The End of Magic

by James Mallory

  “How did she die?” Lancelot asked, standing in the water looking down at the still face of his wife.

  There was a golden plaque inset into the surface of the bier at Elaine’s head: “Here lies the Lady Elaine of Astolat, whose kind and generous heart was wounded to breaking by the indifference of one she loved.”

  “She died of a broken heart,” Merlin said softly. He had met the Lady Elaine only once, but surely she deserved better of knowing him than this? Was everything he did so doomed, that Elaine, like the Lady Igraine before her, should die just because he had come into her life? The thought was terrifying. He was Mab’s creation—did that mean that everything he did was to be tainted with her evil?

  “It was because of you,” Merlin said, more harshly than he wished to. It is your fault, Sir Lancelot, not mine. Yours the sin, and yours the blame. Not mine—not mine!

  Lancelot groaned aloud, staggering away from the boat and the sight of his dead wife as though he’d been dealt a mortal wound. He slogged toward the shore, only to stop short at the sight of Guinevere.

  He raised a hand and let it fall again without touching her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then he lowered his head and strode past her, shutting her out of his life.

  Guinevere stared after him, only slowly realizing that Lancelot intended to leave her with no more word than that. She turned back to Merlin, her eyes narrow with fury.

  “Well, wizard?” she said angrily. “Happy now? You must despise love, if the sight of it causes you so much pain that you must always destroy it!” She gathered up her skirts and followed after Lancelot.

  Merlin stood in the water beside the boat, his sodden robes chilling him and weighing him down, though not as much as his own thoughts. He gazed after the lovers. I judged them too harshly, he thought. The guilt is mine as well—I picked Lancelot, after all. I wish I had told them that instead of shouting at them. It might have made this easier.

  The lake was cold, and the last rays of twilight were fading. Merlin shook his head sadly as he waded to shore. A flick of his fingers sent magic to guide Elaine’s funeral barge on its interrupted journey again. He stood on the shore and watched after it until it had disappeared into the evening mist, then began to walk slowly along the shore, toward his little hut at the edge of the village. His wet robes flapped around his legs, but he hardly noticed. Oh, Arthur! Come back to us, I beg you! Without you we are truly lost.

  Standing unseen and invisible in a corner of the courtyard, her eldritch finery covered by a cloak woven of black cobwebs, Queen Mab watched as ostlers saddled Black Bayard, Lancelot’s destrier. Lancelot was leaving Camelot, and the Queen.

  Mab was pleased with the way matters had turned out. Elaine’s death was an unexpected stroke of good fortune—all Mab had dared to hope for was a tearful letter, or perhaps an angry visit. But Elaine was dead, and now his guilt and complicity would drive Lancelot mad. Certainly his guilty conscience would destroy any vestige of good sense he possessed.

  Lancelot, fully dressed in his armor and sword, came across the stableyard toward his stallion. If she listened now, Mab could hear his thoughts. They were all of Galahad, his son, deserted and orphaned by Lancelot’s actions. All he thought of now was getting home to the boy.

  Let him hope in vain.

  Mab spread her hands and fingers, and for a moment a blue tangle of energy seemed to stream between them. With a quick gesture she flung the intangible cat’s-cradle toward Lancelot. It settled over his head and shoulders as he mounted Black Bayard, but he gave no sign of having noticed it.

  Now, Lancelot, you will seek Joyous Gard in vain, condemned to wander forever across the face of the Earth, until you stop loving Arthur’s Queen… Mab gloated.

  Lancelot swung into Bayard’s saddle and urged the horse at a gentle trot through the gates of Camelot. No one but the stableboys was there to see him go.

  Mab laughed soundlessly as she disappeared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BATTLE OF SORROW

  After much hardship, Arthur and his band of knights had reached Rome. It was not the city that he had studied as a boy, learning his Latin and Greek at his tutor Merlin’s knee. Rome was no longer the center of the far-flung empire that had ruled Britain in his great-grandfather’s day, nor in fact of any empire. Imperial Rome had held the greatest empire the world had ever seen, but empires, like men, have lifespans, and Rome had grown old and senile, lapsing into decay and factions as it lost its hold over the lands it had once ruled. Justinian ruled what remained of the Roman Empire from his new city of Constantinople in the East, and what had once been the Western Empire had become the prey of Goths and Vandals who had brought chaos, destruction, and ruin in their wake.

  But though the mantle of the empire had departed and Rome was only a shadow of what she had been, the glorious city herself was eternal, though dressed now in a gypsy’s rags.

  By now less than half remained of the party of forty-four valiant handpicked knights that had set out with Arthur from Camelot so many years before. Time and hardship and magic had winnowed their numbers until this small band was all that remained of the pride of Britain.

  When they had reached the city, Arthur’s knights had, as was their custom, sought out a monastery in which to find lodging. They had taken humble lodgings in its guest house outside the city gates, while Arthur and Gawain went in search of allies who might aid Arthur’s quest for the Grail.

  Sir Kay had grumbled mightily about being left behind, but he was still injured from their battle with the Knights of the Ford, and in any event, diplomacy was not Kay’s strong suit.

  “Stay here, brother,” Arthur had said. “Rest. Gawain and I will return soon—with what I hope will be good news.”

  “We could use some of that, for a great change,” Sir Bedivere muttered.

  Afoot and dressed in the finest clothing remaining to them after their many adventures, Arthur and Gawain walked through the city toward Vatican Hill, trying hard not to marvel at what was, even though in ruins now, the greatest city the world had ever seen. Its streets were still choked with marvels—and none of them, Arthur knew, owed anything to the Old Ways. All were the product of mortal ingenuity.

  At last the two men reached their goal, the Holy See itself.

  When Pagan Rome had ruled the world, this hill had held the collegium of the Vestal Virgins who kept watch over the sacred flame of the Eternal City. When the New Religion had defeated the Old Ways, it had become the stronghold instead of the flame of faith, and the center of all that remained of goodness and learning in these dark times.

  “Who goes there?”

  The pikemen who challenged Arthur and Gawain did not even wear armor, so civilized was this city. On their doublets they wore the crossed keys of the Papal insignia, and long curling feathers in their soft black hats.

  “King Arthur of the Britons, and his liegeman Gawain,” Gawain answered, before Arthur could speak. “We seek an audience with His Holiness.”

  “The Holy Father does not see many travelers,” one of the guards said cautiously.

  “He will see me,” Arthur said, with more confidence than he felt. “Tell him it is about the Holy Grail.”

  One of the guards left to bear a message, and soon a priest appeared, wearing long plain robes of cardinal red, and a small round skullcap in the same color.

  “If you will come with me, travelers?” he said.

  The Cardinal admitted Arthur and Gawain to the papal palace itself, and conducted them to an antechamber while the Holy Father was notified of their arrival.

  “This is a grand sight,” Gawain said once they were alone. “Won’t Jenny love to hear about it?”

  “You’ll have to tell her, Gawain,” Arthur said. “You’ve a poet’s way with words. I just don’t have the knack.”

  “And it would take a poet to do justice to this place,” Gawain agreed, gazing around himself in admiration.

  The air was balmy and scented with jasmine and oran
ges, for Italy was a much warmer country than cool, misty Britain. Arthur felt overdressed and provincial in his good wool tunic and gartered breeches, his cloak pinned at the shoulders by twin round brooches of beaten gold. He smoothed the beard he had grown in his travels with a hint of nervousness. He’d thought it made him look more kingly, but perhaps it only marked him as a provincial barbarian. The beauty he saw on every hand—of statues, paintings, and finely-wrought furnishings—shamed him. He had once thought to make Camelot a city more splendid than any in the ancient world, but he saw now that such dreams had been foolish. Cities already existed that—even in decay—were far more splendid than he could have ever imagined when he began his quest, and there was no way for Camelot to begin to equal them.

  His grand dreams had all been foolish, unattainable. All of them.

  “His Holiness will see you now,” a slender man dressed all in red announced, entering the antechamber. He held the doors open as Arthur and Gawain passed through them into the audience chamber itself. It was the most enormous room either man had ever seen, and the most lavish.

  The ceiling of the audience chamber was the deep blue of lapis lazuli, studded with golden stars, and the walls were covered with gilding and painted with images from the Holy Book. The air was thick with incense, and the heat of an Italian summer was made more sultry by the beeswax candles that stood in enormous golden candelabra along the walls of the room. As Arthur watched, a single teardrop of wax fell from one of the chandeliers above to spatter on the floor of inlaid marble.

  At the far end of the enormous chamber, the Papal throne was set at the top of three steps of black and white marble. The throne glittered with gilding and bright enamel. There was a canopy above it, of blue velvet embroidered with golden stars, and curtains of white samite hung down on either side. On each side of the throne stood men in ornate Roman armor, staring straight ahead and holding javelins. Rome had bowed to the Church centuries before, and all that remained of its temporal might had been placed in her service.

  The magnificence of the throne made its wizened occupant look even smaller by contrast. Virgilius was an old man, whose holy office and privileges had been worried like a bone between the Eastern Emperor and the greedy North African bishops. He had been deposed, excommunicated, and jailed during his years upon the throne, but had always survived and triumphed. Now, though he was at the height of his power, Virgilius was a very old man indeed, though the ravages of Time were mostly concealed by the sumptuousness of his pontifical robes. These were stiff with gold embroidery and jewels, and his gloved hands were covered with heavy rings. On his head Virgilius wore the Papal crown, and its gold-encrusted lappets lay upon his chest. He looked like a carven doll. Only his ancient eyes were alive.

  Arthur tried to feel the reverence that he thought he ought to at this auspicious moment, for in looking at Virgilius he was seeing Christ’s Vicar on Earth, the anointed shepherd of the New Religion. But at the moment, all Arthur could think of was that he had seen beggars in the streets of the city, and that all this pomp and temporal display could have been sold to feed them. Camelot might never be as grand as Rome, but there at least no one would ever go hungry. As he thought of that, he felt a little better.

  “Who is this?” Virgilius asked in a thin wavery voice. One of the cardinals near him was poised to reply, but Arthur spoke first.

  “I am Arthur of Britain, King in that land, come with Sir Gawain to pay my respects and to seek aid in my quest.”

  “And what is this quest?” Virgilius asked. “Come closer, come closer, Arthur of Britain. I can barely see you.”

  Arthur and Gawain advanced the length of the audience chamber until they were standing at the foot of the Papal throne among the cardinals and bishops and other courtiers and ambassadors to the Holy See. Arthur disliked having to look so far up to see Virgilius, but he said nothing of that. He was here to ask a favor, after all.

  “I come seeking the Holy Grail, the cup from which Our Lord drank at the Last Supper. I have sworn a vow to bring it to Camelot, to show before the people.”

  “The Holy Grail?” Virgilius said in disbelief. There was a chorus of whispers as the princes of the Church began to gossip among themselves excitedly. “But surely… tell us what you know of this Grail, Arthur of Britain.”

  Arthur glanced toward Gawain before replying. He had expected the Vatican Palace to be like Avalon Abbey, only larger, but this place, with its splendor and intrigue, reminded him more of the tales he’d heard of Uther’s court. Nevertheless, he answered courteously.

  “I know that Joseph of Arimathea brought the Holy Grail from Jerusalem to the Isle of Avalon in my country, and there founded an order of monks to watch over it. And there it rested for many years, healing all who came into its presence through its holiness, until by some misfortune it vanished in the reign of King Vortigern, who murdered my grandfather, King Constant, to take the throne of Britain.

  “When I became King I swore I would restore the Grail to my people, and so I have searched the world over for it for seven long years. And now I have come to Rome to seek your aid, for surely if there is any news of the Grail’s whereabouts on earth, it is here,” Arthur finished.

  There was a moment of silence when Arthur finished speaking, and beside him Gawain shifted uneasily, unsure of himself in this strange place. Both men were sweating and uncomfortable in their heavy woolen garments.

  “But surely, King Arthur,” said the Cardinal who had first ushered them into the audience chamber, “if the Grail really exists—that is, if it can be found—then surely it belongs here? In the Holy City?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Virgilius quickly. “The Grail must be brought to Rome so that it can be properly taken care of. Don’t you agree, King Arthur?”

  “They don’t know where it is,” Gawain whispered to Arthur, with blunt Iceni directness.

  “The Grail was entrusted to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea,” Arthur said. “And I have vowed to return it there.”

  “Yes, of course,” Virgilius said irritably, “But times change, Your Highness, and men must change with them. We absolve you of the terms of your vow. It is far more suitable that the Grail remain here. I’m sure you see that’s for the best.”

  “I think I have seen a great deal that I never expected to, since I came to Rome,” Arthur answered diplomatically. “I am sorry to hear you have no more information of the Grail than I. It seems I must continue my quest.”

  “You will, of course, keep His Holiness apprised of your success?” one of the cardinals said.

  Arthur bowed wordlessly. After several more exchanges of empty pleasantries, the two Britons were allowed to leave the palace.

  “What a pack of jackals!” Gawain burst out, as soon as they reached the streets.

  “It is very puzzling,” Arthur agreed mildly, wiping the sweat from his damp forehead with the back of his hand. “They seemed so… venal.”

  “Perhaps what Merlin has said is true, that goodness resides not in creeds, but in men,” Gawain answered after a moment’s thought. “Your grandfather, King Constant, did as much ill in the name of the New Religion as Avalon Abbey does good, and both good and ill have been done in the name of the Old Ways.”

  “True enough,” Arthur said, sighing. “But we are no nearer to finding the Grail now than we were when we began, and if even Rome does not know where it lies, I fear our plight is grave indeed.”

  But when they returned to their lodging, it appeared that their quest was not as hopeless as it seemed, for the others had been putting their time to good use as well.

  “There’s an old temple up in the hills outside the city,” Kay said. “The monks all say it’s cursed, but Bradamante spoke to the old laundress, and she says that the common people still go there to pray to the Goddess of the Old Ways. She is said to know the answers to all questions.”

  Arthur turned to Bradamante. In her tunic and trews the lady-knight looked like a beardless boy—and just now
, a hot and irritated one.

  “It is true enough,” Bradamante answered, shrugging. “I was born in this country, and it is true that many of the countryfolk still follow the Old Ways. But how can the Old Ways help you to find the Grail?”

  “I don’t know,” Arthur answered honestly. “But I will not reject good advice, no matter its source, and if this oracle can answer all questions, perhaps she can answer this one. Can you find someone who will take us there?”

  The old woman’s name was Graziella, and she plainly thought the British knights were mad. But Bradamante spoke to her in her own language, and at last she agreed to take them to the Spring of Memory, high in the hills above Rome.

  The party left that very night, for though Arthur preferred to see only the good in everyone, he was no trusting innocent. Virgilius had been far too interested in the Grail and the power it represented not to keep a close watch on the man who had brought him the news of it. Arthur thought it might be prudent to be gone from Rome before Virgilius thought of more questions he wished to ask.

  Once they were outside the city and past the ring of surrounding farms, the hills became a ghostly deserted place in the twilight. The only sound was the jingling of the horses’ bits, and the creaking and clicking of the knights’ armor as they rode.

  Graziella walked ahead of them untiringly until she reached a place where the path divided. She pointed in the direction leading further up into the hills and spoke quickly to Bradamante in her own tongue.

  “She says the spring lies at the end of this path. She says she must go home now, for her daughter is waiting for her, but that we will have no trouble in finding the place,” Bradamante translated doubtfully.

  Bedivere snorted. “That’s a tale I’ve heard before. They say ‘you can’t miss it,’ and next thing you know you’re up to your nose in some bog.”

  “Thank her for her help,” Arthur said, ignoring the Welsh knight. Bradamante spoke to the old woman again, and gave her a few coins for her trouble. She returned the way she had come, and in a few moments the knights from Camelot were alone.