The End of Magic

by James Mallory

  “This is a fool’s errand,” Kay said roundly. “We are all good Christian men. What cause can we have to resort to a Pagan sorceress?”

  “It was a wizard who helped me to the throne of Britain,” Arthur reminded his foster brother, “and gave both of us our lessons as boys. Merlin taught me not to be too proud to accept help from any source. If this prophetess can help me to find the Grail, then it ill behooves any of us to despise her aid.”

  After that they proceeded in silence along the path, as the night darkened further and the moon rose, until at last they could hear the sound of running water up ahead. Soon thereafter they reached their goal.

  The water issued in a thin stream from the mouth of a grinning gargoyle face carved high above into the rock face, then fell a dozen feet into a basin cut into the rock below. The edge of the basin was strewn with the offerings of the countryfolk: flowers, and honeycakes wrapped in paper, and small dolls twisted out of harvest grasses. These things belonged to the Old Ways, and Arthur automatically crossed himself, lest any of the forces summoned here wish to do him harm.

  “You have no reason to fear, Arthur of Britain,” a voice said. It was a quiet voice, but it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Arthur grabbed for his sword, then forced himself to relax as a woman in a long hooded cloak stepped out of the rocks. There was a flurry as the knights with him drew their swords, but she did not move.

  “Will you drink with me?” she asked. By her voice she could have been almost any age. He could not tell; her face was in shadow.

  In her hands she held a silver cup. For a moment Arthur thought it might be the Grail, but it did not shine with the Grail’s holy light. She stooped and dipped it into the spring, then held it out to him. Long silver bracelets in the shape of snakes coiled around her forearms, gleaming in the moonlight.

  “Who are you?” Arthur asked, taking the cup, gingerly. He had not drawn Excalibur.

  “I am the Memory of this place. I see that which has been, and that which is yet to be.”

  “Show yourself,” Arthur demanded.

  She threw back the hood of her cloak. To Arthur’s surprise, she was quite young. He had expected the Pagan priestess to be as old as the laundress who had directed them here. Upon her forehead was bound a small silver crescent moon, but without it, she could have been any woman. Even her clothes were ordinary.

  Once again, she gestured toward the cup he held. Arthur raised it to his lips. The water was sweet and pure, and as cold as the moonlight itself. He drank it all, and handed the cup back to her.

  “Why do you come to me, King of Britain? My powers are weak. They wane as the Moon does, not to grow strong again for many generations, while the New Religion shines as bright and steady as the summer sun.”

  “I come seeking answers,” Arthur said. “The people say you know the answers to all questions. For many years I have searched for the Holy Grail. I believed it was my duty to restore it to Britain. But now I wonder: was I wrong? Is that why I cannot find it? Please tell me.”

  The Priestess of the Spring of Memory smiled, and her pale face was as lovely as the full moon. “You grow wise with the years, King Arthur. It is a good question, and so I will give you the answer. The Grail was never yours to find. That task is for another to accomplish.”

  “Then all this has been in vain?” Arthur asked.

  The priestess shook her head, smiling gently.

  “No honorable action is in vain, King of Britain. Much good will come of what you have done, though you will not live to see it. But go now, for you have been absent from your own place for far too long. It is time for you to return home.”

  “Wait!” Arthur said. “How can I—?”

  But he was speaking only to the moonlight. The woman was gone. She had vanished before his eyes.

  “So that’s it?” Kay said, in a tone of mingled relief and disappointment.

  “I guess we can all turn around and go home now,” Bedivere said, to no one in particular.

  “Do you believe her?” Gawain asked his friend.

  Arthur sighed wearily. “I think she told me no more than what was in my own thoughts, but perhaps it is still true all the same. Perhaps I have been too proud in thinking I was meant to restore the Grail to Britain. If I were meant to find it, surely God would have sent me some sign by now.” He paused for a long time, staring down into the spring whose waters sparkled in the moonlight. “I think it is time to go home.”

  It had been a month since Lancelot had left Camelot. More and more of the running of the kingdom fell to Merlin, Sir Hector, and Sir Bors, for the Queen, inconsolable with grief at the loss of Lancelot, kept to her own rooms. And for the first time in a very long time, Merlin was unsure of what to do. He must remain at Camelot until Arthur returned, for there was no one else who could face the threat that Mordred presented to Arthur’s throne, but that was the only certainty. At the moment he was attempting to write a letter to Arthur, and having little success. He could not think of what to say. If only he knew when Arthur was coming home!

  With Lancelot gone, perhaps a new champion was needed for Camelot. But who could Merlin choose? Arthur had taken the best of the younger knights with him, and the rest of the able men of Britain were occupied with the running of the kingdom. Even if he had the authority to appoint someone, Merlin could not think which of them could be spared to this task.

  Further, though the older generation accepted Merlin and his wizardry, those who followed the New Religion—mostly those born during Uther’s reign—wanted nothing to do with the Old Ways. They did not welcome Merlin’s interference in the business of government. Though Merlin accepted this philosophically—it was what he had planned toward, hoped for, from the moment he had first had the vision of what Arthur’s birth would mean to Britain—there was no denying it was highly in convenient.

  Not for the first time, he wondered if it was time to leave Camelot. Perhaps his fears regarding Mordred were groundless. Merlin had always meant to go home to his beloved forest when Mab’s power was destroyed and Arthur no longer needed him, to live there quietly with Nimue. Perhaps now was the time. If Mordred meant to strike, wouldn’t he have done it years ago?

  For the first time in many months, Merlin allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the woman he loved. Just as Lancelot and Guinevere had, he and Nimue had been caught between love and duty. Lancelot and Guinevere had chosen love. Merlin had chosen duty.

  And Nimue…?

  She had always urged him to be the best he could be, to set aside personal desires in the name of his higher calling. She had always been staunch in her belief that Arthur and the good of Britain must take precedence over their own desires. Merlin believed that in her little world of Avalon, Nimue worked as hard for Britain as Merlin did in Camelot, knowing as Merlin did that someday their labors would end and they could be together.

  Was now the time?

  Merlin hesitated, and sadly shook his head. It was his eager heart that tempted him, as always. Until Arthur returned to Britain, Merlin’s task was not complete. The threat that Mordred presented could not be dismissed through wishful thinking.

  He heard a faint scrabbling sound and turned toward the door. Opening it, he surprised Llewellyn, a young page sent to Camelot to learn the ways of chivalry here. Llewellyn’s people, the Prydain, still followed the Old Ways, and Llewellyn had been fascinated by Merlin, attaching himself to the wizard as his unofficial servant.

  “M’lord!” Llewellyn gasped, sprawling backward.

  Repressing a smile, Merlin said sternly: “Up to mischief again, young sir?”

  “Oh, no, m’lord!” the young page said virtuously. “There’s a message—a message has come from the King!”

  Guinevere and her senior advisers were gathered in the throne room when Merlin arrived.

  Her sorrow had not aged the Queen, for Guinevere still looked as lovely as she had on the day she married Arthur, but it had purified her, the loss of Lancelot hardening her as
the sword blade is hardened upon the smith’s anvil.

  “Merlin,” she said in an expressionless voice, “how kind of you to join us. A letter has come from the King.”

  She held the scroll out to him, though her eyes did not meet his. It was the usual form in which messages that must travel far were sent; a long sheet of paper wrapped tightly around a bronze spindle and inserted in a waxed leather case that could be tightly sealed against water damage. Merlin took the scroll carefully. The vellum crackled in his hands; Guinevere had already unrolled the letter to read it.

  “To my Queen and my dear friends—many adventures have befallen me since last I wrote. I have been to Rome, and seen many wonders there, as well as things which cause me great concern, but all of these would take too long to tell, and I must have this missive in the hands of the courier before he departs. Suffice it to say that though my search for the Grail has enjoyed no more success than before, I have been persuaded that I may neglect my kingdom and my people no longer, and—”

  “He is coming home,” Guinevere said, before Merlin could finish reading.

  “He says that Kay and Gawain are well,” Sir Hector added. He looked troubled, for he loved both Arthur and Guinevere, and her adultery had divided his loyalties painfully.

  “He may arrive as soon as the spring,” Sir Bors said. “The winter snows will delay him in crossing the Alps—you may take that from an old campaigner—but he’s a resourceful lad.”

  “A lad no longer,” Merlin said. Arthur must be nearly thirty—a far cry from the boy-king Merlin had set on the throne.

  “I have called you here to share this news in order to discourage the spread of rumor,” Guinevere said, firmly taking control of the meeting. “If rumors of Arthur’s return begin to appear, I wish you to be able to confirm them, but until they do, I do not wish the news widely disseminated. As Merlin has often reminded me, Camelot is not without enemies.”

  And they might well choose a moment such as this, when the people were distracted by the joyful news of Arthur’s return, to strike.

  There was a murmur of assent from the gathered nobles—the half-dozen men who had seen Uther to his throne and been the first to support his son—and the Queen dismissed them with a gesture. Merlin turned to go as well.

  “Stay, Merlin.”

  He waited until they all had gone, and the attendants had closed the doors of the Great Hall once more. As he waited, he studied the Queen closely. She had changed so much in the past years. He wondered how Arthur had changed as well.

  “My lady?” Merlin said courteously.

  “What will you do once Arthur returns?” Guinevere asked him.

  “I suppose I shall retire from court and tend to business of my own,” Merlin said. “He will have no need of me, and neither will you.”

  “That is a good answer,” Guinevere said. Perhaps she thought that sounded a little harsh, for she leaned toward him, and when she spoke again there was real warmth in her voice. “You have spent so much time making Arthur king, following his dreams. Do you not have any dreams of your own, Merlin?”

  “My dreams are the same as Arthur’s, my lady: of peace and plenty for all. But I have never wished to govern. I will be just as glad to return to my forest, and conclude my days in peace and quiet.”

  “Peace,” Guinevere said sadly. “I do not think that is a thing that any of us can be certain of.”

  When he left the Queen’s presence, Merlin returned to his tower room and his interrupted letter, though this time it was to have a different recipient. For the first time in many years Merlin wrote to Nimue at Avalon, to tell her the glad news that the King was returning, and that soon the king’s wizard would be free at last, his duties ended. He wrote the message in tiny even letters on a fine scroll of thin parchment, and when he was done he went to the window and whistled. The pigeons that circled the tower cooed and fluttered, and at last one came spiraling down to land upon the sill.

  “There you are, Peregrin,” Merlin said. He picked up the small grey bird and tied the message carefully to its leg. “Now go and find Nimue. You can reach Avalon by nightfall if you hurry.”

  Leaning far out the window, he tossed the pigeon into the air. It spread its wings wide, spiraling down toward the cobblestones for a few seconds, then began to flap wildly until it was soaring westward, toward Avalon.

  Merlin watched it go, feeling truly content for the first time in years. Soon Arthur would return, and the years of fear and worry would be at an end.

  Soon.

  Unblinking black eyes watched the small grey form as it flew toward its destination. Soon it had left the towns and villages surrounding Camelot behind, and once it had, the raven struck, arrowing down through the air to bury its cruel talons deep in the pigeon’s feathery back. The two forms fell through the sky like a thunderbolt cast to earth, to strike with a dull thud.

  Queen Mab got to her feet, brushing feathers from her hands. The wind whipped her black hair away from her face, causing the crystals braided into it to chime softly.

  Sometimes there was a certain satisfaction to doing things yourself. And with Frik spending all of his time mooning over Morgan these days, Mab was thrown more and more on her own resources.

  Still, it wouldn’t do to upset Morgan just yet. Not while Mab still needed her.

  She stooped again and picked up the dead pigeon. Mab plucked the scroll from its leg and tossed the dead bird over her shoulder, wincing slightly as she did so. The shapechanging had taken a great deal out of her; she was less powerful than she once had been. But this time of weakness would end once Mordred came into his power. This time, at last, she had found a champion who would truly be loyal unto death.

  Unrolling the scroll, Mab peered at the tiny letters. It was a letter from Merlin to Nimue. Mab found the maudlin human sensibility nauseating, but the news was interesting. Arthur had given up his quest for the Grail and was returning home.

  If Arthur was coming home, then Mordred must be here to meet him. At last, it was time. The day for which she had plotted and planned for so many years had come. All she had to do was make sure that all parts of her plan would be ready when the time came.

  In her cell, Nimue was at her prayers, telling over the beads of her amber rosary as her lips moved silently. When the Healing Sisters were not practicing their craft, they were at prayer, marking the canonical hours from matins to compline with chanting and hymnations. Her second vows were behind her, and Nimue had immersed herself in study and work. When she took her third and final vows, she would be sealed to Avalon forever.

  Was that truly what she wanted? Never to be free again, never to run barefoot along the sand as she had when she was a small child, never to dance and sing for pure joy?

  No, she thought in wonder. That isn’t what I want.…

  It was as if her spirit were awakening from a long sleep. The thought of spending the rest of her life confined within the walls and the life of Avalon filled Nimue with an echo of the peculiar horror that Merlin must feel to be trapped in an underground cell. This life of prayer and service was not the life of the woman Nimue had been meant to be.

  What should she do? How could she take back her word to the Father Abbot after so many years? Her friends, everyone she knew, were here. How could she leave them? And what did she have to leave them for?

  Perhaps a walk in the garden will help to order my thoughts, Nimue thought. She set down her rosary on the windowsill and turned toward the door of her little room, but it was already opening.

  “Great news—great news, Nimue!” the Father Abbot burst out. “Arthur’s coming home!”

  Though she was surprised to see him there—for what business did the ruler of the community of Avalon have with a lowly novice?—the news delighted her.

  “Thank God!” Nimue said fervently. “Did he find the Holy Grail?”

  “Wrong! But what of it?” the Father Abbot said impatiently. “He’s coming home. Holy Grail or no Holy Grail—he s
hould never have left.”

  The Father Abbot did not sound quite like himself, but Nimue was too excited to notice. “Merlin is free!” she said, sinking down onto her narrow cot. “He can start living his own life again!” With me…

  The Father Abbot seated himself beside her and took her hand. “Yes… and it should be with you, my child,” he said, as if he had heard her unspoken thoughts. He gazed deeply into her eyes, until Nimue thought she could almost see green fires dancing in his gaze. “God doesn’t want you when you love another.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I shouldn’t really say this in these hallowed halls: faith is supreme, but love is even better.” He patted her hand, rising to his feet. “I’m sure you’ll make the right choice when the time comes.”

  It was all Mab could do to keep from crowing aloud as she scuttled from Nimue’s cell in her religious disguise. As soon as she was sure that no one was looking she shook herself violently, and the image of the Father Abbot crackled from her body like an outgrown chrysalis.

  She’d been right. Nimue still remembered the bargain Mab had offered her: beauty and youth in exchange for trapping Merlin in a magical place of Mab’s creation. While she had thought Merlin necessary to the safety of Britain, the bargain had not tempted Nimue, but with Arthur coming home, the girl would be willing to follow her greedy human heart at last, and take Merlin away somewhere safe.

  And then, with Arthur dead and Camelot destroyed, he will see that I was right all along! Mab gloated. She could taste the victory that was nearly hers, and it was sweeter than ambrosia on her tongue. With Merlin out of harm’s way, there would be no one left to oppose anything that Mordred chose to do.

  But there was much for Mordred to learn before he faced Arthur.

  The garden was, as always, a refuge for Nimue. She loved the herbs and flowers that were grown here to form the basis for the stock of medicines belonging to the Healing Sisters. But today it did not work its familiar magic upon her thoughts.