few dragons had attempted to pierce the veil of time so clearly. It might take years, but he had years to wait. He said aloud, "Show me the deaths of Arthur Pendragon."

The images fell around him like raindrops, each one showing a human lifetime in a single glimpse.

The child Mordred slays Prince Arthur from ambush in the forest. In the fortieth year of King Arthur's reign, Sir Mordred fatally wounds him on the tourney field, entirely by accident. The young mercenary Mordred slays King Arthur in a snow-bound fortress in the fourth year of his reign. Mordred, first ally of the mad priestess Morgana, stabs his former liege lord amid a furious battle in a narrow pass. Prince Arthur dies in a fall from his horse, trying to aid a young druid fugitive in escaping Camelot…

Even a dragon could not hold on to so many dreams, and the moment he woke, the images began to fade. Kilgharrah had no wish to see them in his mind's eye again. Instead, he committed the most important parts to memory:

Arthur will die by no hand but Mordred's,

Everything hinges on when Arthur dies

The key to Mordred's heart is a young druid girl, and the key to the girl is the witch Morgana.

If Morgana dies too soon, Albion will be lost. But if she aids Camelot, the Pendragon dynasty will endure. The only chance is to drive Morgana away from Camelot.

The key to Morgana's fate is Merlin, the warlock, Balinor's son.

Somewhere, shining like a star among a filthy mess of human foolishness, Kilgharrah found one final memory. Merlin laughs out loud, tears of joy streaming down his face, as a tiny pure white dragon pecks its way out of an egg. But though the dragon strained and squinted for days, he could not see which path led toward that day, nor could he see what would become of the dragon afterward.

Slowly his mind cleared and the last of the visions faded, leaving behind only dim shadows of memories.

It would be difficult, the dragon knew. He'd have to guide Merlin by nudges and touches, never revealing his true aim. And of course, once Merlin inherited his father's power, it would be even harder to deceive him. Still, it had to be done. The race of dragons were finished, he knew that. Bringing the Pendragons down with them was the only thing Kilgharrah had left.

This time, he'd keep Arthur alive long enough to unite Albion, but make sure that Merlin and Morgana never became true allies.

Kilgharrah closed his eyes and let the visions come a third time, from warning Merlin away from the witch Morgana to helping him lay the young and childless King Arthur to rest in the Lake of Avalon.

So, it was possible. Albion united, magic freed, and the Pendragons wiped out utterly. He'd just have to betray Merlin's trust to get there. Was it worth it? Which path to choose?

Above his head, the young warlock stepped through Camelot's gates for the first time.

Wow, that was a marathon! I can't believe I actually finished it. There were a lot of things that surprised me, like the children. Perhaps the strangest thing of all is how long it took me to realize that this was actually the epic love story of Merlin and Morgana. But at least I had fun.