Sir Bors looked pleadingly at Arthur, his eyes begging the King to understand. Sir Bors was a knight of the old school, a believer in royal privilege. He would not have cared if Arthur had pardoned Guinevere a thousand times. Arthur was King. It was his right to do as he chose… but for Arthur to cheat his way out of a promise using the power of the Old Ways was something Sir Bors’s honest Christian soul found hard to forgive.
“That is true,” Arthur said. “Merlin is my oldest friend, Sir Bors. He saved me from myself when I had lost my way. But I won’t need anyone to save me from myself any longer. Mordred has come to Camelot as a usurper, but I will not surrender my throne to him. When the time comes I will face him on the battlefield, and as God is my witness, I will do what is right. Are you with me, men?”
“Yes!”
“For Arthur!”
“For Camelot!”
But to Merlin’s ear the shouts of victory were hollow. War had come to Arthur’s golden city, and Merlin was not wanted here. He slipped from the tumult of shouting, cheering men and disappeared.
The rain had ended. The smell of smoke, though lingering, was faint, and Gort’s men had already cleared away most of the pyre. Only a smear of wet ashes on the cobblestones remained to remind onlookers that here a Queen had nearly died by fire. The clouds, robbed of their moisture, had vanished, and the sky above was the robin’s-egg blue of spring. A year ago, on a day very much like today, Merlin had looked out over the country surrounding Camelot and wondered what he should do about Lancelot and the Queen. Now, at last, that matter was settled, though he would never know what happened to the two of them. They will become legends, just as I dreamed, but I will never know the end of their tale.
Merlin walked through the city, toward his little hut on the outskirts of the town. There were few people on the street for the time of day, and those that Merlin saw looked furtive and ashamed. A great sense of guilt hung over Camelot, as though everyone in it was conscious of having helped to commit a great wrong and now was filled with shame.
Mordred’s doing, just as the coming war was. But this war would not be fought for lands or crowns. This war would be fought for the hearts and minds of Arthur’s people.
And all I can do is hope—from afar—that Arthur wins it, Merlin thought bleakly. Especially as my help seems to do more harm than good.
In his heart, Merlin knew that his time—the time of all creatures of the Old Ways—was passing, as swiftly and inexorably as the sands that fell through an hourglass. Soon all of them would be gone, their brief season over.
Assuming, of course, that Arthur wins.
Merlin’s ruminations were cut short when he rounded a corner and came within sight of his little house.
It had been burned to the ground.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BATTLE OF DECEPTION
Sifting through the wreckage and cleaning up what he could took Merlin most of the rest of the afternoon, and it seemed to him that every time he looked up into the sky, the baleful red eye in the western sky glowed brighter, as if it were gloating over the tragedy to come.
The burning of his home was only a harbinger of what would happen if he stayed at the King’s side. He was no longer welcome here. Whether for good or ill, the day Merlin had worked toward from the moment of his foster mother’s death had come: Britain belonged to the New Religion now, not the Old Ways.
But what of Mab, and her creature, Mordred?
Merlin sighed, shaking his head as he brushed his hands clean and turned back toward the castle. Mab’s cruelties had grown more extreme as the years had passed, and Mordred was a monster. But if Merlin had learned one lesson from Arthur in all the years of loving him and raising him and—at the last—letting him go, it was that you could not fight another’s battles.
Defeating Mab was not something Merlin could do for the people of Britain. He could oppose her influence over his own life and try to protect those whom he loved. He could arm the King and his people with the spiritual and moral tools to take up the fight themselves. But he could not do it for them.
If Love is one great secret, then surely this is its match: to be truly wise, one must be able both to love and to let go. I have done the one. Now the time has come for me to do the other.
He walked slowly back to the castle to make his farewells.
The tower room where Merlin had spent so much of his time these last few years already had a deserted look to it, as if somehow these inanimate objects knew that Merlin had no more use for them. He lit the lamps and braziers against night’s shadows and spent several hours tidying the room for its next occupant, destroying herbs and potions that would only cause trouble, burning his notes and personal papers lest others find them and make them into something they were not meant to be. At last the room was impersonally tidy, with little trace of its former occupant.
By now it was late, though Merlin doubted that Arthur had yet sought his bed. After the trauma and emotional excesses of the day the halls of Camelot were quiet and still. He would speak to Arthur, and do what he could to ease the King’s mind. Arthur was as loyal as he was kind, and having his friends at odds with one another could only hurt his generous heart further.
Merlin paused in his search for the King at a doorway that led out into what had been the Queen’s garden. Guinevere had loved her garden, and people had brought her rare plants from every corner of Britain and beyond to fill it. The air here was lush with the rich spring scent of new life.
He wondered again where Guinevere was now—if she was safe, if she was happy. But these were riddles to which Merlin knew he would never learn the answers, for Guinevere and Lancelot had ridden out of Arthur’s story and into their own.
He was about to go on, when there was a movement in the garden. “Who’s there?” Merlin called warily. A figure dressed all in white hurried toward him. “Father Abbot,” Merlin said in surprise.
“I rode all night to get here,” the old man said. “Nimue’s gone.”
“She’s gone?” Merlin echoed in dismay.
“She left you a message,” Avalon’s Father Abbot continued briskly. “She’ll be waiting for you at the door of magic.”
That isn’t the Father Abbot!
Merlin came down the three shallow steps that separated him from the white-robed figure. Did the old man’s eyes gleam red in the faint light? “You’re a liar,” he whispered softly.
The figure before him reeled back in shock. “Merlin! How can you say that?”
“You’re a liar!” Merlin shouted.
The figure of the Father Abbot turned away, beginning to laugh. His laughter rose to a mad cackle as he took a few steps into the darkness then turned back to Merlin, shaking off the form of the Father Abbot as a dog shakes off a coating of mud, revealing Queen Mab beneath the disguise.
“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost all the skills I taught you,” she said in her hollow voice.
“I’ve lost none of them,” Merlin answered. “And it was Frik who taught me.” Not you, never you—you could not even give that much of yourself, Queen of Air and Darkness!
Amazingly, Merlin’s words had struck a nerve. “Don’t mention that ingrate. He’s left my employment—without a reference!” She glared at Merlin.
Morgan le Fay dead, Frik gone—Mab is chancing all she has on Mordred’s success.
But Mab wasn’t finished speaking. “Anyway, Nimue has gone, and she does want you to join her… when you’re ready.” Before Merlin could frame another question there was a flicker of lightning, and between one flash and the next, Mab was gone.
Curiously, Merlin did not doubt that Mab was telling the truth. It had been true from the very beginning that Mab could not use the power of the Old Ways to kill, but it was equally true that she had never been as interested in killing her enemies as turning them to her cause. Now she wanted him gone to smooth the way for Mordred’s victory. But the Queen of the Old Ways had never really understood mortals. This fight had
never been Merlin’s, but Arthur’s and Mordred’s. If Merlin left, it would not make much difference to the outcome of the battle.
He turned and walked back into the castle, in search of the King.
Merlin found Arthur where he had expected to find him: in the chamber that held the Round Table. The King was asleep where he sat, his elbow upon the table and his head resting on his hand, as though he’d fallen asleep brooding. Excalibur lay unsheathed upon the table beside him, its silver blade gleaming in the dim light.
Not wishing Arthur to know that he had caught him napping, Merlin retreated to the doorway and cleared his throat. When he saw Arthur startled into wakefulness, he entered again as though for the first time.
“Merlin,” Arthur said as he entered.
The King’s face was haggard with the terrible griefs he had endured in the seven short days since his return to Camelot. He rose to his feet and cleared his throat nervously.
“My noblemen don’t want you with us against Mordred. They say that if you come, they won’t follow me.”
Arthur’s face was filled with shame. He had not wanted to say these things to Merlin, but royal necessity compelled it.
“Ah,” Merlin said, bowing his head in understanding. It seemed his decision to leave wasn’t wholly his to make after all.
“What will you do now?” Arthur asked.
Merlin forced himself to smile for the King’s sake. It would be cruel to add to Arthur’s pain, and in truth, he’d already known it was time to go. But there was a vast difference between leaving willingly and being booted out.
He smiled ruefully, walking around the edge of the vast table to where Arthur stood.
“I’ll close my books, break my wand, and retire,” he answered lightly. “I have a life, and a chance to live it.”
Some of the guilt in Arthur’s expression vanished. “Nimue?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m going to meet her now,” Merlin answered, making up his mind in that moment. “Will you be able to deal with Mordred?”
Arthur smiled, and for a moment the joyful fearless boy he had been gazed out again from his eyes. “It’s just one more battle. And right is on our side.”
Merlin embraced him then, and Arthur hugged his old tutor fiercely. Tonight Arthur might believe that the Fellowship of the Round Table had been destroyed, but Merlin knew that the Round Table had been nothing more than a glorious experiment, and if it had failed, the failure was not forever. There would always be those who strove for freedom and equality, and the magnificent legend of the Fellowship of the Round Table would be a beacon to them in their strivings.
“I’m proud of you, Arthur,” Merlin said, gazing deeply into the king’s eyes.
Then there were no more words to be said. Merlin had never liked partings—none of the ones he had known in life had been happy. He turned and strode from the room, putting a brave face upon things for Arthur’s sake. But he could not keep himself from pausing in the doorway for one last look back.
Will I ever see you again, my boy? And if I do, will it be in victory—or defeat?
But it seemed to be Arthur’s turn to console his old friend.
“Don’t worry about me,” Arthur said. “I have Excalibur.”
He smiled at Merlin, touching the enchanted sword that lay on the Round Table beside him.
Carrying the Horn of Idath with him, Frik journeyed south from Nottinghamshire in search of Merlin. Before he had gone very far, garbled rumors of the troubles at Camelot began to reach him.
Arthur had returned. Guinevere had committed treason. She’d been executed—no, she’d escaped with her lover, Sir Lancelot of the Lake. Arthur had a son named Mordred. Merlin had been banished. Mordred had taken the throne. No, Arthur was going to war against Mordred, to keep him from ever gaining the throne.
That last bit at least was true, Frik reflected, looking at the preparations all around him. Arthur was certainly going to war—and who else could he be fighting but Mordred?
Well, I hope Arthur trounces the little beast! Frik thought viciously. Each time the gnome thought of Mordred, he remembered his mother, Frik’s beloved Morgan. Mordred could have prevented her death—Mab would have given him anything he asked for—but he hadn’t. He’d been too selfish to think of anyone but himself.
“You! Fellow!”
The call roused Frik to attention. He’d stopped in the little village for a drink of water and some fresh news—and, frankly, to see what he could steal, for without his magic, Frik was reduced to theft and scavenging to feed himself. But he hadn’t had a chance to do either yet, so at the moment his conscience was clear.
“Me?” Frik asked nervously. He’d wrapped a scarf about his head to conceal the most obvious of his gnomish features, but with his pale skin and goggling eyes—and no hope of using magic to change his appearance—Frik could pass for human only among the very nearsighted these days.
“You,” his interrogator said. He was a large, loud, middle-aged man in a leather apron—probably the village blacksmith. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“No. Er, ah, well—that is to say—”
“Do you want to fight for the King?”
The unexpectedness of the question took Frik by surprise. He’d expected to be accused or attacked, not offered a job.
“For the King?” Frik asked. Against Mordred, his heart said.
“And who else?” the man said belligerently, striding over to where Frik stood beside the horse trough. “You aren’t one of the Black Prince’s—that Mordred’s—sympathizers, are you?”
“No,” said Frik passionately. “I want him dead.”
“Good man,” the blacksmith said approvingly, clapping Frik upon the shoulder and nearly sending him sprawling. “Come along to the tavern then, and we’ll get you kitted out. We’re mustering at Colchester—Sir Bors is to lead us. How are you with a bow?” his new friend asked, walking toward the tavern with his arm around Frik’s shoulders.
“Well, actually,” the gnome confessed modestly, “I’m rather good with a whip.…”
If he could find Merlin, Frik would deliver the Horn of Idath to him. If he could not, at least this way he could do something to strike back at Mordred.
And at Mab.
Though Lancelot would not let Black Bayard slow for several miles, it soon became clear that Arthur had sent no one in pursuit of them. He’d wrapped his cloak tightly around her, but Guinevere still shivered from her wet hair and her damp linen shift. The blisters on her calves and feet stung, a grim reminder of how close she had come to perishing in the fire.
“How did you know to come?” she asked, when Lancelot was finally willing to stop for a rest.
He pulled off his glove and showed her the ring that he wore. It was red-gold, with the red dragon of Britain inlaid in its wide band in enamel. It was Arthur’s ring, the one he had given to Merlin before he had left. She had often seen him wear it.
Merlin.
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she angrily brushed them away. Merlin had been a true friend to her at the last. He had sent for Lancelot.
“When I left Camelot, I tried to go home, but I could not find my way. One night as I sat beside my fire, close to the sin of despair, this ring appeared out of nowhere, with a message that you were in danger. I came as quickly as I could, but I was almost too late!”
If Arthur had not delayed as long as he could, you would have been too late, Guinevere thought. She had been wrong to condemn her husband so harshly. Arthur had loved her after all.
If only he had stayed. If only we had come to know each other. How different everything would have been then!
But though her heart ached for what might have been, Guinevere could not regret her choice. She loved Lancelot as she could never have loved Arthur.
“Where shall we go?” she asked.
“To Joyous Gard,” Lancelot answered. “It is my home, and I have been too long away from it. I hope you will be h
appy there. I can only hope that Galahad will grow to love you as much as I do.”
It took them many weeks to find their way back to Lancelot’s castle, for this time Merlin and his magic were not there to smooth the way. But at last they found a cave near the forest of Broceliande where the Old Ways were still powerful, and when they passed through it, Guinevere could smell the sea and hear the cry of the seabirds.
“We are home,” Lancelot said simply.
In the distance, Joyous Gard gleamed on the cliff above the sea, a castle forged from the fabric of dreams. Its steep conical roofs were plated in pure gold, and black pennons flew from every spire. Seeing the mourning banners, Lancelot sighed heavily.
“Poor Elaine,” he said. “She did not deserve her fate.”
Nor did I, if you’ll remember. “God forgives all, Lancelot,” said Guinevere, rather tartly. “None of us was free to act as we chose. Mab controlled all of us as if we were her puppets.”
“Cold comfort,” Lancelot said, smiling at her wanly. “But come, my lady. Joyous Gard will make you welcome.”
They rode down the hill and across the sand in the direction of the castle. As they came within sight of its gates, the gates opened, and a knight rode out.
His armor glistened like polished silver in the sun, and his helm was crested with angel’s wings. The horse he rode upon was whiter than sea-foam, and upon its blue saddlecloth was embroidered the image of a glowing golden cup.
The Grail.
The knight stopped when he saw them, reining in his horse. He pulled off his winged helm, and the sun shone down brightly on his pale hair.
“Galahad!” Lancelot said.
“Father,” Galahad replied coolly. “So you’ve come home at last.”
He had grown into a tall young man of sixteen. His hair was still the same white-blond it had been when he was a young boy, and his eyes were the color of the winter sky. He was as bright as Mordred was dark.
“I tried to get here sooner,” Lancelot said. “This is Guinevere. I’m giving her sanctuary here at Joyous Gard.”
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