“What’s happening?” she shouted over the storm.
“It’s the enchantresses of Avalon!” he said, eyes wide with fear.
From the bottom of the pit, the storm sounded like a great battle overhead. Thunder shook the oubliette, while the lightning could only be imagined through the dark. And yet, after a few intense moments, the storm was gone. As if by magic.
“That’s not quite a good sign,” Merlin muttered—a sentiment only magnified when, not long after, Ari stamped down the stairs above, her words dropping into the oubliette along with hard and heavy breaths.
“Merlin!”
“I’m here,” he called out, sounding young and scared. He’d stopped using magic to cheer up the oubliette the same time Jordan had been let out, which kept him from growing younger while also deeply gnawing at his mental state.
“Arthur just got spanked by Avalon enchantresses in front of Camelot! They came, they chastised, and then boom. They disappeared. Arthur said they do this a lot. That they hate him.”
“Oh, dear.”
“‘Oh, dear’? You said they were in favor of the king. You said they were going to bring him a birthday gift. Small cup, infinite power… does that ring any bells?”
“Technically, I said I’ve been having trouble remembering anything.”
“Merlin.” Ari’s voice fell away, followed by a sigh. “Does he know about Morgana?”
“When I took Arthur in, I was his only family. As he was mine.”
“So he doesn’t know that his sister loves him. And the enchantresses think he’s a childish waste of space… how am I going to fix this, Merlin?”
“No clue, I’m afraid.”
Again, Ari grew too quiet for his liking. “You okay? You taking care of yourself?”
“Oh yes, pure Bermuda down here,” he lied. “You should see my tan.”
“I’ll try to get you out. Arthur owes me after our win in the melee. Hang on, old man.” Ari’s footsteps echoed in reverse, growing farther and farther away.
“Pure Bermuda,” Merlin whispered into the cold, stinking black.
“Camelot is a medieval mess.” Merlin waited for a response, but no matter how much he talked to the malodorous puddles of the oubliette, he hadn’t gotten a peep from Val, or even Nin. “The fabrics are dyed these very dull shades. Everyone looks like walking bits of moss and stone. But I do know a shop where you can get a fantastic bespoke corset that…”
Footsteps cut off his chatter.
“Still down there, carbuncle?”
Merlin looked up and found a face cast in the cold, blue light of magic. His face—snarled by time, ignorance, and suspicion. The rope dropped, and Merlin batted it away like a furious kitten.
“Too proud to accept my help?” Old Merlin’s voice rattled in the empty space. “You’d rather stay down there?”
With every sort of trepidation pulsing through him, he grabbed the rope and clung to it. Old Merlin hauled him up with ease. Was Merlin really that small now, or was Old Merlin using magic? Definitely the latter.
Which made Merlin angry at how much magic the old, stupid version of him had thrown around, not knowing it would push him toward becoming a powerless child. Not to mention too young to kiss the boyfriend he’d been waiting literal lifetimes to find.
“What do you want with me?” Merlin shouted. The hapless question wasn’t exactly the power move he’d imagined opening with, but it was the best he could do, swinging on the rope as Old Merlin dangled him.
“What do I want?” Old Merlin asked, his voice sweet for one whose heart was basically a rotten crab apple. “The question, boy, is what you wanted so desperately that you would break into my tower.” He set Merlin down and slapped on the same pair of magic-binding manacles Merlin had feared in the tower.
The old man turned to a dark twist of stairs. “Come.”
Merlin tried to keep up. His muscles had grown numb, his pulse fluttering like a moth caught in a jar. When he emerged into the castle proper, even the spindly flames of torchlight were too much for his eyes. He squinted and gasped. Merlin thought his old self might be leading him to the tower. Instead, they stopped in a room with a great fire built in the hearth, a single chair set in front of it.
“Sit,” the old man said, humming to summon a stool for Merlin’s feet. When he didn’t move, the chair scraped toward him, knocking the backs of his knees. Merlin plopped down, the chains at his wrist jangling all the way to the stone floor. He waited for spiders to swarm out of the chair, or the whole thing to burst into flames. It remained stubbornly, suspiciously, a cozy place to sit. Old Merlin hummed a ditty, and a small table arrived at Merlin’s elbow, laden with food. The greatest hits of Britannia: a pile of roasted meat, a piece of thick black bread, potatoes charred on the outside and cream-white on the inside. There was even a baked apple, oozing delicious sweetness.
Merlin was prepared for torture, interrogation. He was not prepared for this.
Merlin’s thoughts shot wildly toward Val. Had the Lady of the Lake remembered that he was a mortal being who needed food to keep him alive? She wasn’t a hot-blooded murderess, but she wasn’t exactly known for her hospitality, either. She’d kept Merlin in a bubble inside of her lake for two days while Ari and her friends were thrown into battle with Mercer. The very standoff in which Kay had died. She had said she needed Merlin alive. To what purpose, though?
The siren song of the baked apple drew him back to the present. Merlin reached for the plate, but Old Merlin’s control over his magic was complete. A single whistled note and it flew out of Merlin’s reach, like a well-trained dog called to heel.
“What does the knight called Lancelot want in this court?” Old Merlin asked. “I’m told you’re his squire.”
“His what?!” Merlin said. “Of course I’m not his squire.”
He wants to know you’re not a threat to Arthur, Merlin reminded himself as his stomach turned on him. That apple smelled like cinnamon-covered paradise. Cinnamon was grown halfway around the world from Camelot. His old self had really pulled out the stops.
“It’s true that I arrived with Lancelot. But I’m not in the knight’s employ. We were traveling companions. Lancelot…” Merlin thought about Ari, hacking her way into the heart of the kingdom. “Lancelot wants to help this place. He could be Arthur’s greatest ally.”
Old Merlin cocked his head, moved a bit closer, trying to sniff out a lie. “Did Lancelot send you up to my tower?”
“No,” Merlin said, thanking the truth for being so obliging. Merlin had sent himself.
“What were you doing up there, carbuncle?”
“Trying to help my family.” Merlin had gone to the tower for Ari, Lam, Jordan, Gwen, the baby—and they were bound together tighter than friendship. They had fought together and fought each other. They had nearly died a dozen times, each experience bonding them like quick-dry glue. And then one of them had actually died, and the grief had been quiet proof that they would not crack apart.
“Your family?” Old Merlin said. “You will have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”
The food inched closer.
Merlin searched for anything he could say that would ring true without giving his old self ammunition against Ari and the others. There was one answer waiting, one search that he’d told himself to give up on so many times—and yet it fit into this moment as smoothly as a piece of a puzzle box sliding into place. “I’m… I’m from Camelot, originally. That’s why I came here with Lancelot. I wish to find my parents.”
The food came within range of his fingertips, and he snatched it up, chains smacking together. The apple was still steaming, the meat glazed and perfectly tender. He guzzled a cup of the thin wine they used to give young folks.
Splendid. He was eating from the children’s menu.
Old Merlin didn’t yet understand that he was aging backward. He only knew that he was ancient, magical, alone in the universe. Merlin felt a tiny prick of sadness for his old self. It was
filled with the most terrifying poison of all: understanding. He knew what Old Merlin felt like, and it left him nauseated. He wasn’t this horrible person. Was he?
Merlin gulped the last of his wine too quickly and finished with a hacking cough.
“Did you think you’d find your parents in my tower, while a dragon laid siege to the city?” Old Merlin asked. “Your tale is a sock that needs darning. So many holes.” The old mage sang stones to the doorways and started to brick them in. The whole thing would have looked whimsical, except it was ultimately a murder attempt. Merlin’s hands flew up, his defensive sparks held back by the manacles. Which was for the best, only it felt beyond awful.
“I… I know you have magic in the tower, and I’ve been told that my parents are powerful. Magical, most likely,” Merlin said. Nin had said that once. His parents were powerful. “Do you have a way of locating people like that?”
Merlin’s sense of possibility sat up from a dead sleep. This had started out as a way of throwing Old Merlin off the scent of his friends, but what if his old self actually did have what Merlin needed to find his parents?
Maybe this was a puzzle box, and only both Merlins together had all the pieces.
“Perhaps,” Old Merlin said, stroking his glorious beard. Gods, he could be pretentious. “But I am far too busy with this kingdom to help a scrap of a boy find his parents.”
“What if you didn’t know your parents? Wouldn’t you try anything to find them?”
He hit the nerve as squarely as intended. Old Merlin paused the stones in midair. “If your parents are magical, and you are drawn to the enchanted arts… have you ever used magic?”
The fire in front of Merlin crackled. The chair pushed forward until he was so close that he felt slightly roasted. Any answer Merlin gave would seal his doom as surely as Old Merlin was sealing up the doors with the scrape of mortar. If he said yes—he was the most powerful mage in all of history—his old self would pitch him headfirst off the cliffs at Tintagel. If he said no, Old Merlin would know he was lying.
Have I ever used magic?
An answer took the long road to Merlin’s lips. He thought of all the ways he’d failed his Arthurs. How his new limitations meant he was leaving Ari and her knights to fend for themselves in this ruthless world.
“Not very well,” he said.
Old Merlin liked that answer. He guzzled it the way Merlin had done with the wine.
“Perhaps you can be taught a thing or two, carbuncle. I could use an apprentice.” Old Merlin folded his hands over his robes, a sign that he was set in his decision. “If you train well enough, perhaps you will gain the skills to find this errant family of yours.”
This was definitely not part of the story. Merlin didn’t remember having a pupil studying at his knee in Camelot. Some things had gotten lost in the haze of time—but this? He would remember a scruffy would-be mage. Had he just tampered with the cycle? Thrown it off entirely?
“I think I’m going to…” Have an aneurysm. Throw Camelot’s first pity party. Give up altogether. “… find Lancelot and tell him the good news,” Merlin blurted, shooting up from his chair and nearly landing in the fireplace. “Thank you.”
Old Merlin nodded. “From now on, you will do nothing, go nowhere, without my say.”
Gods, what had he just agreed to? The stone in the doorways tumbled down, leaving rubble that Merlin could easily clear. The manacles unlocked and dropped to the floor. He ran, leaping, as that sweet, cidery old voice chased him out. “You’ll most likely die, and I won’t be held responsible for your idiocy.”
“Of course not,” Merlin said.
He was the only magician in all the ages stupid enough to get apprenticed to himself.
After two days of constant, non-magical chores—removing dust from books, rust from enchanted weapons, and owl droppings from everything—Merlin was finally allowed out of the confines of the tower for long enough to meet with his friends. He walked past the market in the hale, hearty sunshine, stopping to watch a puppet show in the square. One that featured everyone’s new favorite knight, Lancelot.
“Can we talk somewhere less public?” Lam asked as they approached Merlin.
“Public meetings are less suspicious. Trust me, it’s something I’ve picked up over a few millennia,” he said. “Let’s just hope the rest of them can make it.”
“One of them is already here,” came a crisp voice from behind.
Merlin turned to find Gwen, looking so different he hadn’t noticed her in the throng. She wore a headpiece of twisted rags with a half-veil, and she’d shucked her queen’s garb and replaced it with a simple white linen dress that did nothing to hide her bun in the oven. In fact, it looked like she was cooking an entire batch of tiny Gwen-and-Kays.
“You look different!” Merlin cried awkwardly.
“So do you.” Gwen angled her head, bunching her plum-colored lips. For a moment Merlin felt certain that she knew his magic and aging were knotted up together. She’d always been terrifyingly perceptive. “Your glasses, Merlin!” she burst out. “They’re gone. Too anachronistic?”
He’d lost them in the oubliette, actually. But it got worse. When Old Merlin had brought him up from the dark, he’d realized he didn’t need them anymore. His eyesight had greatly improved with this last leap into youth. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, eager to turn attention away from him. “And you… that dress!”
“It’s good to see the littlest knight on proud display,” Lam said.
“I had to borrow a handmaiden’s dress. Your note said to be low profile. This one is helping me fly under the radar. We’re very sneaky, aren’t we?” she asked the bump. Somehow that little question made the baby real to Merlin in a way that they never had been before. There was a soon-to-be-person in there.
The crowd roared a laugh, and Gwen squinted at the stage. “This again? They need a bigger repertoire.” Puppet Lancelot was dancing, his sword positioned at the front of his pants and bouncing to the beat. It was a lot of enthusiastic sword-wagging.
“That joke really is as old as time,” Lam said, just as Ari swaggered into the square. People’s eyes didn’t know where to stick—the Lancelot in the show, or the real one, shining and bold as she clanked her way toward her friends. Ari’s bluntly hacked hair and sharp features complemented the intense look on her face. When she reached them, she threw an arm around Lam’s shoulder and did a full-on double take at the sight of Gwen.
“Would you please take whatever you are doing down forty-two notches?” Merlin asked. “If I’m seen about town colluding with the lot of you, Old Merlin will find out.”
Ari narrowed her eyes on him. “You’re the one who wanted to meet here.”
“He has spies all over the castle! Believe me, I’m supposed to be one of them,” Merlin said, sounding peevish even to his own ears. “I got him to send me out to run errands. It’s easy to trick someone if you share a number of neural pathways.” Merlin pulled out a list, freshly inked. “I’m supposed to procure these… twenty-seven items before I return to the castle.”
“He’s got you buying magical groceries?” Lam asked. “Merlin. You made yourself into your own bitch.”
Merlin hung his head. “Harsh, yet fair.”
“Oh, thank gods, Jordan’s here,” Gwen said. “I haven’t seen her since the melee.”
“Does she think she’s still in the melee?” Merlin asked as Jordan strode toward them, in full armor. A few of the women and children’s faces glowed like she was an avenging angel, but judging by most of the ugly stares, a majority of Camelot had not made peace with the idea of a lady knight. “You’re all amazing at not making waves, did you know?”
“This coming from a mage who wore two-thousand-year-old robes into space,” Gwen said with judiciously pursed lips.
He gathered them farther from the crowd, reaching into his bag of magical ideas for an old trick. One minute they were all laughing with the show, the next they were gone, hidden behind a veil o
f invisibility. Merlin glanced at his body, relieved not to feel tangibly younger. “Now that we’re all well met, let’s not dally. Jordan, has my apprenticeship changed anything in the Arthurian legend?”
Jordan removed the MercersNotes from a small leather pouch and shook her head.
Ari squinted at the book. “Out of curiosity, Jordan, what’s the last page about?”
“The greatest mystery of the legend. Arthur’s final resting place.”
Ari looked at Merlin. “Do you know where Arthur’s buried?”
“No one does,” Merlin said. “He’s alive and well right now, so that’s well beyond our scope.” He clapped briskly, relieved to dismiss one more would-be problem. “Now. What’s happened in my absence?”
“Here’s an update,” Ari tossed out. “Arthur and I are going to Avalon. We leave in an hour. Alone. No guards.” Her eyes trailed to Gwen’s and stayed there.
“You’re… what?” Merlin fairly exploded.
“I’ve convinced Arthur to ask for peace between Avalon and Camelot. To invite them to his birthday.” Ari winked awkwardly. When no one responded, she added, “We can’t just sit around and wait! We need to make the story happen. The pages in that book could go blank at any moment.”
“You wish to keep Arthur away from Gwen,” Jordan said.
Ari clapped her shoulder. “It’s a win-win!”
“Actually, space sounds great,” Gwen said, with a pointed sigh. “Arthur… wants to make out with me.” No one looked terribly surprised. King Arthur falling ass over crown for Gweneviere was definitely canon. “I’d say he wants to have sex, but I’m not sure he knows how sex works.”
“Because he’s eleven?” Ari asked.
“Every time you say his age, he gets younger,” Lam pointed out.
“Which is offensive to those of us who actually age backward!” Merlin cried.
Gwen’s face went through new contortions as she spoke. “Arthur has been focused on his kingdom for so long, but I think the melee made him feel more… excited… than he’s ever been before.”
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