* * *
“They say that Uther is mad, like his father Constant,” Nimue said to Merlin one day.
It was a Saint Martin’s Summer afternoon, one of the warm days that comes after the first nip of frost. Merlin and Nimue were playing chess beneath the apple trees in Avalon’s orchard. The trees were in full leaf, and the apples, round and red, were already being gathered in by the young novices.
“Perhaps he is. I don’t care,” Merlin answered candidly.
White butterflies flitted around Nimue’s veiled head. She wore the plain undyed homespun robe of the Healing Sisters, but although she still studied and prayed with them, she had not spoken again of taking binding vows to serve their god.
Merlin studied the board before him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He knew far better than Nimue the validity of those rumors that reached Avalon in piecemeal fragments. Uther’s behavior grew more erratic every day. It was madness to pursue Cornwall’s wife, yet Uther did, and Cornwall just as hotly defended her—and the sovereignty of his duchy, for Cornwall had now declared that his lands owed no fealty to a king like Uther.
“But you must care,” Nimue said earnestly. “If you were there to advise him—”
“He’ll take no advice,” Merlin said. “From me or from any other. His lords—his bishops—even your Father Abbot—all have begged him to call off this madness. He will not.”
“He would do it for you,” Nimue answered. He could tell she was looking at him, even through the concealing veil. “You are his wizard. You gave him victory over Vortigern. He’ll remember that”
“And tricked him into giving up Excalibur,” Merlin pointed out. “He’ll remember that longer. Do you know there is a village there now? Everyone in Britain goes to try to draw the sword from the stone. But only a truly good man will.”
After much deliberation, Merlin moved one of his knights out onto the board.
“You do not believe such a man exists,” Nimue accused, ignoring the chessboard to argue with Merlin.
“I know he doesn’t,” Merlin corrected her. He had grown cynical after Uther’s betrayal of his hopes. Hadn’t he said when he trapped Excalibur in the stone that a wizard’s business was trickery? All his life, everything he learned had been nothing more than a collection of empty tricks borrowed from Mab, the greatest trickster of all. …
“Then you must call a good man into being with your magic,” Nimue urged stubbornly. “Surely you can at least stop the fighting between the king and the duke—we see so many of the injured here at Avalon, Merlin. It is hard to see a man die when you know that he has died for nothing.”
Merlin nearly did not hear Nimue’s last words. What she had suggested reverberated within him as if it were a hammer that had struck the bell of his soul.
She said it as if it were such a simple thing … cast forth his magic to trifle with the mysteries of Birth and Death, to summon the rightful wielder of Excalibur into being. Was it as simple as Nimue made it sound? Had someone, once, said those very words to Mab, and set them all on the tangled course that had begun with his conception? And where Mab had failed to create a champion in her own image, could Merlin truly say he would do any better? Dared he even try?
“Merlin?” Nimue was watching him anxiously. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” He smiled at her, but his thoughts were far distant. The temptation to do what she had so lightly suggested was nearly overwhelming, and with a reluctant effort Merlin forced it from his mind. It’s foolish and dangerous. Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I haven’t a tenth of Mab’s power and learning, and she failed terribly.
“But you will speak to Uther? For my sake?” Nimue’s words broke into his dark thoughts.
“Yes,” Merlin agreed reluctantly. “Very well. For your sake, I will do what I can to stop this war.” And pray for me, my love, that I do more good this time than the last time I used my magic for Britain.
Gorlois had retreated into Tintagel Keep months ago, and the only way to reach his stronghold was along a long, narrow, and easily-defended causeway. Uther’s forces had been turned back every time they had tried to take Tintagel, but the king showed no sign of giving up.
Last winter, when his army rested at Winchester, Uther had been content to wait for spring to begin his war against Vortigern. No one thought he would be as careful this winter and wait out the cold season safe behind Pendragon’s walls. Uther was a man obsessed.
Uther had made his camp just out of arrow-range of Gorlois’s archers. From the doorway of his tent he could see the causeway leading into the keep but he could not approach it. And every night Uther failed to take Tintagel was another night Igraine spent in Gorlois’s bed.
Igraine … Igraine … The thought of her was like a red drumming in his brain, blotting out all else. Uther stared westward toward Tintagel, oblivious to the raw sea wind that blew over the headlands.
“Three months siege and we still haven’t taken it!” he groaned aloud.
“There’s no way across the causeway, Sire,” Sir Boris said. Uther’s most loyal knight had supported his master through all the months of fighting, but the faith of even an unimaginative warrior like Sir Boris was beginning to wane. “My advice is to give it up. It’s madness,” he added, as though that was an explanation.
“I must have Igraine!” Uther moaned. He clenched his fists, staring hopelessly toward the fortress.
“As one who’s been to Colchester, as one who knows a few things, I have to tell you, Sire, the kingdom is falling apart while we tear ourselves to pieces,” Boris said plaintively. “If this was for money, or love, or power, I could understand it. But all this for Cornwall’s wife?”
The king ignored the pleading in his liegeman’s one. “You were born old, Boris,” Uther said contemptuously. “I’ve spent all my life fighting. Bloody days and cold nights with a naked sword as a bedfellow.” And now I want something … warmer.
“You’ll never take Tintagel,” Sir Boris countered flatly.
What might have become an argument was interrupted as the attention of both men was caught by the sight of a rider on a grey horse entering the camp. The newcomer did not wear the armor of Uther’s followers. He wore a long dark cloak with silver symbols embroidered along the hem and a feathered border studded with the skulls of ravens. He wore no armor, but on his head was a close-fitting helmet of gold-washed bronze and deerskin.
Sir Boris crossed himself, as a good Christian should at the sight of a Pagan wizard.
“Merlin …” Uther breathed. Mad hope gleamed in his dark eyes.
“Hundreds are dead because you have an itch,” Merlin said brutally as he followed Uther into the king’s tent. The red light of sunset shone over his shoulders, but most of the interior of the tent was in shadow, without even a lamp to give it light.
Merlin had not seen Uther for almost a year, and in truth, it did not look as if the king were suffering from an itch, but a scourge: Uther was hollow-cheeked and unshaven, his ragged beard and wild eyes giving dismal credence to the rumors of madness that surrounded him.
“Will you help cure me of that itch?” Uther demanded belligerently. His face was puffy with inaction and too much wine, and he glared at Merlin with a moody distrust that might turn to violence at any moment.
And this is the man that Nimue says I am to persuade to see reason, Merlin thought mournfully. It was as if the ravaged King Uther was as much a victim of forces greater than himself as the lightning-blasted tree was the victim of the storm. For a moment Merlin thought of Mab and her plots, but for the life of him, he did not see how Uther’s destruction could benefit the Old Ways. No, Uther had been a weak and selfish king from the very beginning. This was only more of the same.
“You’ve lost your reputation, Uther, and reputation, like glass, once cracked, can never be repaired,” Merlin said pensively.
“Will you help me?” the king demanded again.
“I don’t know you anymo
re. You’ve become an Ouroboros—You’ll destroy the world in your lust!”
Uther took a step toward him. “Will you help me?” he demanded relentlessly.
Merlin could see their words as they chased each other in a golden spiral toward the roof of the tent, to vanish up and out the smoke-hole near the center-pole. “Yes,” he said, at last goaded to it against his will. It’s madness. “I have to be mad to stop this madness.”
His words … Uther’s words … bright sparks sailing into eternity. In that moment the dim interior of the tent seemed to glow.
The mantle of prophecy had not descended upon Merlin since the day he had stood before Vortigern for the first time and he had seen the Red Dragon vanquish the White. Dreams of what might be were not the same thing … any man might have those. They passed through the consciousness like dim ghosts, inscrutably pointing the way to What Might Be.
Prophecy was a different matter. Prophecy demanded action; it was a call to battle against the forces of chaos.
And now, once again, that summons had come to Merlin.
He saw a golden city, shining in the sun. This is the dream that is to come. Its name rippled over him like the notes of a harp: Camelot. Camelot, the golden city, city of peace and justice. A glorious city for a glorious king. Arthur—Arthur of Britain. For a moment Merlin glimpsed a throne room in which a fair-haired boy raised a gleaming sword—Excalibur—toward the sky. This was the king to be. Arthur. The once and future king. The Pendragon.
Uther’s son, and Igraine’s. But if Uther goes to Igraine now, this child will be the only child he will ever have. And Arthur will be the greatest king Britain will ever have. He will fight for right, and his name will be remembered for a thousand years.
Lost in the glorious vision, Merlin still found the strength to wonder what forces had sent him here to assure Arthur’s conception by his own aid to Uther. Should he warn Uther of the consequences of this night’s work?
Even as the thought occurred to him, Merlin rejected it. He was far too disgusted with Uther’s behavior to give the king another warning he would disregard. Let him satisfy his lust without knowing the consequences.
But what of the child, Arthur?
Nimue had told him, half in jest, that he must summon a good man to be a good king, but Merlin did not wish to meddle as viciously in innocent lives as Mab had done to create him.
But this child would be born no matter what he did—was it not meant that he should take Arthur far away from Uther’s wickedness and fill him with all that Merlin had ever learned of right and good?
Was that the ultimate reason for Uther’s mad pursuit of Igraine, and Merlin’s reluctant promise to help him gain his desire? Not to make Uther a better king, or gain him another man’s wife, but to get Uther’s child, a boy to whom he could teach all that he knew of justice and mercy? A boy who Merlin could shape into a king whose kingship would destroy Mab’s evil?
Arthur and Camelot … and an end to the Old Ways!
Slowly the last of the vision faded, filling Merlin with hope and resolve. Now, at last, after so many years of fighting, he had something to fight for.
“What will it cost me?” Uther growled. His voice brought Merlin’s thoughts back to Earth. You’re right to think I will exact a price for this night’s work. Perhaps, Uther, you’re finally learning wisdom.
“You will have Igraine, but there will be a child,” Merlin said tersely. “A boy. I’ve seen him, Uther. He’s mine.” Arthur. King Arthur. Master of Excalibur; the king who will draw the sword from the stone.
Even this information was not enough to dissuade the king from the thought of possessing Igraine. “What will you do with him?” Uther asked incuriously.
“Teach him honor and goodness,” Merlin answered shortly.
“I can do that,” Uther said, grinning at the thought of the night to come. His eyes burned with a feverish, greedy lust.
Merlin turned away from Uther in disgust. “ ‘Honor’—‘Goodness’—the words stick in your throat! You choke on them, just as you’ll choke on your own vomit in the end.”
For a brief moment Merlin peered once more into the future, this time to a dark and dirty throne room where a mad king raved on in solitary silence. He turned away from the vision, back to Uther. The king’s face was ugly with anger, but his desire for Igraine made him choke down the insults Merlin had given him.
“Very well. I agree.”
“Once more: Cornwall will not be harmed!” Merlin said sternly.
“Not by me,” Uther said, doing his best to look meek.
The bargain was made, and Merlin steeled himself to do what must be done. At least it was for a good cause: for Arthur, for the king to come, the true master of Excalibur.
“Now, break camp. Withdraw your army. Now—in daylight—so Cornwall can see,” Merlin ordered.
The fortress Tintagel was so secure that the upper rooms could have full-sized windows facing landward, instead of the mere arrow-slits that most castles had. From Igraine’s chambers, Gorlois could stand in the window and see all of Uther’s camp. He’d been watching it for most of an hour. It was unusually active for this time of day.
“Uther’s breaking camp,” he said at last. It was true. Gorlois could see the tents being struck and bundled into mule-drawn carts. The captains were already marching the men away.
Igraine came and stood beside him. The scarlet-dyed linen of the gold-embroidered Roman gown she wore left her arms bare, and her long dark hair fell free down her back.
“We’ll follow him,” the young duke decided.
“Don’t leave, my lord,” Igraine pleaded, taking his arm.
“Why not?” Gorlois asked. His mind was already on tracking Uther. He’d take a small party, no more than a dozen men, and discover what new trick mad King Uther was trying now. Whatever it was, it would not work, Cornwall vowed.
“I have a feeling that—”
“The castle’s well guarded,” Gorlois interrupted her, having already made up his mind. “You’ll be safe, my love.” He kissed her rather absentmindedly and walked back inside.
“Look after your mother, Morgan,” he said to his daughter.
“I will, Father.” The child gazed up at her father adoringly, but Gorlois was already gone, his mind on other things.
* * *
Darkness fell as Uther’s army rode eastward. Uther, pleading pressing Army matters that needed to be taken care of, rode away from Merlin and searched through the line of marching men until he found Sir Boris. The phlegmatic redheaded knight was riding beside his troops.
“Boris,” Uther said, “a word with you?”
Sir Boris turned his heavy-boned destrier aside and rode to where the king waited. “Sire?” he said, with mingled hope and suspicion.
“It’s time to tell you my plan,” Uther said, looking over his shoulder to see if Merlin was nearby. Satisfied that the wizard was out of earshot, he continued. “When Gorlois sees that the army has gone, he will be certain to follow it.”
“Aye, so would any man,” Sir Boris said.
“I want you to take some men and wait for him somewhere out of sight. He’ll suspect nothing. I want him dead. Do you understand me?”
He had sworn to Merlin that Gorlois would not die by his hand, but Uther could not bear to let Gorlois go free after the Duke had so defied him. If he could not be the one to kill Gorlois, let another do it.
“Very well, Sire,” Sir Boris said. If the request disappointed him, his face did not show it. “Cornwall will be dead before morning. But would you not prefer to kill him yourself, Your Majesty?”
“I will be … otherwise engaged,” Uther said, smiling ferally. By setting Sir Boris after Gorlois, Uther could keep his word and have his revenge as well. He smiled at the thought.
If your business is trickery, Wizard, then so is aKing’s. … He turned his horse back to where Merlin waited.
After they had gone only a few miles toward Pendragon with the army
, Merlin and the king turned again and rode west, cloaked in invisibility, to a hill from which they could see Tintagel. They watched the gates as Gorlois rode out of the fortress at the head of a small troop of men.
“Yes!” Uther cried exultantly.
Merlin studied the man he had once had such high hopes for as if Uther were some disease Merlin was being asked to cure. Would this one night heal the king of his madness and let him rule Britain sanely? Merlin hoped so, but his true hopes were invested in the child to come—in Arthur, who would be king hereafter.
“Remember, Uther, you only have until the morning. Night is your friend. Use it.” Merlin gestured, casting his spell, and suddenly it was not Uther who rode beside him, but Gorlois.
Uther looked down at his transformed armor, and felt his suddenly clean-shaven jaw. He crowed triumphantly as he realized what Merlin had done and spurred his horse down the hill, toward the causeway that led to the castle.
Sir Rupert shook his head silently, watching Uther go.
“You don’t approve?” Merlin asked the horse.
*Of course I don’t approve,* Sir Rupert said testily. He shook his head again, and the buckles on his bridle jingled.
Merlin gazed off in the direction Uther had ridden. Tonight Arthur would be conceived, the king to come whose goodness would be worthy of Excalibur. That was what this night was for—that, and for an end to Uther’s useless war.
“The end justifies the means,” Merlin said.
Sir Rupert snorted derisively. *Where have I heard that before?*
After a moment, Merlin realized the answer. Mab. Those were the very words that the Queen of the Old Ways had used to justify her attack on Nimue.
Had Mab been right all along? Did the simple fact that Merlin used his magic mean that he would become what she was: cold, cruel, uncaring, manipulative?
No! What he’d done for Uther this night was unscrupulous, but he meant only good to come from it. Uther would get over his obsession, and neither Igraine nor Gorlois would ever know what had happened. He must think of the future, of Arthur. Of Britain. Perhaps the end justified the means after all.
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